Spite Club (Mason Brothers 1)

He broke the kiss, and without another word he put an arm around my waist, pulled me to standing, and flung me over his shoulder. I made an oof sound as he walked me into the bedroom and flung me down onto the bed. Still not speaking, he crawled over me, bracing himself on his arms and kissing me again. I was like hot liquid beneath him, beneath that body, that kiss, the wordless determination of it, like he couldn’t stop himself.

He broke away again. “Ten minutes,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Give me ten fucking minutes, and I swear I’ll fuck you again.”

“Okay,” I said against his mouth.

His mouth trailed down to my breast, my nipple. “You get anything you want,” he said. “Think about it. Get creative.”

I smiled in the dark. At least he was appreciative. “You really do like blow jobs,” I said.

“That wasn’t a blow job,” he said, his scruff brushing my breast. “That was some kind of voodoo thing.”

“I’ll stick pins in you later,” I said.

“Fine,” he replied. “Just let me fuck you first.”

An hour later—because he took that long to exact his revenge, which finally had me begging him—we were under the covers, tangled up and half asleep, when I remembered what we’d been fighting about. He’d asked me if I’d had sex with him to get back at Josh.

It had made me mad at the time, but now I wondered: Why had he thought that? Why did he think I wouldn’t have slept with him otherwise? Did he ask me that just to piss me off? I hadn’t missed the fact that he’d changed the topic when I asked about his brother. Maybe it had been a distraction question, though I didn’t know why. Or maybe, in Nick’s world, it was perfectly plausible that a woman would have the best sex of her life with a man, just to get back at somebody else.

He seemed so simple on the surface, but it was deceptive. There was something going on beneath that I couldn’t see.

“Nick,” I said.

He was lying on his side, facing away from me. I stared at his gorgeous, muscled back.

“Mmm,” he said, his voice sleepy.

“Come to dinner,” I said.

He rolled over onto his back, rubbed a hand over his face. I could see his tattoo, the bracelets on his wrist. The tattoo meant something, I was sure of it, and so did the bracelets. Something he wouldn’t admit to.

“What?” he asked, confused.

“Come to dinner,” I said again. “Tomorrow.” I remembered it was the wee hours of the morning. “Today, I mean. At my mother’s. Don’t get leprosy or go to Mars. Come to dinner instead.”

He frowned a little staring at the ceiling. “You don’t want me there,” he said. “You said it’s a bad idea.”

I had. I had said that. He should have told me off for saying that to him, that he was basically an embarrassment, but he hadn’t. He seemed used to it. “It’s just dinner,” I said. “You should come.” Too late, I remembered him saying he’d never met a woman’s family. Maybe he’d laugh and say no way.

He just blinked and turned his head on the p

illow, looking at me. His gaze took me in in the dark. I could see him thinking, could see something behind his eyes. I just didn’t know what those thoughts were.

“You want me to?” he said at last.

“Yeah,” I said. And I did. I didn’t want to go to dinner by myself. I wanted him there.

He looked wary, and then he frowned in confusion again. This was really, honestly a situation he’d never been in. “Okay,” he said finally.

I smiled a little. It was kind of cute, how being invited to dinner at my mother’s house baffled him. I punched his shoulder. “Relax,” I said. “It’s roast chicken, not marriage.”

“You’re not making this sound super fun, Evie.”

“You worried I’m going to domesticate you?” I teased him. “It’ll be fine. You get to keep your balls, I promise.”

“Still not selling it,” he told me.

“But you’re coming,” I said.