Page 12

12

KAI

T he next few days were weird. Awkward as hell, too.

It was one thing to let a supposedly straight guy suck you off and then glare at you like it’s your fault. It was another thing entirely to live in the same house with him afterwards. Since Mason refused to explain anything—and seemed determined to act like that morning had never happened—I decided to follow suit. I wasn’t going to be the one to break first. He didn’t deserve that satisfaction.

Still, I wanted to break. Because I wanted to know what the fuck Mason was thinking. Clearly, the man wasn’t as straight as I’d thought, or as he’d implied. But he also seemed to dislike me. A lot. And as much as I wanted to match that energy, it was getting harder.

He was fully committed to doing his job, for one. The security system he’d made me order arrived that same Saturday, and he spent hours installing cameras out front and in the back, putting alarms on all the windows, upgrading the locks on the sliding doors. It was really hard to stay mad at someone who seemed genuinely concerned for my safety.

Eventually, he relented and said I could go on runs again—but only if he went with me. Of course, he was in ridiculous shape and barely broke a sweat. We didn’t talk much on those runs, but I could feel my resistance softening anyway. Because when Mason wasn’t being a complete asshole, he was...kind of sweet?

He was great with Bella, playing fetch in the yard, putting together these wild doggie dinners for her like she was royalty. He kept cooking for both of us, too—breakfasts and dinners—and I had to admit, the man was a chef. Sometimes I’d catch myself watching him move around the kitchen, calm and capable, like he really belonged here. Like this was his house, too.

I should’ve been alarmed by that feeling, but I was too busy stressing over the cocktail party I was hosting that next Thursday. I really, really wanted it to go well. The Butterfly Center needed a solid endowment, something that would grow with the market and still let us use a chunk of the interest annually. That meant wealthy donors. That meant schmoozing. And schmoozing was not my thing.

Both of my parents were naturals in front of a crowd, but there was a reason I went into tech. I liked building things, solving problems, and staying behind the scenes. Funding initiatives like Wardrobes for the Win and the Butterfly Center made me happy, but I didn’t crave the spotlight. Carolyn was coming to the party, which would help, but I’d still have to stand up at the end of the night and make some kind of heartfelt speech. I kept imagining myself freezing up mid-sentence, my mind going blank while a bunch of millionaires stared at me with polite disappointment.

I’d planned to have the event catered, but Mason shot that down immediately. We were standing in the kitchen when he told me it was silly. He could do it himself.

“That’s more work, not less,” I pointed out.

“For you, it would be. Not for me.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to. I like to cook.”

He said it so simply— I like to cook —that I almost believed that was the whole reason. But I still raised an eyebrow.

“This isn’t some elaborate theory about my stalker infiltrating the catering company to poison the hors d’oeuvres?”

Mason rolled his eyes. “No. But now that you mention it…”

“I’m serious,” I said. “What’s the real reason?”

I expected something security-adjacent. What I didn’t expect was, “Honestly? I just want to feel useful.”

I blinked at him. “You are useful. You’re the one keeping me safe.”

He shrugged. “That’s mostly handled now—the security system, me going with you everywhere. But when you’re at the office or working at home, there’s not much for me to actually do.”

“You don’t like that? Most people I know would kill to work less.”

“You don’t get it. Your job lets you do all these amazing things. Make the world a better place. Affect people’s lives in ways that matter.”

I laughed. “I mean, I’m biased, but I’d argue keeping me alive is also pretty high-impact.”

He snorted, but his smile faded quickly. “It’s…hard to explain. Finding steady work since I left the Marines hasn’t been easy. No college degree. I’m not qualified for most desk jobs. I take what I can get—usually manual labor. And every time I start to get comfortable somewhere...” He trailed off, then added, “I just want to know I’m doing something good. And I like staying busy. I don’t like having time to sit around and think.”

That stopped me. I wondered—was that about his sexuality? Was he avoiding his feelings?

But he’d been vulnerable with me, so I kept my sarcasm in check.

“Sometimes I feel like a fraud. Like a useless asshole with too much money. I donate to causes, but I don’t help people directly.”

“Your tech helps a lot of people,” he said, scratching behind Bella’s ears. “I looked you up after that night at the theater. That battery you designed is in, like, ninety percent of phones.”

“Not quite that many. And plenty of assholes use my tech, too. I’m not doing as much good as a teacher. Or a counselor. If I had one of those jobs, I’d be working directly with queer kids. Actually making a difference. Now, all I do is sign the checks.”

“That’s not a bad thing. The world needs different kinds of people to function. And I still say you’re doing a hell of a lot.”

He looked wistful, and before I could stop myself, I asked, “Do you feel like being in the Marines made the world a better place?”

I hoped I didn’t sound judgemental. I wasn’t exactly a huge fan of the military, but I genuinely wanted to hear his answer.

Mason turned his face away, staring into the dining room. He was quiet for so long I was about to tell him nevermind —when he finally spoke.

“I thought it would, at first.” His eyes stayed focused on some invisible point across the room. “I needed the money, but I also hoped I could do some good. And some of the places I was deployed, I do think we helped people. But other times…” He shook his head and went quiet again. “The military is only as good as the people in it. And some men—and women—start out fine. But take them out of the society they know, drop them somewhere hostile, hand them guns, and… it’s like feeling safe isn’t enough anymore. They need to feel powerful. And the only way to feel powerful is to make someone else feel small. To prove that you’re the one in control. That you’re the threat.”

He fell silent, and I stared at him, realizing for the first time how complicated his feelings about the military must be. More complicated than mine, clearly. And maybe he wasn’t just haunted by the things he saw—maybe he was haunted by things he did. Things I wouldn’t understand even if he told me.

“Oh,” I said quietly. “That sounds…like a lot.”

This sentence brought to you by the Department of Vast Understatements .

He blinked, like he’d forgotten I was there. “Yeah,” he said. “Something like that.”

I’d learned by now that ‘ something like that ’ meant there was more he didn’t want to say. Something buried. And maybe I wasn’t entitled to it. Everyone had secrets. Even me.

So when Mason offered to cater the party himself, I didn’t have the heart to tell him no.

He spent the next few days cooking like a man possessed. He prepped dishes, froze portions, had bags and bags of groceries delivered. My kitchen had never worked harder in its life. Watching Mason move through it so confidently, like he belonged there, I couldn’t help but think it looked happy. Like it had been waiting for someone like him.

“Alright,” he said an hour before the party started on Thursday, wiping his hands on a towel. “Everything’s set. Barbecued pork is warming on the stove, and the slider buns are buttered and ready to be grilled once guests arrive. Watermelon salad and caprese skewers are in the fridge. And I just put the stuffed mushrooms in the oven.”

“Ooh, stuffed mushrooms. Is that what I’m smelling?”

“No, that’s probably the roasted garlic.” He gestured towards a foil-wrapped tray on the island. “That’ll be ready to go with the bread and charcuterie board when people show up.”

I shook my head, marvelling. “You know this is a cocktail party, right? You didn’t have to make an entire dinner.”

He laughed. “I couldn’t help myself.”

He looked so pleased with himself, I couldn’t help but smile back.

Carolyn showed up fifteen minutes early, her heels clicking across the hardwood. She wore a black cocktail dress that looked demure until you noticed the stilettos. She was barely over five feet tall and always claimed she needed four-inch heels to keep people from stepping on her.

“Oh my god,” she said, hugging me. “Something smells amazing. What is that?”

“Roast garlic, apparently.”

I hugged her back. Carolyn had been one of our first hires when Brent and I started the company. We’d been friends ever since.

“Apparently?”

“I’m not the one who made it.” I held my hands up in surrender.

“Who did, then? Weren’t you going to cater?”

“I was. But Mason convinced me not to. He’s a really good cook, so I figured…”

“Oooh, who’s Mason?” she asked, lips rounding with delight.

“He’s—well, it’s hard to explain,” I said. Carolyn mostly worked offsite, so she hadn’t met him yet. “But he’ll be right down. I’m sure he can tell you…”

I trailed off because right then, Mason came down the stairs—and my brain short-circuited.

He looked incredible. His seersucker suit over a crisp white and blue striped shirt should’ve made him look like Colonel Sanders, but instead, he looked like someone who belonged in a magazine spread about the new Southern gentleman. The jacket hugged his broad shoulders, the pants were just tight enough to do criminal things to his ass, and his blond hair was brushed back neatly. He’d even shaved.

I felt like I should applaud. Or faint. Possibly both.

He saw me and Carolyn at the bottom of the stairs and smiled. I realized I wanted him to smile at me like that every day for the rest of my life.

“Well, hello,” Carolyn said, grinning as Mason stepped down. “I’m Carolyn. You must be the famous Mason I’ve heard so much about.”

She held out her hand and he shook it, glancing at me. “Only good things, I hope.”

“The very best,” she said. “For one, I hear you’re an amazing cook. Come show me what you’ve made. I’ve never seen Kai in that kitchen, but you clearly know your way around it.”

She linked her arm through his and led him towards the kitchen. Halfway there, she looked back and mouthed, ‘ Damn ,’ along with a little OK hand gesture.

God. She thought we were dating. I needed to clear that up before she said something truly embarrassing to Mason.

But then the Espositos showed up a little early, and I rushed to greet them and hand out drinks. I barely had time to breathe before the Michaelsons arrived—Nancy and Steve, the same couple from the theater. Nancy immediately enveloped me in a cloud of perfume and launched into a dramatic tale about the ‘ terrible traffic .’ They lived at the Four Seasons, ten blocks away, but she made it sound like they’d trekked across state lines.

Then came Roderick Gladstone, the Chens, Ophelia Monroe—and suddenly, it had been over thirty minutes since I’d seen Mason or Carolyn.

Not that Mason needed me. Somehow, he’d found an apron—one I was pretty sure didn’t exist in my house before he arrived —and had tied it around himself, his suit jacket slung over the back of a dining chair. He was carving chicken and talking Nationals baseball with Roderick, and when I glanced again, he was chatting politics with the Michaelsons like he did it every day.

It was like seeing a completely different person. I was used to Mason being grumpy, aloof, snide. But this Mason? This Mason laughed easily, talked confidently, blended into a room full of wealthy strangers like he belonged there. And he didn’t even flinch when Carolyn leaned in and asked, “So how long have you and Kai been...?” with a pointed smile.

“We’ve known each other since middle school,” Mason said, smooth as anything. “Kai was always smarter than me, so we didn’t share many classes, but we had the same homeroom teacher.”

Technically true. And just like that, he’d made it sound like we were old friends. No awkward tension, no sordid backstory—just two guys who went way back.

The evening was going well. As the clock neared nine, Carolyn shoved a glass into my hand and said, “Your time to shine, sweetie.”

I took a deep breath and a long sip—only to sputter and cough when I realized she’d handed me a gin and tonic. “What the—” I choked, “—why did you—I thought this was water!”

“How was I supposed to read your mind?” she said, all innocence. “A little Dutch courage never hurt anyone. I know how much you hate public speaking.”

I’d been avoiding alcohol all night specifically to avoid moments like this. Great. I dabbed at my blazer where the drink had splashed. At least it wouldn’t stain.

“Go get ’em, tiger,” Carolyn said, giving me a push towards the living room.

I looked around, then cleared my throat. Carolyn helped by tapping her spoon against her wineglass until the room quieted.

“Um,” I began, and immediately winced. Not a great start. Too late to fix it now. “I wanted to thank you all for being here tonight. I’ve lived in this house for two years, but I’ve never had a housewarming party, so... better late than never, right?”

That got a polite laugh, and Nancy stage-whispered to her husband, “Aw, honey, we should’ve brought him something. A houseplant, maybe. Or a bottle of Remy Martin XO.”

I nearly choked again. A succulent was one thing. A bottle of cognac that cost two hundred dollars was another. But this crowd’s absurd wealth was why they were here.

“As you probably know—because I haven’t shut up about it—I’m really excited about the Butterfly Center opening in a couple of weeks. It’ll be the first—”

A loud knock interrupted me. Not a polite knock. A pounding. Repetitive and insistent. The room turned as one towards the door.

I glanced into the kitchen. Mason had been arranging petit fours on a tiered stand, but now he was at my side, moving like a shadow.

“Oh no,” Nancy said, “I didn’t realize we were expecting more guests.”

“No, it’s fine,” I said quickly. “I’m sure it’s just...”

I didn’t know how to finish that sentence. I headed to the door, Mason on my heels. I reached for the knob, but his hand covered mine.

“Let me,” he said, voice low. I stepped back without thinking.

He pulled out his phone and swiped open the app that connected to the camera outside. “You know a medium-height, muscular white dude? He’s agitated.”

Understatement of the year. The guy was still pounding like the house was on fire.

“That’s like, half the people I know,” I told him. “Let me see.”

I peered at his phone screen, but the picture was grainy, and the guy was looking over his shoulder now.

“Want me to ask his name?” Mason asked.

“No,” I whispered. “Then everyone will hear.”

“They can already hear him.”

“Yeah, but we can make him go away faster if we handle it ourselves.” My stomach twisted. I didn’t want to deal with this, but I also couldn’t let it ruin the night. “Open it.”

Mason gave me a look that screamed this was a terrible idea, but he opened the door. The man on the steps stumbled forward—Mason caught him—and when he straightened, I felt my gut drop.

“Brent? What are you doing here?”

Brent had been my partner when I founded EnviraTech, but I hadn’t seen him in five years—ever since I had to fire him for embezzling funds. So what the hell was he doing on my doorstep?

“Hey man.” Brent flashed me a bleary smile. His voice was louder than I liked. “Glad I caught you.”

“Caught me?” I said. “Brent, I’m in the middle of something. You need to leave.”

“But that’s why I came.” He pulled out of Mason’s grip and stumbled towards me. “Not fair, you know? Having a party without me.”

“Okay, I don’t know what you think is going on, but you’re not staying. You need to leave. Now.”

“No, you need to get out,” he slurred, jabbing a finger at my chest. “I know you’re setting up some kind of deal. I want in. I made this company what it is.”

“Jesus, are you drunk?”

“Why don’t you let me handle this?” Mason said quietly. “Ask Carolyn to bring out the bottles of champagne in the fridge. I left the flutes on the dining room table. Fill a glass for everyone and move the party outside.”

There it was again—that version of Mason that came out in a crisis. Calm. Capable. Focused. The same Mason who stepped in at Safeway. At the Trevi Theater. And now here.

I followed his instructions and ushered everyone outside. Thankfully, only Carolyn seemed to recognize Brent. The rest of my guests had met me at fundraisers, not board meetings. I told them Brent had had a bit too much to drink and was dredging up old history. Mason was handling it.

“Well, I can’t say I blame him,” Nancy said not-so-quietly. She might’ve been as drunk as Brent. “If I were replaced by someone like Mason, I’d be pissed too.”

I flushed, realizing she’d misunderstood the situation with Mason too. The entire party probably thought we were dating. I glanced towards the dining room and saw Mason had sat Brent down with a plate of food and a tall glass of water. Brent already looked calmer, working through a pulled pork slider.

I managed to finish my funding pitch. The rest of the evening was smooth, and we wrapped things up outside. By the time we went back in, Brent was gone. Mason, ever the charmer, handed out leftover plates and promised Nancy he’d email her the stuffed mushroom recipe.

“How’d you get Brent to leave?” I asked once we were finally alone.

Mason had flopped down on the couch, arms stretched out, head tipped back, eyes closed. It might’ve been the first time he’d sat down all night.

“Promised him you’d call him in the morning,” he said.

I opened my mouth to protest, but he lifted his head and added, “Don’t worry, he won’t remember. He was really drunk. Said he had to go to the bathroom, so I sent him to use the one upstairs, in case someone needed the downstairs. When he didn’t come back, I went to check—he’d fallen asleep on the toilet.”

I couldn’t help laughing. “Wow. I owe you for that.”

“All part of the job,” Mason said with a tired grin, but I narrowed my eyes at him.

I really did owe him. A lot.

“What?” he asked, noticing my stare.

“I was just thinking,” I said slowly. “I owe you.”

I walked towards him. He was still spread out on the couch like a man who’d run a marathon.

“What?” he repeated. “No you don’t.”

“Yes, I do. For cooking for this whole party, for one thing. For dealing with Brent.” I paused, then added, “And I owe you an orgasm.”

That made him sit up straight, but before he could move from the couch, I placed myself right in front of him, between his legs.

“You should let me blow you.”

What better way to say ‘ thank you ’ than weaponized horniness?

“Kai.” Mason shook his head.

“Don’t make it mean more than it does,” I said. “It’s just physical.”

“I still don’t think that’s a good idea.” He looked almost regretful.

“Don’t think it’s a good idea? Or don’t want me to? Because those are two different things.”

“It’s not about wanting. I don’t want you thinking—I mean, you shouldn’t do shit like that because you owe me.”

“Fine.” I put my hand on his chest and shoved him back against the couch cushions. “Then we’ll do it because you owe me . You were a dick to me all through high school, and you’re going to fucking let me.”

An angry glint appeared in his eye, and I had to clamp down on a smile. This was what I wanted, but I didn’t want him to know that.

“You think you can make me do anything?” Mason asked heatedly.

“Yeah. I do.”

I climbed onto the couch, straddling him. His hands went to my shoulders, and for a second, I thought he was going to push me away. Instead, he ran his hands down my arms and onto my waist.

“So fucking entitled,” he said, smiling dangerously. “So used to having everything go your way. Money, power, looks. You’ve had everything fucking handed to you.”

I grabbed him by the tie. “Then put me in my place.”

With that, I kissed him, hard. He fell back against the cushions and I fell with him. I unknotted his tie and pulled it free, then worked on his buttons—all while he did the same to me.

None of this was necessary for the blow job I’d planned to give, but now that I was touching Mason again, I didn’t want to stop. I wanted more of him. All of him. And like he’d said—I was used to getting what I wanted.

When we were both shirtless, he began unzipping me, trying to shove my pants and briefs down over my hips.

“Nuh-uh-uh.” I waved a finger and slipped off the couch, standing in front of him. I let my pants fall to the ground, but I hooked my fingers into the waistband of my briefs and swung my hips suggestively. “These don’t come off until you’re naked too.”

“I thought I was putting you in your place tonight,” Mason growled.

“Then do something about it.”

I wasn’t sure if he actually would. He was certainly strong enough to grab me and tug my briefs off himself. I shivered at the thought—it had a certain appeal. But Mason just reached a hand into his own pants and gripped himself.

“Fuck, you look good like that,” he said.

I couldn’t see his cock, still covered by his pants and boxers, but I remembered how big it was. I licked my lips.

“You want this?” He stroked himself slowly.

“God yes.”

“Tell me what you’ll do to earn it.”

“Whatever you want,” I whispered—and realized it was true. It wasn’t just roleplay. I absolutely would do whatever he wanted, if I got another shot at his cock.

“Is that right?” Mason smiled lazily and crooked a finger at me. “Then I guess you’ll have to take these off me.”

I reached forward, but he shook his head. “Not like that. I want you to kneel.”

Oh, fuck. I’d had a lot of messed up fantasies about Mason in high school. Despite the way he’d tormented me, I’d wanted him. I was pretty sure I’d imagined a scene just like this, but set in the locker room. And now I got to do it for real.

I knelt and brought my hands to Mason’s pants, tugging them slowly over his hips and down his legs. I tossed them to the side, then went back for his boxers. His thighs were massive and muscular, covered in light blond hair, and by the time I’d gotten his boxers off, I thought I could probably come just by jerking off to the sight of his legs.

But I didn’t need to, not when his cock was right there. It was as good as I remembered, long and hard. I crawled forward, still on my knees, and pushed his thighs apart.

“Now suck me off.” His tone was positively regal.

“Excuse me?” I glared. “This was my idea, I’ll have you remember.”

“Then act like it,” he said, that lazy grin back again.

I kind of wanted to punch him, but there was more than one way to wipe a grin off someone’s face. So I grasped the base of his cock in one hand and brought my lips to his head. He tasted as good as I’d imagined—tangy and salty, and a little sweaty from all his activity in the kitchen tonight.

“Fuck yes.” His fingers kneaded the back of my neck. “God, you’re good at this.”

Good at this? I’ve barely gotten started .

I wished he would move closer to the edge of the couch. He was sitting far enough back that I had to bend at an awkward angle, and I wasn’t doing my best work. But Mason seemed pleased with me anyway.

His fingers worked the muscles of my back as I worked his cock. He groaned every now and then, and I thought he was getting close when his fingers were suddenly grabbing me by the shoulders and pushing me back.

“What”? I asked, wiping drool from the corner of my mouth. “What’s wrong?”

“Absolutely nothing, except the fact that you’re too far away. That, and you never followed through on your promise. I’m naked. Why aren’t you?”

I flushed. It was ridiculous to feel shy when I’d been sucking his cock ten seconds ago. But still, I felt self-conscious as I stood and slid my briefs off.

“Good,” he said. “Now come here.”

He lay lengthwise on the couch and held his hand out. I took it, a little confused. Was I doing a bad job? I hadn’t thought so, but apparently Mason wanted to go back to hand jobs.

But when he got me on the couch, he turned me so I was lying facing out, his chest pressed against my back.

“Um, Mason? Not that I’m not enjoying this, but if you want to fuck, we’re definitely going to need some lube.”

“We’ll be alright.”

I heard him spit into his hand, then stroke his cock, and I was about to tell him that no, spit wasn’t going to be enough, when I felt his cock push between my thighs.

Oh . That was interesting. I’d never actually had thigh sex before—never seen the point of it, when anal was an option. Most guys I knew would rather fuck my ass than any other part of me. But as his cock slid in and out of the tight channel of my thighs, I could see the attraction.

The skin on my inner thighs was sensitive, and when Mason began stroking my cock, I decided I could get on board with this. My cock had gone without attention for too long, and I moaned as he toyed with the head, then pumped along my shaft.

He bit my shoulder, and I whimpered with pleasure. He was so much bigger than I was, physically, and I loved feeling small in comparison. Like he could break me if he wanted to.

Probably something fucked up and psychological going on there, but I didn’t need to look at it too hard. Not when I was this close to coming. Mason’s grunts grew more frequent, and I whined as my orgasm built.

“Fuck yes, you’re so good,” he growled behind me, thrusting his cock faster now.

I moaned wordlessly. It was too much. Mason wanting me. Using me. Telling me I was good.

It pushed me over the edge, and I came into his hand. I should have warned him, but he didn’t seem bothered by it at all. He kept stroking me until I batted his hand away, spent. Then he gripped my hip and thrust harder.

“So fucking good. So. Fucking. Good.”

I felt wetness between my thighs as he came in a rush, his cock leaking all over my legs and trickling down onto the couch. I’d gotten it messy too. I definitely needed to wash the cushion cover. Or at least turn it over.

I waited until Mason stopped moving, trying to come up with something sarcastic and witty to say when he pushed me away. But he didn’t do or say anything like that. Instead, he pressed his face to the back of my neck and hugged me closer.

Huh. Never would have pegged Mason for a cuddler .

But there was a lot I’d been wrong about, when it came to Mason. There was so much more to him than I’d expected.

I could feel myself getting sleepy. I suppose it wouldn’t be so bad to lie here a little longer. Then I’ll get up and go, and leave him wanting more.

That was my last thought before drifting off.

When I woke up the next morning, I was disoriented. Why was I sleeping on the couch? And why was I naked?

A door slam rattled the house, and I sat up with a jolt, fear pumping through my chest.

“Mason? Is that you?”

I stood up, looking for my clothes. I found them in a tangled heap on the floor, and last night flooded back into my mind. Holy shit. Had Mason and I really done all that? And then literally slept together on the couch?

Before I had time to process anything, Mason emerged from the entryway. He, at least, was wearing his boxers. And he was holding another rock in his hands. This one had a note taped to it too. He thrust it at me.

I read the typed words, all thoughts of my nakedness forgotten. Fear rattled at my rib cage, trying to take control. I swallowed and read the note again.

Stop the center or I’ll show the world what you did. You can’t hide anymore .

I looked up at Mason, wincing. He crossed his arms over his chest and frowned.

“I think you’d better tell me what this is about.”