“You get in first. Please,” I plead on a shaky breath.
He looks around at me, regret instantly taking over his face. Reaching for my hand, he walks me to his car, opening the door and helping me inside.
He crouches down beside me, his eyes searching my face. I sit frozen as he clasps my jaw in his open palm. My head involuntarily leans into it—his thumb brushes over my bottom lip.
Why does that feel like the most natural thing in the world?
His voice drops dangerously low as he asks, “Do you trust me, Nina?”
“Yes,” I answer far too quickly. Mason shuts my door, muttering something to Joey before he slides into the driver’s seat. He puts the car into drive, pulling back out onto the road.
“Mason, you’re bleeding,” I tell him, my eyes zeroed in on his lip as blood oozes from the wound.
“Have you slept with him?” he asks unapologetically.
My head recoils at his words. “What? No!”
“Would you have let him in tonight? If I wasn’t here?” His jaw tics, his annoyance blatant.
“Ummm, no. I barely know Joey.”
“You barely know me,” he shoots back.
I start to clutch at straws. “I know that you have a Bentley… and a best friend called Elliot,” I tease, my argument weak even to my ears. “I’m here with you, aren’t I? Trust me, sober Nina would not be in this car right now.” I blow out a breath, running my hand through my hair in frustration. “What is it with you men anyway? You’re like a bunch of testosterone-charged teenage boys.”
He drops his head back to the seat, giving me a swoon-worthy smile. “Testosterone-charged teenage boys?” he teases.
I shake my head, my lips twisting up into a reluctant smile.
We arrive at Mason’s a little after one a.m. and I try to act unaffected by the level of wealth in front of me. The building sits back from the tree-lined road—sleek but timeless in its structure. I manage to count maybe twenty apartments in the large building. Each one spaced out, clearly offering a substantial living space.
We park in the underground car park and quickly walk to the elevator. Mason matches my every step with his hand sat low on my back. A flare of panic rushes through me as the steel doors begin to close.
What the hell am I doing?
Maybe I should get a taxi home.
As if sensing my unease, Mason grabs me at the waist, his thumb innocently brushing along the underside of my breast. “I won’t touch you while you’ve been drinking.” His jaw clenches as if it pains him even to say it.
“You can touch me.” I blink up at him, snapping out of it when he laughs and brings his nose to mine.
I swallow, anticipation stirring in my stomach.
“I brought you here so I’d know you’d be safe.” My eyes search his, and I hope mine don’t reflect the disappointment that he doesn’t want me.
“Am I? Safe here?”
“That depends,” he deliberates, playfully weighing up the options.
I choose to humour him, wanting—needing to know. “On what?”
“If you are going to continue to look at me like that.”
I frown, rolling my eyes. “Like what?” I’m aware I am playing directly into his hands.
He has me right where he wants me. Our faces are only millimetres apart, and with each passing second, I can see him starting to relent. His fingers clench around my waist, then instantly smooth over the fabric. I sway on the spot, my eyes fluttering closed as he inches in closer.
“Drunk,” he breathes out across my lips. He pauses, taking a deep breath. “Come on, out.”
