There’s a change. I can’t describe it at first, can hardly think of anything but how hard he’s stroking into me, but then I know.
I’ve gone from being prey he’s caught to shelter he’s found.
And when that happens, he lets go.
Mason stops concentrating on my clit and splays his hand on my hips, holding me to him so he can fuck me harder. His other hand slips down to my throat to hold me in place. And he fucks me like he’s trying to forget, like it’s too painful to exist in this moment otherwise. A shuddering orgasm ignites from the intimacy of it and shakes me around him.
“Fuck,” he says into my ear. “Please.” Both of us slam into the metal gate. His head against mine. He’s curled over me, around me, inside me.
He comes hard. Deep.
In this one moment, he’s mine. For this little flash of time, he belongs to me.
It takes him a minute to catch his breath. Another few heartbeats to pull himself out of me and rearrange himself. I cling to the door until he’s done. Mason has to take my hands down for me and turn me around. He bends to one knee. It has to hurt but his face doesn’t change as he reaches for me. To test between my legs. He touches my softest parts. Drags his fingertips through the mess we’ve made. When he pulls his hand back, light reflects off the wetness on his fingers.
“There’s more cum between your thighs,” he says. “It’s dripping out of your pussy, Ms. Van Kempt. You’re going to take it home with you.”
He’s matter of fact, not rough at all, as he pulls my leggings up and tugs my shirt back into place. I lean my head back against the gate and look up at the sky. Streaks of smoke and clouds. It’s almost impossible to see the stars.
Mason stands up and I drag my eyes back down to him. He’s so handsome, even like this, even now. The glow of his phone lights his face. His driver must be getting close.
Green eyes meet mine. Revenge darkens the emerald there. “Time to go. I’ll give you a ride.”
3
CHARLOTTE
Mason’s driver arrives, and I climb into the back of the SUV with my heart in my throat. It doesn’t matter how shaky I am, or how uncertain. He’s going to my house either way. I don’t have time to go back to his penthouse to get my car. At least I can try to control the situation if I go with him.
I’ll probably fail. There’s no controlling a man like Mason. Not when he’s decided what to do. Not when he’s determined.
His driver doesn’t say a word, he just pulls out into traffic. He must already have the address. Mason sits as far away as he can get, looking murderous in the shadows. I can’t blame him. If my father really killed his parents, if he set Cornerstone on fire, then Mason has every right to be angry. He has every right to want justice.
But revenge is only going to make things harder. The courts won’t understand. Killing my father, murdering him in cold blood, will do more than ruin my family. It will ruin Mason’s life, though he doesn’t see it that way.
I reach into my purse. If he wants to stop me, he can stop me. I feel his eyes on me, but he doesn’t move.
My mom’s number is saved in my favorite contacts. It’s the first name on the list, though we haven’t talked on the phone much the past few years. We were so close when I was growing up. She always liked to listen to school gossip and talk to me about what was happening in my life.
When things went wrong, it was like her mind went elsewhere. To her garden. To the few events my parents still attended to keep up appearances. I’m old enough to know that she won’t be able to save me from this. I don’t expect her to. But with the SUV threading through the traffic and getting out of the city faster than I thought possible, calling my mother is all I can think to do.
It rings once. Twice. Three times. On the fourth ring, there’s a muffled crinkle. “Charlotte?”
“Hi, Mom. I’m sorry to wake you up.”’
“It’s okay.” There’s a snap in the background. Turning on a lamp. “Is everything all right?”
I clear my throat and try to sound less like I’ve been standing next to a burning building. Mason’s still watching. I feel his eyes on me with a pressure on my chest and heat in my cheeks. All the hormones from the sex are draining away into adrenaline and fear.
“Could you come home? Come back to the house, I mean.”
“In the morning?”
“Right now. Something’s about to happen.” I have no idea how to recap this for her in a way that won’t make Mason take the phone out of my hand. “I think you should come home.”
She must know I can’t say more. She must hear the scorch of the fire in my voice. “Okay. I’ll be there soon.”
The call disconnects, and I put the phone back into my purse. It doesn’t feel like enough to hold. I need something big and solid, like a shield. Armor. Anything. My throat is scratchy and dry, despite the bottle of water I had back at the scene. The driver—I think his name is Scott—makes a turn, and we’re headed for the highway. He’s not going to stop for anything. Mason gives the orders. Begging him to turn around will be a waste of breath.
“I thought you might be calling the cops,” Mason says.
He’s still watching me from the other side of the SUV. We were so close a few minutes ago. Now the space between us feels like miles. It feels insurmountable.
“No, but maybe you should call them.”
An expression that’s not quite a smile flashes in a band of light from one of the high-masts along the side of the highway. “For what?”
“To report my dad for murder.”
He scoffs. “My parents have waited long enough for this.”
For retribution. For revenge. The police would be interested in stopping a murderous person, but they’d only arrest Mason. They might even arrest my father, too, if they arrived in the middle of an altercation. Maybe that’s the safest option for everyone. Both of them behind bars, unable to kill each other. Prickling fear drags itself down the sides of my face. There’s no doubt Mason’s stronger than my dad. He’s already won in a fistfight. But I don’t think my father will let him get close so easily. I don’t think he’ll let Mason in without a challenge.
There’s nothing I can say to stop this. A hundred half-formed ideas fly into my mind. They’re like amateur patterns. It’s only when the stitching starts to go in that you see the flaws. They’ll never become anything worthwhile.
The car bumps over the entrance to our driveway and my entire body tenses. Every muscle fires, trying to get ready, but I don’t know what to be ready for. I steal a glance at Mason and find him calm. Resolute. He doesn’t jiggle his foot against the floor of the car or drum his fingers on the door handle. He’s waiting for this thing to happen. He’s ready.
It occurs to me, looking at the pain in his eyes and the set of his jaw, that he might not care whether he survives. That scares me more than anything. It sinks my heart to the floor and sits like a boulder in my gut. His SUV takes the potholes better than the Town Car does, and we pull to a stop in front of the house. I grip the door handle, ready to yank it open and run, but Mason’s hand on my arm stops me.