“Oh, I’ve had plenty of opportunities to get scars in real life without paying tuition for them,” he says sourly.
“And this one?” Oh, I should stop asking questions but Mason istalking to me.I point to the Celtic Cross ink on his left hip.
“Endurance. To be a MacTavish is to endure a multitude of challenges.”
“Yeah, I’ve already seen that first hand,” I agree dryly. “What about-”
“No more tonight.” His hand covers mine and he pulls me down next to him. “Relax, let’s get some rest. You’re going to need it.”
“Why?” I sit right back up. “If you meant that little statement to be relaxing, it did not have the intended effect.”
Now, he gives me a grin and it is positively demonic.
“We’re having dinner with my parents tomorrow.”
He turns off the light, rolling me over and pulling me close with his arm over my waist. Then he does the most offensive possible thing. As I stew and fret, my husband falls asleep.
***
To my surprise, Mason is still in bed with me when I wake up the next morning. In the week I’d been sequestered in the beach cottage, I slept in a guest room, refusing to use the master bedroom. So, to wake up embraced by both this obscenely comfortable mattress and my husband is jolting. In a good way.
Stretching my legs, I stifle a groan. I am sore as hell from getting railed by Mason in that vile shower at The Underworld last night and may I say that it was worth every muscle spasm and painful twinge I am enduring now. Everything is different. The cold and contained husband I started with has shown his true colors.
Passionate. Powerful, and genuine. Even though he’d rather die than admit it, emotional and caring. Just not in the same way as the rest of his family. And that isnota bad thing.
Naturally, doubt has to creep in on my happiness like ants to a picnic. Will he regret being open and honest with me last night? Maybe, overcompensate and be even colder?
His face is buried in my hair, his chest moving against my back, breathing slow and deep in sleep. When I try to ooze out of bed quietly, he pulls me back with the arm he has slung over my waist.
“Not yet, baby.” His voice is rough and it’s doing things to me.
Warm things.
Tingly things.
“You need more sleep after last night,” I whisper, “I’m going to get some coffee.”
“No.” The arm around my waist tightens. “You’re staying here. Warm, and sweet. Right where you need to be.” His breathing smooths out again.
Oh, my heart. It doesn’t sound like he regrets last night’s honesty at all. I roll over carefully and watch him like a creep.
Everything about Mason is sharp, and angular. His hard, powerful body, his high cheekbones and sculpted jawline. The only softness he has to offer are his perfect, plush lips. I love the way they sink into mine, soothing as his tongue comes out to play with mine. His beautiful, naked body is only partly covered by the sheet, and the early morning light slips over his tattoos like caressing fingers, turning his ink into living art.
I have so many questions about his tattoos, so many stories I want to hear. About the skull on his right hip, the scatter of stars on his lower back. There’s a blue bat on his thigh, drawn so well that it looks like it was caught mid-flight.
For now, though, I rest my head under his chin and slowly drift off again.
***
Mason…
That evening…
“It’s lovely to see you again, Afton.” My mother is up, her arms already wrapped around my wife in a hug when we arrive. “There’s been so much going on in our Canadian offices that I haven’t had a chance to spend much time with you.” Mom side eyes me. “Either of you.”
S, of course, I throw my father under the bus.
“I’m sure you’ve been more concerned about the episode that nearly fried half of your husband’s face off,” I offer pleasantly, ignoring his glare.
