I’m pulled out of my daze when Mason abruptly grabs the tea towel out of my hand and tosses it.
“There’s still the cutlery to dry,” I protest.
“Fuck it,” he says.
“Hey!” I squeak out, because he’s squatted and now his shoulder is pressing into my stomach.
Oh shit, I’m going up in the air and over his shoulder!
“Doggo, no!”
He moves toward the stairs, despite my high-pitched complaint.
“Thought you weren’t domestic.”
“Hey, stop. Hey! Mason, no!” I plead when he starts climbing the stairs. “I’m gonna barf if you carry me upstairs like this. You want me to barf?”
I slide backwards down his chest and then he’s got one arm under my knees, the other across my back, carrying me the regular way a man carries a woman when he wants to ravish her. My face must be purple. I’m dizzy and panicked, and he’s got an apologetic look on his face.
“Can’t wait another second,” he explains when we get to the second floor.
Instead of carrying me up to the third level, he stops on the second in an open lounging space with a mustard-colored sectional couch with lots of cream throw pillows and a big television on a blue TV stand, three quarters filled with video games and four gaming consoles.
As he puts me on the couch, which is super-soft like the fabric of the one on the main floor, I hear my phone ringing.
Immediately, I jolt and dash down the stairs to the kitchen for it.
I skid on my socks, stopping almost a foot away when I see what’s on the lit-up screen.
Rick calling.
My heart drops. Plummets down to my feet. “Fuck,” I mutter, taking a step back and finding my back flush against Mason.
I’m not reaching to answer it. Just staring at my phone like it’s a big, venomous snake, coiled and ready to strike.
“Want me to get it? Tell him?” Mason asks.
“No,” I say softly.
His hand comes out from beside me and he reaches for it anyway
“No!” I shout and slap his hand, then spin to face him, blazing a dirty look at him.
“No!” I repeat, pointing with accusation like he’s a bad dog or something.
He shakes his head with amusement. “Sooner he’s told, the sooner we can move on with our life together, baby.”
Ow. Pain hits at that statement. I refuse to acknowledge it.
“Do not touch it!” I order, pushing him.
He looks amused. I continue to push him backwards, though he’s not really moving at all, it’s just my socked feet slipping on his floors, but I’m not going to let up until the phone stops ringing. So I can stop him from talking to Rick. And so I can then immediately try Ivy again. And then Mom.
“Guess you wanna end it in person,” he shrugs, “I get that.”
Mercifully, the phone stops. Instead of arguing with Mason, I grab it and am immediately dialing my sister.
Call failed.
“Fuck!”
I try texting her.
Me: Hey
It fails.
Double-fuck!
I try Mom. It fails.
“For fuck’s sake.”
I slam it back where it was when it was ringing and then have a thought and try calling Mom on speaker from there in case that’s the magic spot where there’s a signal in this house. Again, it fails, so I growl in frustration and plug it back in. Still no service, but it’s up to sixty percent charged.
Shit. Shit, shit, fuck.
“It’s got to be your lake. We rented a cottage last summer on a lake and the cell signal was spotty the whole weekend. Though, not this spotty.”
“I don’t usually have problems here. Until today,” he puts in, unhelpfully.
I sigh.
“Where were we?” he whispers directly against that spot on my neck.
Goosebumps rise everywhere and my new clean panties are now on their way to being ruined, too. Mason Quinn: shapeshifter sex god, crepe chef, and panty ruiner. Lord have mercy on me – how much longer can I resist this man?
“Wearing your hair up gives me easy access to this little spot, doesn’t it?” His voice is smoky and sexy as he says this.
I grip the counter as I absorb the sensation. He takes the bun of hair into his grip and runs his lips across that spot.
“I need you, wildberry,” Mason says in a gravelly voice. “You wanna go upstairs, or you want me to fuck you right here in this kitchen?”
He puts his tongue to my throat, to that spot. That blasted, incredibly sensitive spot.
“Maybe I don’t want you to fuck me at all,” I say. “Maybe you’ve fucked me enough for one day. Enough for one year, in fact.”
“But you do want me to fuck you," he rasps, "You can’t wait to feel my knot vibrate against your g-spot again. Isn’t that right?”
Fucking Jell-O knees. Again.
“I don’t do dirty talk, Doggo, so if you’re gonna fuck me, just shut up and fuck me.”
"Where? Here?"
"Wherever."
He laughs. “All right then. My pretty little liar. Both, it is. Prepare to be shown who you belong to.”