Page 6

I shut the light out, opening the door quietly as I peer into his bedroom, noting he’s still in the same position he was before. My stomach grumbles, and I have to stifle a moan while I tell my consciousness to shut up with its guilt trips.

I’ve already commandeered the man’s robe and shower, really, is food off limits?

I sigh as I make my way out of his room, down the hall as I think about the legend of Stingy Jack, about the stories Grandpa always told me every Halloween.

About our lineage. As a kid, I’d eaten up every word, but as a teenager and adult, it seemed less likely that a person could actually shift into a fucking Jack-O-Lantern.

Werewolves? Sure, I’d buy that.

Vampires? I mean lots of people had blood fetishes, so was that really a stretch?

But actual shifters who could turn into pumpkins because of a family curse? Hard pass.But I know as I stroll through the dark hallways, there’s no denying that is exactly what happened. I shifted, like Grandpa always talked about, but I’d also shifted back .

The moonlight pours through his kitchen, and my stomach growls again. His place isn’t big by any means, but it’s neat. Even in the dark I can see everything has its place, and though it’s sparsely decorated, it has an elegance to it.

But there are no seasonal decorations. Nothing autumn or Halloween related, unless you count all the black furniture.

It’s almost like there is no inkling at least in this place that Halloween is happening at all.

Just a pumpkin he picked up at a farm.

Guilt floods me, because a part of me wants to tell him the truth. About me. About the unexplainable feeling I get in my damn stomach when I look at him.

Or even the truth about the way I melted when his lips touched my stump. Never mind the fact that touch made me explode into a pile of goo.

Which I now know is the pumpkin equivalent of a good nut.

I open his refrigerator, looking for something that is either on its way to expire, or something that he won’t likely miss. The fridge doesn’t have much more than coconut water, kale, and what looks like a batch of overnight oats.

I don’t have any luck, so instead I quietly open the cabinets until I find a box of opened granola bars and decide to lift one of them.

It tastes like cardboard, but for the moment it’s enough.

Not even the granola bar can sate the true hunger in me as I find my gaze drifting over his bedroom door.

I don’t even know his name, but I know that I can feel his presence, like a magnet calling me.

I crumple up the wrapper, pitching it in the corner trash as I debate what to do. I know I should probably stay far away from my Pumpkin Master, but as fucked as I am, I’m also curious.

Grandpa kept going on and on about finding my mate before my thirty-first birthday, but I always just assumed it was old Stingy Jack folklore and nothing important.

Suddenly, I am wracking my brain trying to remember his exact words, and how one was supposed to know they were in the presence of their mate.

My mind wanders as I find my way back to his bedroom.

The comforter is all bunched up, twisted in between his legs and has fallen down to his hips. His upper torso and back are on full display, and for a moment, I appreciate the sight.

If legend is correct, I’ll turn back into a pumpkin, and he won’t have any idea who or what I really am.

I’ll be forced again into my gourd prison to look on in wonder at this specimen of a man as my insides turn to pumpkin goo, as I wish I could answer him back.

He shivers, and I don’t think twice about pulling up his comforter, only freezing when I realize the motion puts my hand against his skin.

His flesh is chilled from the air, but there is an undeniable heat where I touch him, against my palm.

I flatten my hand to his back, relishing in the softness of his skin mixed with the hardness of his muscle.

His body curls toward me, and without thinking I settle in the space in front of him, tracing my fingers up his hips, over those wicked muscles.

My gaze falls to the prominent V that his hip bones and muscles cut beneath his comforter, and I swear I’m not trying to be an absolute perv, but …

His cock practically punches its way out of his tangled sheets.

Without thinking, my fingers trace the outline of his cock, and he lets out a deep groan, thrusting himself against my touch.

I know I shouldn’t.

I really, really fucking shouldn’t, but after being cooped up inside a gourd all day with no cock of my own to touch, I can’t help the desperation that laces my own throat, or the selfish touch of my fingertips.

I watched him come undone in so many ways, and all I wanted was to make it better, but I couldn’t.

I can now, at least for the moment. Give him the comfort he seeks, even if I know the moment will be fleeting.

I cup the head of his velveteen cock in my palm, squeezing just the slightest, and he groans again.

“Fuck, that feels good,” he murmurs in his sleep, and a soft smile tugs at my lips.

I run my thumb over his cockhead, pressing it into the wet spot that’s started to form. I drag my fingernail across the sliver of indention, my own cock beneath his bathrobe coming back to life. With my free hand I adjust my own cock, licking my lips.

“You like that, huh?” I whisper as I grip my hand around his solid shaft. He thrusts into my palm again, his voice dark and desperate.

“Yes,” he moans, sliding closer to me, to where I sit on his bed, until he’s encasing me. I run my hand up and down his cock, the friction of his thickness against my palm somehow a mix of painful and pleasurable. “I want to come,” he whispers. “So fucking bad, baby.”

My cock twitches at the endearment as my lips form a traitorous smile. The moonlight falls on his shoulders, illuminating his gorgeous features.

“Then come for me.” My voice trails off with sadness because I realize once again that I don’t know his name.

“Mason,” he whispers, almost as if he can hear my thoughts.

A soft smile forms on my lips as I slowly pump him, pressing my thumb into the ever-growing wet spot that's formed against my palm.

“Jax,” I whisper as I settle on my side, angling myself better to service him. The motion pushes him back a bit, and his hand anchors itself on my fluffy robe-clad hip.

“Jax,” he breathes, his voice catching.

“Yes, my little treat?” I lick my lips, enjoying the feeling of him wet in my hand, of his breath against my skin.

If I turn into a pumpkin forever, I’ll never forget him. Not like this, warm against my skin, fueling me like fire.

“I’m so close,” he thrusts himself against me, his rhythm erratic, and I know he’s telling the truth.

“Come for me, Mason,” I whisper, squeezing him.

His deep, gravely, sleepy groan makes me come immediately as he comes against my hand. Warm moisture blossoms in my hand, soaking my fist, and I curse as I realize I should have been paying equally as good attention to myself as I was to him.

His breathing evens, and I think the moment is over, shame and guilt racking me as I feel his release, his pulsing cock in my hold.

“I don’t want to wake up,” he sighs, burrowing his face against my chest, and time stops.

I stroke his cock, a few more slow pulses telling me he’s finally coming to the end of his release. Absentmindedly, I run my hand along his cock and thigh, spreading his release over his warm skin. Exhaustion hits me, and my eyes feel heavy.

Mason settles his hand on my hip, pulling me closer, into his chest, and I don’t fight him.

Because I don’t want to wake up either.

“Me either,” I say as I let him pull me under with him.