“No,” he replied. “I’m here on my own.”
“Me, too,” she said, and licked her bottom lip.
All Mason could think about were Katrina’s lips, and all the dirty, filthy things he still wanted to do to that soft, warm mouth. He hadn’t gotten nearly enough last night.
The bartender delivered the drinks, and Mason pulled two twenties from his wallet and gave them to the guy. “Keep the change.”
“Thanks, man,” the server said, and moved on to another customer.
The woman took a generous sip of her martini and placed her hand on his thigh, clearly making the first move. Normally, his cock would perk right up and he’d be raring to go. He didn’t feel so much as a twinge of sexual desire. Nada. Nothing. His dick was giving him a big ol’ fuck you. How in the hell was he going to shake off Katrina if his body refused to cooperate?
“So, you’re here all alone, and so am I,” the woman said as she brazenly skimmed her fingers up his thigh until her hand was palming the front of his jeans. “How about we finish these drinks and go somewhere more . . . private?”
She was massaging the bulge beneath the zipper with expert hands, and he waited for it to happen, for his shaft to get hard and . . . zilch. Beyond frustrated, he closed his eyes and instantly recalled the way Katrina had cupped him through his jeans last night, how she’d rubbed and squeezed him until he’d thought he was going to come in his pants.
His cock suddenly throbbed at the erotic memory and finally started to stiffen, but now this woman’s caresses felt dirty and wrong.
“Fuck,” he swore irritably, and pushed the woman’s hand away, harder than he’d intended.
She sat back, looking more pissed than hurt. “Jesus, are you gay?”
He would have laughed if he weren’t so damn aggravated at the entire situation. “No, I’m not fucking gay.”
“You don’t have to get defensive about it,” she said peevishly. “They have things you can take for that sort of . . . problem.”
This time, he did laugh, the sound low and harsh. The only thing that would cure him of his problem was Katrina herself. Until then, his own dick was cock-blocking him. Fucking fantastic.
He tossed back his whiskey and gave the woman an apologetic glance. It wasn’t her fault that his cock had suddenly gone on strike. “I’m sorry,” he said, and decided to go before he embarrassed himself further.
He didn’t bother to tell Tara and Levi that he was leaving, and they’d probably assume that he was off somewhere getting laid, which would have been the case if his penis weren’t on protest. Feeling uneasy and restless, he went back to the casino and sat down at one of the high-dollar blackjack tables that required a minimum of one hundred dollars per bet.
After losing five hundred dollars in the span of five minutes, he did the smart thing and stopped . . . but there was no shutting down his undeniable need for one woman, and one woman only. Katrina. And that realization scared the shit out of him, because it made him feel way too vulnerable, like he was losing control not only physically but emotionally, too.
He craved the relief that only she could provide, and he needed it badly. One time and she’d become his fix, and he desperately needed one more hit so he could fuck her out of his system, so that when they returned to Chicago, they could revert to being best friends, because that’s all he could ever be for her. He was too fucked up, and she deserved a man who could love her wholly and completely.
One more night. That’s all he needed, he told himself like the addict he was as he headed toward the hotel elevators, that frantic anticipation already surging through his veins. Lust. Desire. That was what he knew. What he understood. And once he had a few hours to wring every ounce of pleasure from Katrina’s body, he’d be able to walk away, leaving them both satisfied, and still friends.
Chapter Seven
Katrina was curled up on one of the soft, comfortable armchairs in the suite’s living room reading a book in an attempt to distract her thoughts from what, or rather who, Mason was doing, when someone knocked on her door.
She frowned. She wasn’t expecting room service, but when the rapping sound came again, this time more firmly, she set her e-reader on the coffee table and padded in her bare feet to the entryway. She glanced through the peephole and sucked in a shocked breath when she saw Mason standing on the other side.
She couldn’t imagine what he was doing here when she’d fully expected him to be off cavorting with another woman by now. Having spent the past hour tormenting herself with all sorts of sordid scenarios, she was both relieved and curious to know what he wanted this late at night. And just in case it was important, or an emergency, she opened the door, regardless of the fact that she was wearing a tank top without a bra and a pair of drawstring pajama shorts.
She noticed right away that he looked tense—both his body and his expression. His hair was a mess, too, as if he’d repeatedly combed his fingers through the strands, and a frustrated frown pulled at his brows.
“Is everything okay?” she asked anxiously.
“Everything and everyone is fine,” he rushed to reassure her, as if knowing that she’d automatically think the worst. He exhaled a deep breath, which seemed to ease some of his tension. “Can I come in?”
She nodded. “Yeah, sure.”
Stepping aside, she let him walk past, but deliberately didn’t lead him into the living room. They remained in the entryway, because whatever his reason for being here, if there wasn’t an emergency, she decided he wouldn’t be there for long. Then it dawned on her that he was probably there to rehash the conversation they’d had after the wedding and ask her again if she was okay. Ugh. She so didn’t want to go there again.
“Mason . . . I’m really not in the mood to talk,” she said with a sigh.
The light in his eyes changed, and his expression turned almost wolfish—a look she recognized from when he zeroed in on a woman he wanted, but that he was now directing at her. Everything inside of Katrina automatically responded to that suddenly predatory gaze. Her heart raced and her body tingled in awareness.