Page 17 of Mason

"Protection," I mutter again, struggling to piece the puzzle together. Him being here speaks louder than the roar of a hundred bike engines yet I’m lost.

Mason rises from the couch, the motion fluid and controlled. He steps closer, and it's like my space isn't mine anymore. "You have my claim, Carlie." His voice is low, a growl that vibrates through the room. "My men will protect you with their lives."

He grabs the coffees and food and puts them on the table. "Now, sit down and have some breakfast." It's not a question—it's an order wrapped in gravelly concern.

I’m tempted to throw the man out of my house, but the smell of coffee is strong and my guilt possibly stronger. I’m the one who left without saying a word. He hasn’t done anything but be himself. My feet carry me to the table where he's already seated, watching me with those intense eyes that seem to see straight into my soul.

As I sink into the chair, he leans back, arms crossed, inked skin stretching over his biceps. "One of my guys followed you home," Mason admits, and it's not just the admission but the casual way he says it, like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"He followed me?" The words come out strangled, my attempt at indignation faltering under his steady gaze.

"Claimed means protected. Always." His jaw clenches, the lines of his face etched with the weight of his own rules, his own law.

I wrap my hands around the paper cup, the warmth seeping into my fingers, giving me something to hold onto. Mason's world—the club, the danger, the unbreakable bonds—it's all right there, sitting across from me, asking for a place in my life without saying a word. More like demanding.

My body is heavy with a tiredness that's more emotional than physical. The coffee burns down my throat, a welcome heat in the cool morning air of my living room, but it's strong and black. Every other day of my life I’m a creamer girl and today is no different. I stand and walk to the refrigerator grabbing my creamer then a spoon from the drawer. I walk back to where I was sitting and pour in way too much creamer and give it a good stir before taking a sip. God, now that’s good.

“Noted,” he murmurs.

I look up to find him staring at me with a heat in his eyes that does something weird to my stomach. He barely has to say a word and he’s shaking my world up. That kind of hold is scary.

Without saying a word, he reaches into the greasy paper bag and hands me a foil-wrapped sandwich. There's something about the unspoken care in that gesture that tightens my chest. My fingers shake as I peel back the foil, revealing a breakfast sandwich. I take a bite, the flavors bursting on my tongue, rich and salty and perfect. A sound escapes me—a moan of pure, unabashed pleasure. I'm not even sorry for it until I see Mason's reaction.

His eyes lock onto mine, dark and hungry. "Honey if you keep making those fucking noises we aren't finishing breakfast," he says, voice rough like gravel tumbling down a mountain.

I can't help the blush that spreads across my cheeks or the way my heart picks up speed. It's not fear, though—no, it's something far more dangerous.

"Sorry," I murmur, not sorry at all. And I take another bite because damn, life's too short for bad food or good men who make you want to throw caution to the wind.

Crinkling foil, the last of our breakfast bundled up, I toss it into the trash. The kitchen feels smaller with Mason in it, a presence like a storm cloud ready to burst. He watches me, eyes smoldering, and I'm acutely aware of how my body responds to his nearness—every nerve ending buzzing like live wires.

"Good sandwich," I say, trying to keep things light, but my voice betrays me, a little breathless.

"Not as good as you," Mason counters, his tone teasing but edged with something raw.

I turn to face him, finding those dark eyes fixed on me. There's no hiding from his gaze, it strips me bare and sees right through me. It's unnerving and exhilarating all at once.

"Is that so?" I manage to get out, my attempt at sass falling flat as he steps closer, closing the gap between us.

MASON

She's fire and softness, wrapped up in one hell of a tempting package. As I step closer, her scent fills my senses—vanilla and something floral. It's intoxicating. Carlie's back hits the counter, and I've got her pinned, not that she's looking to escape.

"Absolutely," I growl, my voice low. "You're a temptation, Carlie Meadows."

Her lips part slightly, a silent invitation I'm all too eager to accept. I lean down, my lips finding the tender skin of her neck. She tilts her head, giving me better access, and a surge of possessiveness roars through me. My kisses trail upwards, hungry, claiming, until I capture her chin and lift her face to mine.

When our lips meet, it's like striking a match, heat flaring instantly. Her hands find their way into my hair, tugging me closer, and I can't help the groan that rumbles from deep within my chest.

This kiss—it's not just a meeting of mouths. It's a collision of everything we are and everything we could be. It's promise, it's pain, it's passion—all rolled into one perfect, searing moment.

And I know. I know I'll never get enough of her.

She breaks away, gasping for air then her forehead falls against chest,

"Mason," her voice quivers, "I'm scared. Of this—us. It's all moving so fast, and your world... It's a lot. I don't know if I can handle it."

My arms tighten around her. "Talk to me, Carlie," I say.

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