Page 39 of Mason

I grab the pot that’s at my feet and move to fill it at the tub’s faucet. I don’t look at her, but I know she has her hands covering her chest again. She’s awfully shy about nakedness, given her foul mouth and the dress she had on when Dixon grabbed her. That thing was glorified lingerie. I doubt Anthony knows his baby girl runs around looking like a high-class hooker.

After three more pots of boiling water, she’s content, lying back in the tub with her head to the side, her hands cupping her breasts just above the waterline, shielding them from view.

I go to leave when she turns to face me. “Hey.”

I look everywhere but at her. “Yeah?”

I don’t need to catch a glimpse of temptation. Not a fucking chance.

“Thanks, mister.”

It takes a second to realize she called me that because she doesn’t know my name and not because she’s being a smartass.

“You’re welcome.” It comes out as a croak, my voice clogged with desire.

Christ.

I need to stay the fuck away from her in that tub.

* * *

At least an hour passes before I hear a peep from the bathroom. “Uh, mister. We have a problem.”

“What’s that?” I ask, slowly rising to my feet in front of the fireplace. I already stripped my button-down off while waiting, and the fire makes the cabin surprisingly cozy despite my short sleeves.

“I don’t have a towel,” she croaks.

I brush the dirt off my pants from the floor. “Use the coat. You can wear my shirt. I’ll bring it in when you’re ready.”

“Yeah, about that…” she trails. By the sound of her voice, I can picture fidgeting in the tub. “I don’t know how I’m going to get out of here.”

“I’ll help you.” I’m not thrilled with the prospect of having her practically naked and near me again, but I’ll manage.

“But I’m naked!” It comes out as more of a wail than anything else.

I sigh, moving toward the bathroom door. “Relax. I’ve seen more naked women than your gynecologist.” And she’s firmly in the no-fly zone, even if thinking about fucking her gives me an unwelcome stiffy.

“So you’re a man-whore?” She huffs.

Jesus, this girl does nothing but argue.

“I’m a lot older than you.” I’ll leave it at that. I’m not diving into my sex life with this chick. I don’t owe her an explanation. I don’t owe one to anyone. It’s not like I’m raw dogging hookers and pornstars. I wrap my shit.

“Doesn’t mean you should sleep around, mister.”

I ignore her lecturing. She sounds like Mom when she climbs on her little soap box. I can picture the two of them trying to nag me to death. “Are you ready, or do you prefer to soak all night like a tea bag?”

“Do you promise you won’t look at me?”

I glare at the open doorway. “I need my eyes open to get in there. Cover yourself.”

She grumbles to herself for a moment, and there’s splashing. “Okay, the coast is clear.”

I walk in to find her right where I left her, only now she has her wet hair pulled in front of her chest with one arm across her tits and the other below the water’s surface, presumably covering her pussy.

I bend and grab the coat. “You can wear this like a robe in front of the fire until you’re dry.”

She nods, squirming under the water. Her discomfort rolls off her in waves. “Please don’t look at me, mister.”

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