"We'll take it." He pauses. "You know this interview tomorrow, it's going to bring more attention. More questions about the club's involvement."
"I know. And I'm prepared to defend your actions without compromising your operational security." I've thought about this extensively, practiced deflecting questions about specific club activities. "I'll talk about how you provided protection, how you helped coordinate with the FBI, but I won't discuss anything that could expose legitimate club business."
"Appreciate it." Vulture stands, clapping Mason on the shoulder. "Take care of her, the media circus is going to be rough."
"Always do."
After dinner, Mason makes good on his promise. We're barely through his bedroom door before he's got me pressed against the wall, his mouth on my neck and his hands everywhere.
"Need you," he growls against my skin. "Need to feel you come apart."
"Bedroom's right there." But I'm already wrapping my legs around his waist, grinding against him.
"Too far." He carries me the ten feet to the bed anyway, dropping me on the mattress and following me down. "Strip."
I do, fumbling with buttons and zippers while he watches with dark eyes. When I'm naked, he takes his time looking, his gaze heating my skin everywhere it touches.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, finally stripping off his own clothes. "Every fucking time, you take my breath away."
"Less talking, more action." But my voice comes out breathy, needy.
He grins, predatory and dangerous. "Bossy. Guess I need to remind you who's in charge here."
Before I can respond, he's between my legs, his mouth on me, and coherent thought becomes impossible. His tongue works me expertly, knowing exactly where to touch, how much pressure, when to back off and when to increase intensity. I'm climbing fast, right on the edge, when he stops.
"Mason, don't you dare."
"Patience." He moves up my body, positioning himself at my entrance. "I want you desperate for it."
"I am desperate. Now move."
He pushes inside in one hard thrust that has us both groaning. The stretch is perfect, that edge of too much that becomes exactly right, and when he starts moving, it's with a rhythm designed to drive me insane.
"Touch yourself," he orders, his voice rough. "Want to watch you."
My hand slides between us, finding my clit, and his eyes darken watching me. The combination of his cock inside me and my fingers on myself is overwhelming, and I come hard, clenching around him.
"Fuck, yes." He increases his pace, chasing his own release. "Love watching you come. Love feeling it."
He follows me over the edge with a groan that's half my name, and we collapse together in a sweaty tangle. My heart's hammering, my body loose and satisfied, and for the moment, the interview tomorrow feels manageable.
"Better?" he asks when our breathing evens out.
"Much." I trace the scar on his side, the reminder of how close I came to losing him. "Thank you."
"For the sex or the distraction?"
"Both. All of it." I prop myself up on his chest. "I don't know how I got through the last decade without you."
"Probably a lot more peacefully." But he's smiling. "Though significantly less orgasmic."
"Can't argue with that." I settle back against him. "Mason, what happens after tomorrow? After the media attention dies down and we're just, I don't know, us?"
"We figure it out. Find an apartment for you like we talked about, somewhere you can work. I'll split my time between there and here." His hand traces patterns on my back. "We’ll make it work because the alternative's not acceptable."
"What if it doesn't work? What if we're too different, or our worlds are too incompatible?"
"Then we'll adapt. Change. Find a middle ground." He's quiet for a moment. "But I don't think that's going to be a problem. We've survived trafficking investigations and assassination attempts and federal raids. I think we can handle domesticity."
