Page 7

So I put away the hairbrush, tighten the robe belt and open the door.

Mason is leaning against the wall right outside the bathroom. He’s dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt, but he’s barefoot.

And his gaze is locked on me.

The dark and dangerous hunger lurking in his eyes is unmistakable.

My breath catches.

“So… what now?” I ask.

“You come and have a drink with me. You can tell me what’s wrong with you or we discuss how quickly we dance around each other before you let me fuck you.”

3

MASON

With remote fascination, I watch the battle on her face. She’s debating whether to come at me all guns blazing or pretend I don’t exist.

I don’t really mind which option she chooses. She can walk out of here, and all I’ll feel is a modicum of disappointment. Maybe more than a modicum. There’s something… compelling about her. Something I should probably walk away from. Maybe I’m drawn to her turmoil because I have the same storm raging inside me. The need to smash, destroy, roar is a never-ending buzz beneath my skin.

I’ve learned the mechanics of letting it out.

The Amazon jungle has heard it a few times in the last six months. It was in the rage-soaked sweat from my skin that mixed with the straw and mud as I built the school and shelters in Roraima.

And I let it bleed out through the asphalt of the Pacific Coast Highway when the demons get too loud at 2a.m., and I slide behind the wheel of my Koenigsegg. Or in the converted basement of my L.A. house.

When all else fails… I fuck.

Normally, it takes about a year for the guilt and rage to come to a head. This time, I’ve barely lasted six months. I can feel the tempest gathering ever closer. Hani, my facilitator at the exclusive service I use, was put on standby earlier this evening. All it’ll take is a single phone call, and I can calm the storm. But I choose not to.

Not just yet.

I watch the woman in front of me in silence.

She has a brash strength about her that almost camouflages the gaping vortex of pain flowing from her. Her goddess-like beauty perfects that disguise, until you choose to look beneath the surface. I’m certainly finding it a little challenging to not gape at the wet tumble of caramel-blond hair that hangs in ropes about her face and shoulders, or the wide, sensual mouth that vacillates between a pout and a typical New Yorker’s sneer.

She’s stunning enough to stop any clear-thinking man in his tracks. For murkier-minded men like me, the allure and intrigue that shrouds her is a siren call, which howls its rapturous destruction.

And yet, I cannot look away. Not yet.

“I’ll take a drink minus the talking,” Keely finally responds, her chin raised in pointed defiance that I almost find amusing.

I nod and head to the kitchen. Her soft footsteps follow. “Hot or cold?” I ask when I walk past the center island.

She pauses. “Excuse me?”

“Coffee, water or club soda?” I look over my shoulder and that glare is back.

“I don’t want coffee,” she growls, and I’m once again fascinated by the rich, dominatrix quality of her voice, the no-nonsense way she ends every sentence, like she’s impatient with the words coming out of her mouth. “Or water,” she adds.

I open the fully stocked double fridge and take out two cans of soda. “Soda it is then.”

She watches the can I slide across the island like it’s an IED. I suppress laughter as she snaps, “Is this a joke?”

“What’s wrong? Did you think I was going to top up your already high alcohol intake with more booze?”

“What are you, the fucking booze monitor?” she throws back at me.