Page 19 of Mason

Okay fine. No touching. Mason has complete jurisdiction over that.

But he has no control my personal thoughts.

A lump forms in the base of my throat. For that matter, neither do I.

Chapter 11

I was right about the king-sized bed.

It takes up at least half of my suite, commanding attention with its lush bedding and oversized pillows. Rich wood accents bring immediate warmth to the cream-colored carpets and sheer curtains. A cobble stone path lined with vibrant flowers leads from the generous patio door at the far end of the room, to the public pool area and a hot tub, partially covered by a brick wall and sweeping palm trees.

I stretch out of the bed and rub my stomach, digesting the last of a thick Hawaiian turkey burger and a platter of potato crisps dipped in a spicy mayonnaise sauce.

I’ve been waiting for Mason to call up to my room or knock on the door, but no such thing has happened. Can he still possibly be at dinner or has he decided not to come by to go over my notes after all?

My foot twitches, kicking aside the stack of folders. The paperwork slides off the edge of the bed, and onto the floor. I lean over the mattress and start gathering the notes with a groan. It will take hours to assemble these files back to normal. My brain is already mush. I’ve become a walking encyclopedia on Daylight Holdings—I can recite statistics, read projections, cite indications of market trends. My Excel spreadsheet is an actual thing of beauty.

Will it be enough?

I finish gathering the paperwork and toss the whole stack onto the table.

Tension spider webs up my spine as the minutes tick by.

Keeping me waiting again. Mason seems to like to show me just how little I mean in so many ways.

I reach behind to massage the knot at the base of my neck, but I’m still wound up like a jack in the box. My gaze drifts to the patio door, and through it, I again spot the empty hot tub.

Fuck it. I’m taking a break.

In the spa-like bathroom, I dig through the suitcase Mason packed, and pull out two bathing suits—a one piece with enough cut-outs it’s basically a bikini, and an actual bikini that’s little more than two pieces of cloth and some string. I hold them both up to the mirror, indecision causing my eyebrows to pinch together. I consider Skyping Renee, but I already know which suit she’d choose.

I climb out of my skirt and drape it over the shower rod, then carefully unbutton my blouse. A cool breeze from the air conditioner whispers across my skin. The fine hair on my arms stands up straight. I shimmy into the skimpy bathing suit and reach behind my neck to tie up the straps. The small triangle of black barely covers my crotch, and I’m one jarring move away from exposing my nipples. I slide into one of the plush white robes that hang off the back of the bathroom door, tie it tight, and pocket my key card.

I walk barefoot through the lobby and enter the pool area from the back, weaving through the umbrellas and lawn chairs that polka dot the deck. The sun has long since slipped behind the horizon, but the air remains warm and humid. My hair sticks to the base of my neck.

A beach ball lands at my feet, but before I can kick it aside, a tanned lifeguard scoops it off the deck and lobs it into the water. A young girl—maybe ten—giggles when the resulting splash gives her an unexpected face wash.

I continue to watch their interaction from the hot tub, where I slip out of the robe, and dip my foot in the bubbling warm water. The tension begins to drain from my body, leaking from my pores in a steady drip drip drip.

When I’m waist deep, I sit on one of the underwater ledges, nestling my back up against one of the powerful jets that forces water into the tub. The pressure pounds between my shoulder blades, working out the knots and kinks after the long flight.

God. It’s been forever since I’ve sat in a hot tub, maybe freshman year at college, and even then, just once.

As the warm water cascades over me, I allow my thoughts to trickle back in time. Jared’s hands clumsily paw at my breasts, fondling the nipples until they have no choice but to go hard. I push his hand away, and he inches closer to trail his tongue down the side of my neck. It’s wet. Slimy. I shiver with revulsion, fighting back tears of frustration when his hand slips between my thighs. There’s no tingle of anticipation, no yearning for his touch. This time when I push him away, he stops groping. Stops whining. Stops everything altogether.

I’ve only seen Jared once since that night, his arm slung around a girl at the movie theatre, the sharp V of her sweater exposing her cleavage and the lace edges of a sheer black bra. I thought I’d miss him, but he wasn’t the first man to break my heart.

My father did plenty of damage in that arena.

He was in a class by himself.

I shift to a different position, and find a new jet. This one pulses against my lower back. Lifting onto my toes, I position the spray so that it beats against my buttocks, igniting the burn left over from Mason’s heavy hand. I lean forward slightly, and the jet shoots between my thighs, pounding against my bikini bottoms. I think of Mason, and my pussy tightens and clenches.

Sweat beads across my forehead. My face feels flush.

“Beautiful evening, isn’t it?” an unfamiliar voice says, startling me.

I move so abruptly it’s almost painful, and land on the underwater bench with enough force to make me wince.