Page 7 of Scary In Love

Jenna

I could probably hobble on my own, but it’s much nicer to lean into this tall, handsome stranger who smells utterly divine.

His costume is smart navy trousers and a matching waistcoat, over a white shirt he’s rolled up at the sleeves.

On first impressions, he’s dapper, but when you look closely, he’s a little rough around the edges.

His shirt is grubby and torn at the collar, and his face is a bloody mess, I assume from a scuffle.

Quite the mental image. Trust me to get horny thinking about two dudes fighting.

I grip his elbow, and he juggles carrying his kit bag and his axe in the other hand. I hadn’t noticed he was still carrying it when he first appeared on the scene, and why would I? All I could focus on was the face of the man on his knees in front of me.

If I hadn’t been in so much pain, I’d have hooked a leg over his shoulder and pulled him closer without thinking.

“What’s the axe for?” I ask.

“Oh, you know. Breaking and entering, chopping my enemies into pieces, that sort of thing.”

“Who are you supposed to be?”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I should have introduced myself. I’m Mason. ”

“Mason Miller.” I try to remember his portrait from the family gallery, but I’m certain I’d remember this face. “Are you The Boy?”

“No,” he laughs softly. “I’m Mason. Are you sure you didn’t hit your head?”

He leads me into a makeshift office, with an old table in one corner, and chairs on either side. The walls are dark in here too, which seems to be the theme of the house, but most are covered in schedules, posters, and health and safety notices similar to the ones we have at my work.

Mason guides me into a chair and sets his things down. He instructs me to hold the icepack in place while he pulls another chair around to prop my foot up on.

“You hang out there for a second, and I’ll just grab some paperwork. Necessary evil, I’m afraid.”

I silently curse Peter as I try to get comfortable. This is not how I wanted tonight to go at all.

Mason flips through a folder and makes a surprised humming noise, uncapping his pen with his teeth. “Well, look at that. You’ve popped my cherry.”

“Pardon?”

“First incident form of the haunt.” He points to the number in the corner of the form. “001.”

“Well, I’d be honoured if I weren’t so annoyed. I’ve been looking forward to tonight for months.”

“Really?”

His expression is endearing, and I hope he’s better at scaring than first aid. All I’m getting right now are excited puppy vibes.

“Are you kidding me? Halloween is my favourite holiday. I’ve waited my whole life for a look inside this house, and it’s already over. This is officially the worst date I’ve ever been on. ”

He sets another chair down in front of me and takes a seat, leaning in to rest his palm on my ankle. It’s warm and weighty, and his fingers curl around me. We both look down at where his thumb strokes a patch of my skin, though he doesn’t seem to realise he’s doing it at first.

“I’ll make sure you get free tickets so you can visit again,” he says, pulling away and putting pen to paper. “What’s your name?”

“Jenna Laing.” I spell it out for him, knowing how often people miss the ‘I’.

“Date of birth?”

“September 13th, 1995.”

“Are you serious? Mine is the 12th, but I’m two years older. Happy birthday for last month.”

This man has no business being this cute with fake blood on his face.

With blue eyes and messy hair, he’s one of those people who smiles with his entire face, so you feel like the sun is shining right on you.

Even with the gruesome effects, I can’t look away, though I’d love to see what he looks like without his makeup, too.

He fires through the questions about my address and contact information, then slips a pocket watch from his waistcoat and notes down the time.

“Can you tell me what happened in as much detail as possible? I’d love to make sure nothing like this happens again.”

He nods along, scribbling down the relevant details as I recount the events of the past thirty minutes.

“I can’t believe your date ran off and left you alone in a haunted house.”

I can’t contain the snort that escapes me .

“It’s fine. I don’t think we were a good match, anyway. I’m a big horror girlie. It takes a lot to scare me, and he was trembling before we even set foot inside.”

“What a pussy,” he mutters, tapping his pen against the side of the clipboard.

“I don’t like that,” I tell him, and his gaze snaps up to mine.

I’m no stranger to calling people out on inappropriate or outdated language. I do it all the time at work. Just because our residents are old, it doesn’t mean they can’t learn to do better. And that applies to all of us.

“My apologies. That language was unprofessional. Forgive me.”

“I’m not offended by your language, I’m offended by the sentiment. People use ‘pussy’ like it’s a weak thing. Everyone knows balls are way more sensitive, and pussies can take a good pounding any day of the week. And in this case, my date was one hundred percent testicle.”

His eyebrows inch higher and higher, and I smile sweetly, quite content with my paraphrased little rant.

“Well, thank you for calling me out on it. I will remove that word from my lexicon.”

A laugh bursts out of me, and I shake my head. “Oh, no. You can definitely still say pussy in other appropriate contexts.”

“And, uh, what are the appropriate contexts?” he asks.

The air stills as his eyes linger on mine, challenging me to elaborate. My pulse rises, but there’s no way on earth I’m looking away first.

“Like in the bedroom.”

“Dirty talk?”

“Sure,” I shrug.

Mason inhales deeply, his gaze dipping to my mouth. He sets his clipboard down and leans back against the desk, arms folded across his chest, those rolled-up sleeves straining against corded forearms .

“Care to give me an example?”

Damn, this man is a good flirt, but so am I, when given the opportunity.

“You just used lexicon in a sentence without batting an eyelid. I’m pretty sure you could come up with something.”

“Like if I said, I’m gonna die if I don’t taste your pussy in the next thirty seconds?” he asks without missing a beat. “Would that be appropriate? Contextually speaking.”

My jaw drops. His eyes flick down to the hem of my skirt, and heat floods my core. Between the ice on my skin and the gravelly way ‘pussy’ sounds coming from his mouth, I’m more than a little flustered.

I swallow hard while he waits for my answer.

“Yes. That would be an appropriate thing to say. Contextually speaking.”

“Good to know.”

The tension that hangs between us threatens to suck all the air from the room. His eyes are still on the spot between my legs, and when his tongue sneaks out to brush against the corner of his mouth, my thighs squeeze together. He notices, and his jaw ticks in response.

Beneath the underwear I vaguely hoped Peter might peel off me, I can feel my core throbbing. If he keeps this up, they’ll be so damp I’ll be peeling them off myself later. I wonder if I could orgasm just from the way he looks at me.

In something of a trance, he tilts his head to one side and—

Oh my God, can he see up my skirt?

The length is borderline indecent, especially when I’m sitting down, but I’ve never cared much for what people think about how I dress.

Until now. My fingers curl around the hem, though I’m torn between pulling it down or lifting it up.

Either way, it’s enough to snap him out of it.

He blinks rapidly, clearing his throat as he reaches for his clipboard, knocking it to the floor.

Sheets of paper spill loose, and he kneels before me to gather them up, once last sideways glance at my legs before forcing himself to look away.

He stands, composing himself with the clipboard held low over his groin, and it gives me a thrill to think we might have a similar effect on one another.

“I don’t like that your date ran out on you, Jenna. Or that you need to leave here alone.”

“It’s cool, I’ll call my—” I stop myself before I say ‘ dad .’ “A taxi.”

“I have an alternative suggestion,” he says playfully.

Even with an injury, I’m so horny right now I think I’d do literally anything this man told me to.

“If you’re not too uncomfortable, you can come hang out in the bar for a few hours. I’ll fix you a drink, find somewhere to prop your leg up, and I’ll give you a ride home when we’re finished.”

Your shoulders would make a great place for my legs , I think.

“I beg your pardon?” he says, his jaw open in surprise.

Do not tell me I said that out loud.

“What?”

“Did you say something about my shoulders?”

Oh shit. This man really is messing with my head.

“Soldier!” I scramble to recover. “I think I can be a brave soldier. That’s what I said. And I could murder a drink.”