Page 36 of Blitz

Mason laughs. “You’re such a terrible liar.”

“Good thing I can’t lie to you.” I tip her chin up and kiss her slowly. Her arms come up around me. She’s still holding the bag of food. “Do you want to eat upstairs? Or hang out down here?”

There’s a cough behind me. Without turning to look, I know it’s either Amir or Wes, lounging on the couch or in the armchair with a book in hand.

“Upstairs,” she says immediately. She waves at someone behind me. From the laugh, I presume it’s Amir. Wes would be too busy reading to pay her any attention.

Taking her by the hand, I lead her up to my room, the third door from the left. I’ve cleaned everything up. The bathroom I share with Barrett is spotless. I’ve even left the seat down for her.

She sets the food down on my desk. She rifles through her bag, coming up with a bottle of wine. “Mark got us a present. That’s why I’m late. He turns twenty-one today and wanted to use his ID.”

“Hm.” I take the bottle, inspecting the label. I’ve never had wine before. Never had an interest.

“You have an opener?”

I set the bottle on the desk. “We don’t need that.”

She turns to me, a smile curving her full lips. “Hm?” She mimics me, her eyes bright.

“I want you one hundred percent sober and consenting when you’re in my bed. No half measures.” I pull her towards me by the gap between her coat’s buttons. She starts forward, wrapping her arms low around my waist. “Either you want this or you don’t. No in-betweens.”

“I want this,” she says. “I want you.” She tips her face up for a kiss.

I smooth her hair back from her face. “You can still change your mind. I don’t want to—”

Mason lets out a low growl. She removes her hands from around me. I feel momentarily bereft until she starts undoing the buttons on her coat. She pulls off her scarf and tosses it behind her.

“I love you,” she says. “I want you. And if you don’t fuck me, I swear to g—”

I pull her back into my arms. Her lithe form is so tiny against my bulk. I like the dichotomy of that. She’s never cared that I’m big. Her warm brown skin is lighter than mine by a shade or two. I slip my hand into hers and marvel at her tiny palm in my larger paw.

Her free hand rises to the tab of my sweatshirt. She unzips me and slides her arms inside, so she’s hugging me without the bulky fabric in her way. I lean down and kiss her slowly, thoroughly. There’s no need to rush. Everything is new again. We only get one shot at a second chance.

Her tongue comes out to tangle with mine. I pull her more firmly against me. Her hands map my arms, my shoulders, my chest, exploring, memorizing.

I take a step back, and she whines deep in her throat. My hands go to the hem of her sweater, and her smile goes from disappointed to victorious. She helps me pull off her sweater and camisole until she’s standing in front of me in an electric yellow bra.

My favorite color. It looks good on her. It will look even better on my floor.

Before I can make a move, her hands tug at my shirt. I let her pull it off of me, until we’re standing there chest to chest, skin to skin. The lace of her bra tickles against my chest hair.

Picking her up by the waist—she’s impossibly weightless—I toss her onto my bed. She bounces and squeals. Her noises subsist into a pleased moan when I join her on the bed, laying out beside her. She wraps her arms around me and pulls me on top of her. I’m careful not to crush her with my bulk—I’ve only gained weight since we were last together—but she tugs me closer.

“You aren’t going to break me,” she says quietly, brushing her thumb across my cheek. “I know what I can handle.”

I bite the pad of that thumb. “Can you handle me?”

Her mouth curves into a smile. “Yeah, I think so.”

I kiss her again, and again, and again, until she’s panting and breathless, arching for me. Her hands explore my spine, my arms, the small of my back. She wraps her legs around my waist and bucks up against me. I’m touching as much of her as I can reach, her strong legs and the curve of her breast, her pert ass that fits so perfectly in my hand.

“Princess…”

“Take your pants off, Tucker,” she says. No, demands. She’s imperious in her request.

Slowly disentangling, I move off the bed. But I don’t take off my pants. Instead, I work at the waistband of her leggings, drawing them down her muscular legs.

“How are you feeling? No fatigue?”