Price of a Kiss (Forbidden Men, #1)(54)

“Mason,” I choked out.

“We can’t do this,” he said, his voice full of naked need while he used the cloth of my underwear to sweep over a sensitive spot and make me cry out. “I have a plan. Don’t you understand?”

When he leaned in to take a flesh full of my shoulder between his teeth and grind his hips to my ass, I squeezed my eyes closed. “Yes, I…I understand. I understand I’m not part of your plan.”

A strangled sob tore from him. For a microsecond, he clutched me tight like he was going to throw his stupid plan by the wayside and shag me silly. The way he clung to me made me feel like a lifeline for his tortured soul. And the press of his fingers about had rockets blasting off behind my eyes. I was so freaking close.

Then he let out a pent-up breath.

“I respect you,” he grated out the words. “I admire, and adore, and respect you, Reese Randall. I will not do this.”

And just like that, his body went lax and his hand eased from the waistband of my shorts.

I held my breath as his nose burrowed through my hair before his lips found my scar. He kissed it gently. “Good night, friend,” he whispered before he turned away with his back abutted to mine.

Wrung out from how taut he’d wound my hormones, I let out a hard pant.

Fudge.

Mason Lowe might be a pure gentleman when it came to not taking advantage when there was alcohol involved, but he was also a damned dirty tease. I throbbed, physically throbbed for release.

He breathed deeply behind me, telling me he’d passed out. I was tempted to elbow him in the spine and wake his drunk butt up, demand some kind of compensation for the torture he’d just put me through.

But I admired, adored, and respected him too. And I totally dug that he felt the same. Besides, I would’ve regretted it in the morning because, come on, he’d almost gotten caught by a husband tonight. He was not the kind of guy a girl could start anything with.

Eyes watering with confusion, regret, depression, and a whole lot of sexual frustration, I buried my damp cheek into my pillow and cursed when my nose ring caught on the cloth. Clamping my thighs together to ease some of the ache between my legs, I waited for the morning to come. I didn’t try to climb over him again to escape, because sadly, despite all the heartache he was putting me through, there was nowhere else I wanted to be but with him.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN




I woke the next morning, wrapped in a snuggly human ball of warmth and not much else. Since it had become a habit to make sure my nose ring hadn’t come loose overnight, I patted my nostril to find everything in order and then let my hand settle on Mason’s forearm resting on my hip. His skin felt so nice I gave a little sigh of delight, trailing my fingers up and down his arm. Then I opened my eyes and blinked at the wall only about two inches away from my face.

Snuggly Mr. Lowe had hogged so much of the bed he had me nearly pinned against the sheetrock, and all the blankets were wrapped around him. I probably would’ve been cold if it wasn’t for the fact he was providing himself as my personal blanket. A toasty warm personal blanket.

Soaking in the experience of waking up in bed with him, I lay there for longer than I should have.

Despite everything, lying tangled up with him felt amazing. I could have stayed right where I was all day, but my bladder wasn’t so impressed by his cuddly warmth or drugging smell. The selfish thing demanded attention. Pronto. Whimpering as I unwound his arm from around my waist, I crawled over my blanket-wrapped bed partner and scampered for the bathroom.

Since I was already there, I went ahead and took a shower, then realized too late I’d forgotten to bring fresh clothes in with me to change into. When I snuck the door open, I expected him to be up and alert. But he was still dead to the world and mummified in my sheets. I skipped across the floor to my closet and picked out an outfit in hyper speed.

Mason hadn’t so much as stirred.

When a naughty touch of inspiration hit me, I couldn’t stop myself. I watched the prone lump on the bed, the back of his head turned my way, as I dropped my towel to the floor. And the bastard still had no clue what kind of show I was putting on for him.

Oh, well. It was probably for the best he didn’t wake up and—oopsie—catch me changing. We were just friends.

He looked as if he might snooze for another millennium or so, so I jotted a quick note—in case something shocking happened and he actually opened his eyes while I was gone—and told him I was going out to get some breakfast.

When I returned, his Jeep still sat in the drive but my apartment was quiet. I crept to my room, almost worried he’d risen and left anyway. The day had brightened considerably, and the sun had snuck in through the closed blinds to spray down on my bed, spotlighting a masterpiece.

Mason had rolled onto his back in my absence. The sheets had shifted down to the bottom of his ribcage. And holy cappuccino and white chocolate mocha espresso, he was shirtless!

Yeah, he’d been shirtless all night long while I’d been lying next to him…and I’d had no clue.

Wow.

Just…wow.

I gazed at him in all his shirtless glory—on my bed, squee!—and was beyond tempted to pull out my cell phone to snap off a few (dozen) pictures to keep forever and ever.

But…he might not appreciate that.

Damn, sometimes being friends with a total hottie could suck. You couldn’t take nearly naked pictures of them while they were passed out on your bed against their permission without getting a serious case of the guilties.