Although… his piercing eyes and muscular body might do the trick.
“Consider yourself successful,” I reply dryly, moving past Mason and leading the way to the elevators.
We ascend in silence, the digital numbers ticking off the floors too slowly. By the time the elevator dings at my floor, I’ve mentally rehearsed how to cut this visit short.
Stepping into my apartment, my body almost relaxes from simply being back in my own space. The living room, once marked by tragedy, now boasts a tasteful minimalism, large windows casting light across the wooden floors, the city’s pulse a backdrop. It’s welcoming and my version of cozy.
Or it will be when Mason leaves.
Walking over to the side table, I set my bag down with a little more force than necessary. Then I head over to the kitchen to put some space between us and grab a glass of water.
He removes his jacket and tosses it over the back of my couch, as though settling in. I sigh internally, tapping my fingers against the countertop.
I’m of half a mind to fuck him just so he’ll go, but I can’t summon the energy.
“Look, Mason, I’m not in a good headspace right now.” I turn to face him fully. “I have a ton of prep to do for a big interview tomorrow with a fucked-up inmate. It’s really not a good time.”
“Well, shit. I’m sorry to hear that. Are you going to be okay?”
I shrug off his concern, along with my twinge of guilt for being so distant with him. It’s the only way I can do relationships. If you can even call it that.
“I will be. I don’t have a choice,” I say. “He won’t speak to anyone else.”
“That’s weird. Why?”
“Wish I knew.”
Mason comes around the counter, trapping me as he steps close and rests his hand on the curve of my waist. I go rigid at his nearness and immediately scold myself. Physical connection is all I’ve ever asked from this man. I can’t be upset when he seeks me out for that very reason.
“You know, I’m more than happy to rid you of the stress you’re feeling.” After tugging me toward him, he grazes my ear with his lips.
My heart beats faster at his touch. Not with anticipation. With a vague sense of dread.
He presses his body to mine and kisses me, his lips firm. Insistent. It’s a kiss of lust. Of a man wanting a woman.
Except I’m not that woman tonight.
I gently push him away. “I’m not in the mood.”
He frowns at my sudden rejection. “What do you mean?”
“I told you. I just want to relax tonight.”
“Are you fucking serious?”
I cross my arms. “Yeah, I’m fucking serious.”
Mason studies me, his gaze narrowing. Intensifying. I scrutinize him in return, my brain rapidly firing data through my synapses, giving me insight in seconds. The slight furrow of his brow, an almost imperceptible crease, signals anger brewing beneath the surface. Then his eyes darken with intent.
This swift, but significant, change puts me on edge. However, I don’t take a step back as instinct demands. I hold position, my stance challenging.
Mere seconds feel like hours as I wait for him to react.
Mason clears his throat in a deliberate effort to regain composure. A quick shake of his head follows as though he’s attemptingto dismiss troubling thoughts or aggressive impulses that have momentarily broken through his usual demeanor. I squint at him when he squares his shoulders and fists his hands at his sides, a clear sign of suppressed aggression.
While never taking my eyes from him, I grab my abandoned glass and take a sip. If need be, I’ll chuck the water in his face to snap him out of whatever emotional state he’s in.
Mason blows out a breath. “You’re such a bitch, you know that?”
