“We’re fine here,” Mason assures him.
James so wants to believe him. He hasn’t felt anything like the passion or fervor of their kisses in so long. Possibly ever. Mason may be onto something about the fighting turning into ardor.
But Mason’s assurances give him little relief from the growing anxiety that’s rapidly clawing through his lust haze. Mason’s been caught before. Worse, Mason has never been careful. Has never had to be.
Mason’s family loves him, clearly. Lord Havenfort caught him in a tryst and still sent him to Ascot with his daughter and stepdaughter. If James’ stepfather ever caught him in theact, James isn’t sure he’d live to tell the tale, much less be protected.
Mason isn’t an option. No matter how much these kisses—the ardent look on his beautiful face—stir something deep and young inside of James, Mason is not the golden boy of his Oxford days.
Mason is a risk—one James can’t stand to take. Not now. Not with Raverson looming. Not with his title at stake. Not with his fragile pride and anxiety.
“We can’t do this,” James says, pulling back with purpose this time.
Mason’s hand glides across his cheek as it falls away. James forces himself not to mourn its loss. This was a onetime occurrence. A fantasy, nothing more.
“We could,” Mason says, remaining still, his eyes beckoning just as much as his hand did. “Surely this is safer than the alternative. We have credible reasons to see each other, and ample opportunity. Even if we spend half our time bickering, wouldn’t it be better to—”
Mason peters off and James realizes he’s shaking his head. He can’t listen to this—can’t let Mason lay out anything close to a reasonable plan for a... dalliance. Because it would be reckless, and foolish, and too close to something James never even knew he could consider, or want.
“If you’d just think about, for a moment, the implications of—”
“No,” James says, his voice high and tight. “No. We’ll—we’ll discuss the problem—Raverson,” he corrects. Mason snaps his mouth shut, frowning. “Later. I must be going.”
He turns and pushes through the curtain, away from Mason and his potentially enticing offer—away from the fantasies of his youth—away from his own desires. Mason is pompous, andreckless, and handsome, and an absurdly good kisser, and James needs to get as far away from him as physically possible before Mason’s impulsivity spreads.
“Demeroven.”
James keeps moving, limping as quickly as he can back toward the lavatories. Their little hidey-hole was further from the crowds than he thought.
“Why are you always running away?” Mason demands, too close behind him.
James hurries forward, only for Mason to grab his arm just as James goes to swing around the corner of the lavatories.
“For Christ’s sake, just talk to—”
James crashes into someone, Mason’s hand wrenching off his arm. But two strong hands catch him, and James closes his eyes. He’d know that overtight grip anywhere. It belongs to the very last person he wants to see.
“Afternoon, gentlemen,” Raverson says, his voice lilting.
James scrambles back, nearly knocking into Mason, who quickly steps to his side so they’re facing Raverson together. James watches Raverson take in their appearance—Mason’s ruffled hair, James’ askew tie, both of their reddened mouths.
“It seems I might need to pay a visit to the house of Havenfort sooner than I’d planned. How interesting,” Raverson says.
James feels his heart rate kick back up. How can they play this off? He’d tell Raverson he’s seeing something that isn’t there, but one look at Mason proves that there’s no denying it. What was he thinking, just walking away without settling himself first? Allowing Mason to traipse after him like an advertisement screamingLook, I was just nearly shagged.
“Lord Havenfort has nothing more to say to you,” Mason says.
“Oh, I think he will,” Raverson says, looking significantly between them.
“You’re seeing things, Raverson,” James pushes out. He just has to be like Mason—collected, and calm, not visibly panicking out of his mind.
“I don’t think I am, little Demeroven.”
“Shut up,” James hears himself say, a knee-jerk reaction to that honey-tinged tone in Raverson’s voice. The one he always used when he would tell James he was beingsilly. Was upset overnothing. Was beingimmature.
“Ah, yes, a little romp does tend to make you brave, doesn’t it?” Raverson returns.
“You’re far off base,” Mason says, glancing between them.
