Chapter Five
Layla
God,what the fuck is wrong with me?
The car winds through Laurel Canyon, along sideroads and around sweeping bends. Needless to say, I don’t actually have anything to do, just like I didn’t actually have a phone call to take inside earlier. I just had to get out of that house before I lost my fucking mind around Mason Dunn. I groan when I think of him, all grown up and looking like pure sex. Yeah, I had to get out of there, before I let God knows what happen.
At some point, my phone buzzes in the seat next to me. At the next light, I glance over and see a text from an unknown number that says “Just about done here. -M,” and I know it’s Mason.
I drive until I feel like there’s no way he’s still at my house. And when I cautiously pull back up my driveway and peek into the backyard, I see that I’m right. Thank God. I turn the car off and walk out the side door of the garage into the backyard. Mason’s gone, though I immediately spot the hose attachment for his cleaning machine laying to the side that he’s apparently left.
I walk over to look at the water, and I blush, remembering his muscles flexing as he pushed the cleaner across the bottom of it. The pool is clean now.
My mind is not.
I busy myself by cooking an early dinner of salmon and wilted greens, along with a healthy, healthy pour of wine. The food does a halfway decent job of taking my mind off of the boy next door, but the wine brings him right back into the center of my thoughts. I try another glass, but damn if that doesn’t make it worse.
I groan and drop my head into my hands, alone at my kitchen counter. I want to tell myself that this… obsession with Mason stems from my total lack of a sex life. I mean Celeste has been telling me for months, since the divorce that I just need to get out there and “get fucked.” But no. Hookups are not my thing, and the idea of getting out there and “dating” as a thirty year old divorcee sounds depressing as shit.
So, the lack of sex might be part of it. I mean, even when I was married, Jeremy and I hadn’t even touched in closing in on two years. God, that was healthy, I think to myself sarcastically. My marriage to Jeremy was dead long before we finally put a bullet in it, too. I knew about his affairs—or at least some of them, I assume there were more. It pissed me off, but I guess I wasn’t heartbroken, because I’d stopped loving him years before. I guess I was too much of a pussy to actually divorce him, or maybe part of me just held on to this idea that marriage is supposed to be forever.
That is, until I walked in on him with one of the models for my line. I guess it being right in my face like that gave me the push I needed to finally just walk away. I snort as I look around my gorgeous kitchen, in my modest-sized but very, very expensive house in the Hollywood Hills. Too bad for Jeremy, our prenup was airtight. Dickhead.
I giggle to myself and sip more wine, and then, my thoughts leave Jeremy in the dust. Who needs to dwell on their out-of-shape, mediocre-dicked shithead of an ex, when they could be thinking of the total hunk next door with the smoldering eyes and the horse cock?
I blush deeply, and I start to replay what I saw again. I think about watching Mason stroke that monster between his legs, and instantly, I’m wet—very, very fucking wet. I squirm on the barstool in my kitchen, and I close my eyes as the pleasure sparks between my thighs.
I grin salaciously and stand. I knock back the rest of my wine and start to head upstairs to my newly redone master bathroom. Part of the remodel was a gorgeous half-sunken tub with jets and a head rest. Throw in some candles and my waterproof vibrator, and this girl is about have a fantastic night.
I strip down and wrap a towel around myself in the bathroom. I go to toss my clothes in the hamper, but when I open the wicker lid, I frown. Wait, I just washed those.
I reach for the crumpled black thong lying on top of the dirty laundry that I know I just washed and left to air dry. I pluck them up, and suddenly I gasp and drop them back in. My pulse thunders in my ears, and I lean closer to stare at them. I want to say I’m crazy, but I know damn well what I’m seeing, streaked in thick still-sticky white lines across the inside gusset of them.
It’s cum.
My face burns hot, and something throbs deep inside of me. There’s cum on my fucking panties, and I know there’s only one possible explanation for it. And the thing is, I’m not disgusted. I’m not grossed out, or worried. I’m excited. I look at my panties laying there with Mason’s thick cum all over them, and I get wet, instantly.
A light suddenly goes on across from my window, and I gasp. I lunge for the switch on the wall and shut the lights off, leaving me red-faced and panting, hiding in the shadows wrapped in a towel. I look out the window, and I see Mason himself stroll into his bedroom in shorts and a t-shirt. He peels his shirt off, and I bite my lip, my eyes sliding over his grooved torso. God, those lines of his hips, point down…
He reaches for his shorts, and I moan quietly when he drops them and steps out of them. He’s standing there in just a tight pair of black boxer briefs, and even from over here, I can see the way they bulge. My thighs clench, and I swallow thickly.
Mason walks over to his bed and falls back across it, propped up and facing the window. He stretches an arm up and slips a hand behind his head. Then he reaches for his phone. I watch, feeling more and more like a complete creep and thinking I should just go take a bath, when suddenly, he reaches over the side of the bed and comes up with something in his hands. I frown, and then my jaw drops when I see what he’s holding.
It’s a thong. A lacy, blue, slightly transparent thong. I’d know those anywhere, seeing as it’s my line. But more specifically, I’d recognize the panties in Mason’s hand because they’re literally my panties.
He rubs his fingers over them, and when he brings them up to his face, my own cheeks burn hot. I moan softly at how dirty it is that the boy next door came all over one pair of my panties in my own house, stole another pair, and is now playing with them almost naked in his bed.
The bulge in his boxers grows noticeably, and I moan again. He drops a hand down to cup himself, and the heat blooms hot through my body. It’s so wrong, but there’s also something so hot about the crude, illicit way he’s touching himself while playing with my stolen panties.
I glance at the marble vanity and spot my phone. Without thinking, or before I can think too hard about it, I go back to that text from earlier, from him, and hit “call” on his number. It dials, and I watch him across the yards. His phone lights up, and he glances over and slowly grins, which makes my core tighten.
“Evening, Ms. Hughes,” he growls deeply, which makes me shiver.
“Layla,” I croak back.
“No, I’m sorry, this is Mason.”
I grin and roll my eyes. “Very funny.”