“Come back to me,” Mason whispers against my lips.
“Hm?”
“You were here with me, in the moment, and now you’re somewhere else. I want you here.”
I swallow down my emotion. A sad, ugly lump of it.
“Baby,” he whispers against my lips, and the way he says that has tingles trilling up my spine. He then slides his mouth to that bitemark he made and pulls the skin there into his hot mouth.
My eyes flutter, vision blurring as I absorb that, then he sucks, pulling hard while he rolls his hips. I jolt as his cock expands and vibrates inside me while his fingers continue to swirl around my clit. He’s still latched onto my neck, and the sounds that Mason Quinn manages to pull from me are somewhere between wounded animal and wanton whore. Wanton whore wins out as my back arcs, all of me detonating into what feels like a zillion shards of rainbow-colored light and broken glass confetti.
God, this voodoo. It’s potent. And at this moment I can actually say that if that were my lottery winnings, I’d say it’s worth however much money it cost me to feel this, even for a minute. He grabs my chin and stares into my eyes.
“It’s real, Amie. It’s very fucking real. You can’t tell me you feel this and have any doubts about it.”
And the look in his eyes? The fierceness? For a second, I almost let myself believe it.
Almost.
I cling to him, nails digging into his back, legs wrapped tight around him, eyes squeezing shut tight, but certain that sparkling rainbows have got to be shooting out of my fingertips and my toes.
“Amelia Quinn,” he whispers, holding my face with both hands, and when I open my eyes, it feels like he’s looking straight into my soul with a magnifying glass.
Oh my God. It’s like I can see the emotion pulsing from him, like it’s climbing inside me…
Mason’s head jerks up, his attention moving toward the door. This happens just before the doorbell rings.
He bolts off me, reacting in an almost canine way as he stares at the door then growls.
Doggo. I almost smile.
Quite the sight. His trackpants are down below his hips and he’s still hard, his cock glistening with me.
He takes two steps toward the door, but then spins back toward me, pulls his pants up and hauls a soft black and silver blanket off the back of the couch we’re on and drapes it over me, then drops a kiss on my lips.
“Right back, baby,” he whispers and then he rushes for the door.
And he seems a little angry, though it’s entirely directed toward the door.
The front door slams.
I feel the need to get dressed. But ick, these underwear are beyond ready for the laundry with the day I’ve had so far. I’ve still got my blouse on, and that doesn’t seem so bad, but I need clean undies and jeans. My stuff is by the front door, so I wrap the blanket around my waist like a sarong and peel the undies off before I wander that way, ready to shove them and my jeans into the nylon laundry bag I carry in my suitcase when traveling.
Eek. Mason’s spooge is running down my leg. When I get to where my suitcases are by the built-in bench and coat hooks that are utter perfection for a foyer of a home, motion outside catches my eye.
Mason is arguing with a stunning redheaded woman who stands beside a motorcycle parked where Skye’s car was parked earlier.
I’ve got a perfect view of his back, her front, and as if sensing my presence, she looks right at me, props her hands on her slender waist and shoots a glare directly at me while her nostrils flare. It hits as unconcealed hatred. I rear back at the intensity of it.
Mason looks over his shoulder at me and his expression softens when he sees me. He then points at her, his finger really close to her face, and clips some sort of orders at her, I think.
She twists her neck to the side, pressing her ear against her shoulder and squeezes her eyes shut tight while he continues to jerk his index finger at her, clipping words at her.
His hand drops and her hands defensively lift. She backs up, then spins before climbing onto her motorcycle and starting it up. And as he turns away from her, she shoots me another dirty look before she pulls her helmet onto her head. I watch him stalk toward the door, looking absolutely ticked off. He’s holding a wristwatch and a necklace. I drop my eyes to my suitcases and I’m suddenly even more conscious of what’s running down my thighs.
As he comes in, I’m still in a squat, being careful to keep the blanket around my lower half as I hunt for the laundry bag.