The Price of Mason Read online

  Before I could crawl on top of her though, I focused on her face, and my client—not Reese—blinked up at me in shock.

  Oh, damn. What was wrong with me? I didn’t treat clients like this, not unless I was sure that was what they wanted.

  But she’d had me so far gone into this little role-play that I hadn’t even seen a client for a moment there. She had been Glowing Girl and she’d unleashed a fervor in me that had derailed out of control.

  “Eyes. Closed,” the client commanded.

  I obeyed, but she had to start over again, telling me to imagine that the hands coasting up the front of my thighs were Reese’s. It began to work. When she unzipped me and bare fingers wrapped around my length, I was sucked back into the game.

  I crawled on top of her and pretty much attacked her, kissing, biting, licking, and repeating all the things that made her gasp and moan with pleasure.

  When she clutched my hair and arched under me, pressing up against me, I growled and peeled off her nightgown, frantic to get my hands on all of her. With her nipple in my mouth and my hands gripping her ass, this was no longer a business transaction. It had become my fantasy.

  This was Reese, and she wanted me just as much as I wanted her.

  In a rush to consume her before I lost my chance, I shimmied the rest of the way out of my own clothes and was sitting up on my knees between her thighs, rolling on a condom, before reality intruded once more.

  Just as I secured the latex into place, I looked down at the woman spread open on the bed before me, wetness glistening from between her legs and her breasts heaving from how much the foreplay had worked her up.

  But she wasn’t Reese.

  Fuck! What the hell was I doing?

  I’d actually been eager to get inside her. A sudden chill of self-revulsion passed through me. I didn’t really want this woman. I didn’t even know her. It felt wrong to use her and think of someone else as I took her.

  Besides, she’d requested compassion and wanted to know what it felt like to be loved and cherished. Shouldn’t that involve slow touches, long, drawn-out licks, the savoring of each stage? Not frantic, mindless rutting like I’d been doing?

  I shook my head, failing as I tried to get myself back in the game.

  She caught onto my attempts. Her eyes flared with panic as she reached for me. “No. Don’t stop. Keep going, baby. You were doing perfectly.”

  Except I couldn’t keep going as I had been. She wasn’t Reese, and I didn’t want her like that, couldn’t fake it anymore. The frenzy inside me had cooled.

  “Dammit,” she muttered, sitting up. “You’re backsliding.”

  I shook my head to deny it, even as I said, “I’m sorry. But I can’t—”

  “Yes, you can,” she encouraged harshly. “You did it twice already, you can do it again.”

  No, I fucking couldn’t. I couldn’t pretend emotions. And besides, she wasn’t Reese. End of story.

  “Close your eyes,” she told me, cupping my face in her hands.

  The glance I sent her was probably more irritated than I meant it to be. But I complied and pressed my lashes together, bowing my head when she began to stroke my hair.

  “Picture her in your head,” a voice murmured in my ear. A voice that was most definitely not Reese’s.

  But I tried what she commanded. I brought up an image of Reese in my mind’s eyes, of her bumping into the wall of my hallway and unsettling a picture frame. My lips twitched with amusement. Her clumsiness was cute.

  “There,” my client cooed, slipping her fingers down my cheek, then the side of my neck, and along my chest until she made it between my legs where she gripped my condom-wrapped dick and stroked me.

  “She’s ready for you. Just like you’re ready for her. Now show her how much you care.”

  Beguiled into her spell, I leaned in, and she met my seeking mouth. Our tongues merged and breathing spiked. Not daring to open my eyes, I coaxed her back on the bed and moved over her, finding all the places I had just learned she liked by feel.

  The pace slowed, but the intensity returned. Each stroke felt magnified. I gripped flesh and pressed in with as much passion as before, but it all happened with longer draws as if someone had pressed the slow button.

  When she said, “please,” in an achingly breathless voice that begged for more, I was all on board. I lined us up, ready for that first intoxicating thrust.

  Gripping her hips, I bowed my face down, clenched my teeth, and plunged.

  Oh, God. Reese.

  She cried out from the shock of impact, clutching me and straining against me, bucking wildly, just as ravenous for it as I was. We devoured each other, unable to stop kissing and touching, heaving forward, desperate for each time we came back together.

  Her muscles tensed and fingernails scored my back as I drove her to the peak.

  “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God,” she cried, loving it as much as I did.

  When she started to come, writhing hard against me, I held my breath, holding off as long as I could, waiting for her to finish before, shit, yes…

  I climaxed inside Reese, and it was honestly the best sex of my life.

  But holy fuck. No wonder why I hated it when this was a business transaction. It was so much better when I actually wanted to be with the girl.

  Burying my face in the crook of her neck, I grinned, enlightened by this amazing sensation I’d never experienced before.

  Except it didn’t last. Hands shoved at my chest, propelling me backward.

  “Get…off!” she screeched.

  What? I reared back away from her, startled and confused, only to blink my outraged client into focus.

  Oh, God.

  Not Reese.

  What the hell had I just done?

  Ready for her to lay into me for being too enthusiastic, for taking more control than she’d wanted me to, for…hell, actually liking it, or for any number of other reasons, I stared at her aghast, my mouth opening and closing, knowing I needed to apologize or…something to make this right. But I had no idea what to say. I’d never lost it like that before. I’d never wanted it like that before. I’d never…

  Christ, it almost felt as if she’d raped my mind and tricked me into doing something I had not planned on doing.

  On the other side of the mattress, she looked pissed.

  “What the fuck?” she charged, sitting upright and grabbing her nightgown to hold it over her beard-burned skin. “I said to pretend I was her, not cry out her fucking name in the middle of coming inside me?”

  Say what?

  My mouth fell open. Oh, shit.

  Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

  Please, someone, tell me I had not said Reese’s name out loud. I wouldn’t be that stupid. That would be catastrophically disastrous. Like the absolute worst thing I could do with a client.

  Arching her eyebrows, my client sniffed in one of those derogatory, I’m-so-superior ways, and cattily said, “So, her name’s Reese, huh?”

  I closed my eyes and bowed my head. Dammit.

  I was screwed.

  Confession #8: Sometimes, I actually stood up for myself…kind of.

  I scrambled off the bed so fast I made myself dizzy. Clambering through the black spots that blurred my vision, I discarded the condom in record time and searched the floor for my jockey shorts, horrified when I found them halfway across the room.

  I never scattered my shit around like that, was always careful to leave every article of clothing I removed in a neat, quickly accessible pile. But I’d been so overcome…

  Jesus, could this moment get any more mortifying?

  The woman on the bed was not getting dressed. No way could I look at her, but neither could I ignore what I noticed from my peripheral vision. And she was not moving, ergo she was most likely sitting there, bare-assed naked, watching my fingers fumble as I rushed to snap the waistband of my underwear into place. My skin crawled, knowing she was staring. Could I not even get a speck of privacy in m
y dress of shame?

  Khakis jerked up, polo shirt yanked down, feet in shoes, and I was patting my hip pockets, making sure my keys and wallet were there, even as I scanned the floor to ensure I wasn’t leaving anything behind.

  “I’m going to go,” I said, still not looking her way. I never did that; I always lingered in case they wanted something else or to set up another round. The client decided when I was done with my services, not me. But I couldn’t do that this time.

  I turned toward the door without another word, beyond ready to escape. But behind me, a very amused voice sang, “Oh, Mason.”

  Dammit. So close. I slowed to a stop and waited until I was sure I was done grimacing and mouthing a few select curse words before I glanced back. My heart pounded the entire time. For some reason, I feared she was going to psychoanalyze me, get into my head again and tear out parts of me that seemed vital to my survival.

  I swear, she’d already made a good start of doing just that, making me actually enjoy what I’d done with her, to fucking feel like I’d wanted to be there, even though it was all a lie. After accomplishing all that, it would be nothing for her to finish the job, and destroy me completely.

  I tried to mask my wariness as I met her gaze and lifted a single, bored eyebrow.

  When she held out a roll of cash and sent me a mocking smile, I nearly closed my eyes and shook my head over my own stupidity, because what the hell. I’d never totally forgotten to collect my money before. Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse, either.

  Fuck.

  “Oops,” I murmured as playfully as I could, moving back toward her. “Looks like someone was so good she made me forget my payment.”

  The words tasted like ash in my mouth because of the true parts of my statement, but I said it anyway, using it as a diversion, playing on all that arrogance I could sense in her. And it worked.

  Lips smirking into a cocky grin, she chuckled. “Aww. What a sweet, sweet boy you are.”

  When I reached for the money, however, she laughed again and pulled it back, just out of my reach. Whatever pleasant expression I’d been able to fake dropped flat. I was not in the mood for this kind of game.

  But the client must’ve thought she was so clever. She laughed at her tactics and reached for the belt loop of my khakis. After hooking a finger through, she jerked me closer.

  I sniffed out an amused smile, though I’m sure if she really looked into my eyes, she would’ve seen the unease and irritation. But she was too busy tucking the money into my pocket to care how I really felt.

  “God, you are so young,” she said in awe, running her hand up my hip bone and then over the firmness of my abs.

  I’m not sure why so many loved to comment about that fact. Because my body was so much more fit than what they usually got? Because it made them feel powerful to land a younger man? Or maybe it made them feel old.

  Whatever the case, I resented it every time. It felt as if they were pointing out my own personal flaw, and that bugged me. Because I was young, just a dumbass kid and not mature enough to know how to really handle the situations they put me in. It was still ingrained in my system to respect my elders and do what I was told. But if I could just grow the fuck up already, I had this feeling I’d know how to get out of this, that I wouldn’t feel stuck, that I could take care of my family without so much fear and uncertainty, and I wouldn’t need my clients any longer.

  But, no. They just had to keep reminding me how young and clueless I was and how I couldn’t seem to just learn my lesson already.

  “Despite your little name fuckup,” my client said as her fingers coasted up my rib cage and smoothed over my pecs, “your performance was still quite impressive. You gave me exactly what I wanted. And mmm, God. This body. It’s been a long time since I got to clutch flesh this firm and supple. My husband’s fifteen years older than me.”

  I didn’t answer. I didn’t want to invite her to continue. I just stood there, antsy as hell, waiting for her to finish, even as I glanced longingly toward the door.

  “So, next Thursday,” she went on, drawing her hands lower until she’d curled all ten fingers around the waistband of my khakis. I looked down just as she looked up. “My husband’s out of town again. Why don’t you come back, then? We could try this one more time, without you calling out someone else’s name.”

  Since she was watching me as she asked, I wasn’t able to mask my initial response. But seriously? She wanted a repeat? After I’d just botched this job worse than I’d ever botched any job before? After I’d groaned another name while my cock was jetting inside her? Really?

  Wow, some people I would never understand.

  Reading my incredulous expression, she only chuckled. “What? I believe in second chances.” She let go of my waistband to run her index finger through the grooves in my abdomen. “Besides, that might’ve been the best I ever came… Before you said her name, anyway.”

  God, could she please stop mentioning that part?

  One thing was certain, I never wanted inside this woman again. She’d messed with my head enough already to last me a lifetime.

  “Sorry,” I murmured on a regretful wince. “But I don’t have an opening next Thursday.”

  The disbelief on her face was classic. A rush of adrenaline—fear mixed with liberation—roared through me. Aside from Patricia, I hadn’t dared to turn anyone down for a year now.

  Thrilling power flooded my veins. But it was chased by worry, because who knew what she might do in retaliation. If she went after Sarah or my mom, I’d regret saying no, big-time.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” she demanded, balling a fistful of my shirt into her fingers as if that would actually keep me where she wanted me.

  “I really am sorry,” I said, gently taking her hand and removing it from my person, only to kiss her knuckles to soften the blow and then let go of her before backing out of her reach. Then I mumbled, “I’ll see you around,” as I turned away.

  “Hey,” she growled. I kept walking, so she said my name. “Mason.” I cleared the doorway and entered the hallway. “I’m not done with you yet.”

  But I was more than done with her.

  As I jogged down the steps, I could see the shadow of her silhouette loom over me on the wall above the stairwell as she came to the opening of her bedroom door and stopped. “You’ll regret walking away from me like this.”

  I already did. My mind was spinning with the worst repercussions possible. So I stopped at the foot of the steps and looked up.

  “What do you want from me?” I asked.

  Since she was nothing but a dark, naked outline at the top of the stairwell, I couldn’t see her expression, but I could fucking well feel it. She smiled as if she’d already won.

  “I want more,” she said simply.

  But that wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted to fucking control me. To dehumanize me. To break me.

  I shook my head. “No,” I said, and I turned to leave.

  My hands were shaking by the time I reached my Jeep. Sweat coated my brow. If I’d just put a target on my family’s back because of this, I was screwed. What the hell would it have hurt to walk back up those stairs and screw her again like she wanted? It wasn’t as if I had any self-respect left. Any pride. Anything of any kind of worth.

  But I guess something was still rattling around inside me, because I’d been more afraid of her taking whatever remained in me than I had been of my own family’s safety.

  Ashamed of myself, I drove home slowly. I remained rattled as I pulled into my driveway, my mind racing with worst-case scenarios. And to top it off, I could see the glowing orange cherry of a lit cigarette, coming from the edge of my neighbor’s yard to the right.

  God dammit, not this too.

  I killed the engine and debated on whether I should just sit here and wait until she was gone or start the Jeep up again and back out of my driveway, fleeing for my sanity. One thing was sure, I couldn’t handle a confrontation with Patric
ia right now. But my hesitation was only showing her how much of a coward I was.

  Cursing under my breath, I pushed open my door and stepped into the warm, stifling night.

  “Good evening, Mason,” her voice came through the dark from the direction of that glowing cigarette. “Coming in kind of late, aren’t you? The Country Club closed nearly two hours ago.”

  There was a teasing quality in her voice.

  “Fuck you,” I said mildly, keeping a steady pace toward my back door and not even bothering to glance her way. Nothing she said could rattle me anymore.

  That was, until she laughed and said, “What? Are you still upset over crying out the wrong name when you were with Monica tonight?”

  I didn’t mean to miss a step but I totally stumbled over my own fucking clumsy feet.

  And Patricia saw it all.

  Dammit, I should’ve known the client tonight—Monica, or whatever her name was—would’ve already contacted Patricia and told her everything… Petty, vindictive Patricia who liked to gather information about me like weapons so she could find some way to hurt me with them.

  Knowing I was already fucked and that she’d already seen my stumbling reaction and knew how bothered I was, I straightened myself and kept walking as if she hadn’t just shoved my entire world on its axis.

  Patricia’s laugh followed me through the dark. “You know I’m going to find out who Reese is, don’t you, baby? You can’t hide a girlfriend from me forever.”

  I was tempted to hiss, “Good luck with that,” but responding to her could only make things worse. It would probably present her with a challenge, feed her power trip, make her think Reese was important to me, and most likely land Reese in hot water right alongside me. So I kept my trap shut and continued inside at a normal pace so she couldn’t perceive any other reaction from me. But fuck, fuck, fuck. I had a bad feeling I’d already buried my sister’s new babysitter in a whole world of problems anyway.

  I wished I had never learned her name. If I hadn’t learned it, I wouldn’t have been able to say it at the worst possible moment ever, and she never would’ve been placed on Patricia Garrison’s radar. This was my fault.