Resolution (Mason Family 5)

Wade sorts through the images one by one. He studies each photo with the same attention, the same eye for design that puts me on edge.

He’s creative too. What if he hates my art?

“It was a risk to show you these,” I say quietly. “But I wanted you to see them. I think they turned out great.”

He holds the last image—the one where I just finished posing ridiculously and am laughing as I walk toward the camera. My hair is tousled from the wind. A flush paints my cheeks from being in front of the camera for once. I look … happy.

“This one.” He turns the photograph around. “This is my favorite.”

I blush. “Maybe you picked the wrong business because your camera skills are amazing.”

He chuckles and sets the picture down. Then he tidies up the stack and closes the folder.

“You really do have quite an eye,” he says. “I’m very impressed.”

“I had an excellent subject.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“I do.” I smile at him. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

For a moment, he seems confused. Then he sits up so quickly that I jump.

He marches over to his drafting table and motions for me to join him. So, I do.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“This is a house I designed for a man in Portland a couple of years ago. It’s not exactly what you’re after, I don’t think, but it’s similar.” He drags a hand down what I think is the front of the home. “What I showed you the other night was just a sketch, but this is a bigger layout. I thought you might get a better idea of what the flow would look like if we continued with the concept we discussed.”

This is bullshit. I can tell. He’s talking too fast.

But am I about to complain? Hardly.

I’ve fantasized about being in Wade’s presence again. I’ve wished I could touch his body and watch his eyes darken. I’ve imagined him buried deep inside me a thousand times over. No complaints here.

“I love the open concept from the kitchen to the family area,” I say. “It reminds me of your house, actually. But without the fireplace.”

Wade pivots, squaring his shoulders to mine. “Did you like my fireplace?”

There’s an edge to his voice that’s an innuendo all its own.

I grin. “I will always remember the heat of that fireplace very, very well.”

He hums.

“I’m not averse to having one of my own,” I say, quirking a brow. “Maybe I can create lots of memories in front of my own fireplace someday.”

He cuts the distance between us in half. Towering over me, he looks down with hooded eyes.

“Do you remember what I said to you Saturday night?” he asks.

I know what he’s getting at, and so does my vagina, but I’m not giving in that easily.

“Not to take drinks from anyone but you?” I ask coyly.

“Don’t fuck with me, Dara.”

“But I like it when I fuck with you, Wade.”

His Adam’s apple bobs. “I told you, explicitly, that if you chose to let me inside you, things would change.”

“Yes.”

He holds my gaze. “And you acquiesced.”

“No, I asked you to fuck me, but thanks for making it sound so proper.”

He widens his stance, almost boxing me into the drafting table.

“I would really appreciate it if you wouldn’t suggest that you might be fucking another man in front of the fireplace that I design for you or elsewhere.” His eyes grow darker. “Understood?”

My lips part as I haul precious oxygen into my lungs. Holy shit.

“I meant that maybe you’d bend me over whatever piece of furniture that I place there and would drill me from behind,” I say, fighting fire with fire. “But if you want to think about another man in your place—”

My words are captured by his mouth slamming against mine.

His hands cup my cheeks and hold me still.

I don’t think I could stop him if I wanted to.

Wade kisses me like he means it. Like he wants it. Like he needs it. And I return the touch with as much fervor as he gives.

Every swipe of his touch, dip of his fingers, pulse of his breath drives me wilder.

I yank his shirt out of his waistband and let my fingers roam his back.

He walks me backward until my back is against his drafting table, the edge biting into my skin. He presses kisses from my mouth to just behind my ear. Each motion is deliberate; each kiss is pointed.

“Wade,” I moan, giving him access to my neck.

A buzzing sound rings through the room.

“Mr. Mason? Your brother Oliver is on the phone.”

He stiffens and places one final kiss on the hollow of my throat.

He’s panting when he pulls back. “Shit.” His eyes are wild as he looks at me. “Tell him I’ll call him right back, Eliza.”

“Will do.”

We watch each other with ragged breaths, trying to regain our equilibrium.