Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73094 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73094 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 365(@200wpm)___ 292(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
“As if you could be a daddy. What are you, 22?”
“21,” I said.
He groaned. “Fuck, I’m old. A full decade older than you?”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. You aren’t even Daddy status. Maybe that’s what I should punish you for. Thinking 31 is old.”
He groaned. “Don’t talk about punishing me.”
“You’re the one who brought it up earlier.”
He gave me a warning glance. “That was before. You’re not allowed to turn me on anymore. You don’t turn me on anymore.”
Lies.
My cock thickened under my jeans. So the hot cowboy liked the idea of getting punished. Maybe he wanted more, and his whole stern, crossed-arms vibe was just because he didn’t want to show it.
Maybe…
Maybe he wanted me to break him back down again.
My cock was mashed up against the front of my jeans now, fully hard for him. For weeks and weeks, I’d been so caught up in my shitty breakup that I barely felt human anymore. There was a reason I’d told him I was off the market.
But… getting turned on by an interaction at a bar was like seeing the first hint of green pop out after a bad winter.
I wasn’t broken, after all.
And even if nothing was ever going to happen between us, fuck, it felt good to have a visceral reaction of pure, simple wanting.
The wind blew a sheet of rain across the patio roof, the sound of the droplets filling the air. Mason’s blue eyes were still on mine, still gently drawing me out from behind my walls.
“Maybe you do need some punishment,” I tossed back at him.
“I don’t need anyone telling me what to do,” he said. “Unless it’s in very specific circumstances.”
I gave him a nod. “You sure about that, Hot Mess?”
He shook his head, flipped me off, and walked back into the bar.
A few minutes ago I’d asked him about the Hot Mess nickname after hearing Kane use it inside. My brother could be kind of a prick sometimes, even if he was a good guy, and I wanted to be sure Mason didn’t feel insulted by the name.
He’d reassured me that he wore Hot Mess with pride. I’d only known him for tonight, but shame didn’t seem to be in his vocabulary.
At least until he found out who I was.
I paced on the patio, walking along the wooden patio over toward the rain. I watched it come down, forming little puddles on the grass.
The air smelled sweet and fresh. I’d needed a good summer thunderstorm. It always felt like a reset button, and I could use as many resets as I could get, this summer. I rearranged my cock in my pants, trying to get my hard-on to go away.
But then I remembered the look in his eyes and I perked right back up again.
Mason walked back out a few minutes later, drink in hand. I was over at the pinball machine again, leaning on the front of it and watching him.
“Yo,” I said.
He gave me a nod.
For someone who’d sworn off sex, he sure did keep looking at me like he wanted to get railed. His eyes gave a come-fuck-me vibe, but… there was a distance there now, and sadness, too. Blue more like a rainy sky than a clear day, with more depth than I’d realized at first.
I was staring him down. I didn’t bother hiding it. I could see a question in his eyes for a split second as he looked down toward my lips and then back up again.
“This drink came with two Maraschino cherries,” Mason said. “I’d rather die than put one of those in my mouth. Do you want them?”
“Um, yes. I could eat Maraschino cherries daily,” I said. “I wish every drink had one.”
“They’re vile. How do you enjoy these things?”
“They’re sweet, juicy little fuckin’ bursts of cherry syrup,” I said. “How could anyone not like them? Gimmie.”
He plucked the cherry off the top of the drink by its stem. He held it up in the air, dangling it above my lips. It glistened under the string lights.
When I went in to bite it out of the air, he pulled it away at the last moment.
“You going to say please?” he said, lifting an eyebrow.
Well, hello.
“Just give it to me,” I told him, and he moved it back above my lips.
This time, right as he was about to pull his hand away, I reached up and clutched his wrist. I held it firmly, gripping his arm and pulling the cherry down to my lips.
I plucked it off the stem with my teeth, then leaned up to lick the remnants of sugar from the tip of his finger. I held his arm for another few seconds before releasing it.
“Good boy,” I told him in a low tone.
I watched his eyes widen momentarily, and a sick satisfaction spread through me.