a reason to go back.” There, I told him. Now if I could just figure out how to unlock my door from behind my back and fall inside the safety of my house.
He crosses his arms at his chest, eyebrows pinched, but grinning. “Go back for what?”
“Usually? Another date, or in some cases, another session of hot sex.” My cheeks heat furiously. Fuck!
“Is that what I’m doing?” His hand moves toward my face and I almost flinch. If he touches me, that’ll be the end of it. Evading the power of his looks and swagger is one thing, but add on a touch, and I’m screwed. His knuckles glide from my temple to my jaw. “You have no idea what this does to me.”
I shake my head, not trusting my voice.
“Making you blush . . . It’s almost as satisfying as making you come.”
I choke—fucking choke on my own saliva—which only manages to make my face hotter.
He drops his hand while I catch my breath and clear my throat, a low rumble of laughter reverberating from his chest.
“I have to admit, making an exotic dancer blush is something to brag about.”
I press my palm to my throat and then look up at him, expecting to be met with a playful grin. Oh shit.
His face is etched with irritation, eyes dark and eyebrows low. “Right.” He shakes his head, blinking. “I better get going.” He hooks me behind the neck and pulls me in for a quick, hard, and chaste kiss to my forehead. “Later.”
I stand shocked still for a few beats. “Bye.”
Before he’s to his truck, I turn and push my way inside, closing and locking the door behind me. My back slams to the door as I try to calm my racing heart.
“What the hell was that?”
The peal of tires sounds on the other side of the door, and I try to assimilate the series of events that led to a pissed-off Mason.
Early into the morning, I still can’t figure it out.
Not that it matters. It’s better that he not like me.
Better for both of us.
Mason
She’s a stripper. How could I forget?
The sweet woman is one of eight adopted kids, loves her parents, and has had to work hard for everything she has. This woman has had to endure the worst kind of pain, witness the gore of the death of a loved one, and talks about it with a fierce protection in her voice that would rival the strongest man. The woman, whose body belongs in a fucking display case as a sample of what perfection and beauty looks like, is a stripper.
And not just any stripper, not a part-time, just-to-make-ends-meet kind of stripper, not a working-her-way-through-college stripper, but a bona fide career-as-an-exotic-dancer kind of stripper.
Fuck! And go figure my ass goes and falls for her. Hard.
I slam my palms against the steering wheel, wishing to God things could be different. Can I date a woman who makes money by grinding her panty-clad pussy against the crotches of random men? That shit has to turn her on. I barely touch her between her legs, and she fucking ignites. No way she doesn’t get off doing what she does.
The first time we kissed I’d foolishly demanded she tell me why she does it. I wanted so badly to hear that she was as shallow as the stereotype in my head. Rather than answer, she looked at me like I’d asked her to lop off her own arm.
So why? With all the available jobs, why do something as debasing as stripping?
It’s because she loves seducing men for money, bringing them to the brink of insanity. It’s exactly what she did to me tonight. I suppose I should be patting myself on the back for getting all I got from her tonight for the price of a coffee and some cheap mini-mart snacks.
As soon as the thoughts filter through my head, they sour my stomach with guilt. It’s not like she’s ever tried to hide who she is and what she does. She’s never made any promises, at least, not with words, but fuck if our time together wasn’t bringing me the hope of possibility.
What a fucking surprise to find myself here again, longing for a woman who I can’t have, or at least have all to myself. Sure, Eve gave me parts of her. By giving me her friendship, she trusted me with the most important parts, but I could never have her the way I wanted: fully and completely,