What the hell is happening after?
I, for one, feel like Mason and I know each other well enough for sex, based on his guidelines. More than well enough based on mine. We’ve talked, information has been exchanged. He knows more about me than any other guy I’ve been interested in recently. But is that enough for him?
He said he wants more. How much more? How much does he want from me?
I’ve seen Mason practically every day this week, between breakfast, coincidental, but maybe not so coincidental coffee-shop run-ins, to the occasional treats delivery, which I can’t seem to stop myself from doing. Christ, it’s like a damn compulsion. Even when he pops into the shop for a brief hello I’m shoving a bakery box at him like he’s one of those malnourished children you see on the UNICEF commercials.
Here! Eat this! You poor thing, you’re starving!
It’s his reaction that gets me. That’s why I do it. He takes that box and studies my creations like they should be displayed in a museum somewhere. Like they’re some precious gift. Like I’m giving him something amazing.
Call me crazy, but I’m beginning to feel like maybe I am giving him something more than just a pastry or a cupcake. Maybe he looks at my treats as another piece of me? The more he’s after?
Yeah . . . crazy. That line of thinking right there is completely fucking crazy.
They’re treats. Damn good ones. And he’s just a man who enjoys his dessert.
Period.
As I’m sliding up the zipper on my black pencil skirt, my bedroom door bursts open.
Joey walks in like he owns the place, which, if we’re being technical, he doesn’t. The condo belongs to Billy. But this is Joey, and I’ve learned since moving in here that the concept of knocking before a grand entrance is not something he is privy to.
I’m fully dressed, but it wouldn’t matter. I couldn’t care less if he sees me naked. But at night, when I’m more than likely to engage in a little me time, my door remains locked.
His gaze sweeps over my attire, slow moving and encouraging. He plops down on the bed. “You look hot to trot. What shoes are you wearing with that?”
“Those.” I point to the Steve Madden’s on the floor by the closet.
Okay, okay, so I seriously need to return them to Dylan. And I will.
Next week.
“Earrings?”
I hold up the silver hoops I’ve set out for tonight.
“Lip gloss or lipstick?”
I pull the tube of MAC’s Vegas Volt out of my makeup bag and wiggle it in the air. Joey nods approvingly.
“What’s this?” he asks, plucking the small gift bag off my night table.
Shit.
I move like lightning, snatching it from him before he has a chance to peer inside.
He stares at me, startled. “Jesus. What the hell?”
Clutching the bag against my chest, I hurriedly explain, “It’s nothing. It’s a joke between me and Mason. You wouldn’t get it. Stop snooping around my room and asking me a thousand questions. God.”
I toss the bag on top of the dresser.
My breaths come hurried, air moving in and out of my lungs with desperation. I probably look psychotic.
Maybe he won’t notice? He’s not that perceptive, is he?
“Mm.” Joey lays out on the bed, tucking his hands behind his head and crossing his bare feet at the ankles.
He looks positively delighted.
He noticed.
“Interesting. So you and Mason have inside jokes already? After only knowing each other for five days and one earth-shattering orgasm? Seems a bit fast, don’t you think?”
I roll my eyes, sliding one earring through my ear and moving on to the next.
Earth-shattering? I never said it was earth-shattering.
It was so fucking earth-shattering.
I could ride that man’s long, thick fingers every day and twice on Sundays.
“Do you want to keep him, Brooke?”
My head whips right. Keep him? Is that what he just said?
“Are you high right now? Do we have weed in this condo I’m not aware of?” I step closer, my voice lowering as my eyes shift around the room. “No, seriously, do we? I could really use some.”
A few hits would surely mellow me out a little.
Of course, if I knew what to expect tonight, I wouldn’t be so wound up and wired. Sex doesn’t make me nervous. I own that shit. I can work it in my sleep if I have to. But dinner and the unknown with a man who would rather talk than fuck?
What am I supposed to do with that? How am I supposed to prepare for that?
Joey laughs under his breath. “When was your last actual boyfriend, Brooke? College?”
“High school,” I answer, picking at my thumb nail. “I played the field in college. Literally. I think I was one defender short of bedding the entire lacrosse team.”
Joey punches his fist into the air. “Go Blue Demons.”
“Why?” I stick my hand on my hip. Joey trains his eyes on the ceiling, obviously avoiding.
“Mason isn’t my boyfriend, Joey. I’m not in a relationship with this guy.”
He wiggles his body, settling between two pillows. “Then what are you doing spending time with him?”
“Hello!” I slap my thigh.
What, has he suddenly been living under a rock? He knows exactly why.
“I’m trying to have sex with him! In order to do that, I have to talk to the guy a little. Share some personal shit. Build a friendship. Then, and my God, will this be so worth it, I get to feast on that glorious appendage I’m actually concerned might not fit inside me.”