How We Deal With Gravity(42)
It might have been a mistake that put the ink on him in the first place, but damn did it turn into something special. I can sort of see a few of the letters, but even knowing the story now as I do, I don’t see her name. I’m probably just a little drunk on the high of being in so much contact with Mason’s body—but right now, I’m ready to tattoo anything he wants on mine, just to get closer and to touch him more.
“I think it’s beautiful,” I let the words slip, and my eyes flair when they do, but I just hold my breath, thankful that from this angle, Mason can’t see my face.
“Yeah, well I think you’re beautiful,” he says in an instant, and now my heart is officially in my throat. His hand is back to stroking my hair, and he’s no longer trying to hide it, instead, his fingertips start at the very edge of my hairline, lacing deep into the strands, softly brushing them out across my bare shoulder.
When I feel his hand run lower down my neck and pull my head in close, I stop breathing, afraid that I’ll do something…say something…that will make him stop. In seconds, his lips are on my head, and I can feel him inhale. My body is telling me to look up, to make a move—to take a leap of faith. But then a familiar light floods his entire bedroom, and time actually freezes.
My dad has driven the same damned pickup truck for fourteen years. The lights cast a very distinctive hue, and when I first started dating Adam in high school, I had it down to a science. The second I saw those lights pour in through the front living room windows, Adam was quickly pushed out the back kitchen door.
“Shit, that’s my dad!” I say, practically jumping to my feet and cracking open Mason’s door. I step one foot into the hallway, just enough to flip the bank of lights off, and then my dad’s keys are at the door. I push Mason back into the room and shut his door again behind us, holding my finger up to my mouth. “Shhhhhhhhhh!” I say, giggling uncontrollably.
I lay my ear flat against the wood so I can hear my dad move through the kitchen, get a drink from the fridge, and kick his shoes off by the stairs. The fourth one creaks as he passes it, and I widen my eyes at Mason, warning him that he’s coming. Mason leans forward against me, pressing his own ear next to mine, and we both wait. It’s hard to tell, but it seems like my dad is standing at the top of the stairs in the middle of the hall for an unusually long time before he makes his way to his own bedroom. I finally hear his door close, and let out the breath I’ve been holding, sliding my back against the door so I’m facing Mason.
“Avery, you know we’re like…in our twenties, right?” Mason says, his dimples back again. I want to touch them. And now we’re inches apart, and his bare chest is right here, up against me, pinning me to the door.
“I know, I just…” I start to explain my craziness, but he stops me.
“I get it. It’s your dad. He scares the crap outta me, too. He’d kill me, you know?” he says, raising one eyebrow. His body is still right here—with me…against me. And now, it is all I can think about.
“He wouldn’t kill you, Mason,” I whisper, half trying to be quiet, and half petrified by the feeling in my chest. Almost as if I’ve lost control over my own body, my fingers slide up Mason’s side. I graze the firmness of his stomach with my thumbs, taking my time to trace along the hard lines of his abs and chest until I’m at his collarbone. I hesitate, the reason-side of my brain questioning everything I’m doing, but then Mason’s hands find my wrists, and he holds them in place against him, his feet closing the inches now between us until I can feel every breath tickle my ear.
“You sure about that?” he asks, dragging those words out slowly across his lips. The sound of his voice is different now. It’s not flirtatious like before. This sound is deeper, hungrier—it’s suggestive and luring, and it’s breaking down every defense I have left. My eyes are trained on his fingers, his grip strong around my arms. That’s the only barrier I have left, and I know the moment I look into his eyes, I will forever be lost.
I consider every angle, avoiding the choice I want to make—the obvious choice—until I no longer can, and I look up at him to find his eyes waiting. His room is dark, and most of his body is cast in a shadow, but the moonlight traces his face, illuminating his eyes. I know my body is shivering, and I know he can feel it, but he’s looking at me like I’m strong, like I’m his equal. His long lashes fall slowly as he shuts his eyes, and his forehead moves to rest against mine.
“I’m battling here, Avery,” he says, his voice quiet but rough. “I want to kiss you so goddamned bad. But I told you I’d wait until you were ready. And tonight—”
I manage to free one of my hands from his grip, and I press my fingers to his lips, stopping him from making any more excuses. I linger there, feeling his lips open barely, his teeth grazing against my skin, and the sensation forces my eyes closed too. I will never be ready to kiss Mason Street. I won’t be ready, because I’ve spent a decade training myself to not want him. And then, when Adam left me, he crushed my spirit, and my taste for passion went away with it.
But I feel like this Mason might be my only chance—and I feel like if I don’t let down my guard, just a little, he may never try. I’ve done regret, and I don’t like it.
“Mason, what happened earlier…tonight? That had no effect on how I feel…” I swallow hard, willing myself to say the last few words, “about you.”