Page 61 of Most Valuable Player
Your face. I fuck with it. Please go out with me.
Not my wisest moment. “You want a laundry list of reasons I sort of like you?” I ask skeptically. “I’m not poetic, so that’s the best I can do.”
Mason looks like he’s trying to smile, but there’s a film of ice still stiffening his features. “Laundry list is fine,” he says softly.
I can still feel the sharpness of his index finger against my chest. It’s pumping me with low doses of electricity, increasing my awareness of this situation. Mason Gray’s cute face is a foot from mine, allowing me to see each of his dark lashes, the purplish tone beneath his eyes, the feathery softness of his hair. The way his chest shifts with each breath. The snugness of his turtleneck.
You have bewitched me, body and soul.Mason said that was from a Jane Austen movie. I didn’t fully grasp its meaning, but I’m starting to get it. Thinking about Mason has become indescribably magnetic, damn near impossible to resist. When I dropped him off last night, the emptiness of my car became consuming. I lay in bed, making adjustments to his workout regimen over andoverbecause I wanted an excuse to keep thinking about him.
And here I am now, and he’s in the most kissable position I’ve ever seen, the insides of his thighs bracing my waist, his other hand flat against the countertop behind him, fingertips splayed over the tip of my shitty painting. It’s confusing. I’ve never yearned for anyone. Kissing, wandering hands, shortened breaths…I’ve never cared much for it.
But I want to overwhelm Mason Gray. I feel like he’s wrapped in chain mail, impervious to anything that requires him to bare his heart, deflecting any warmth people want to share with him. Every so often, though, if he moves at the right angle, I notice a chink in his armor. If I don’t slide in quickly enough, it disappears, and he returns to being fully hidden.
Within those glimpses, I catch sight of someone else. Someone warmer, happier, more expressive and openhearted. He feels like a fragile decoy of himself, and I want to see what he’s like when he’s not hiding. His expressions, movements, and words are the distant echoes of another person. What would it take to make him feel like himself?
I guess I’ll give him the laundry list.
“You think you’re boring because your personality isn’t loud and annoying like mine,” I say, setting my hands casually atop his thighs. “But you’re ignoring everything else that makes you worth being around. You’re compassionate, and kind, and witty, and intelligent. You make people feel calm, and you go out of your way for others without needing a reward. Also, I don’t know what kind of deal you made with the devil, but she gave you a smile so fucking beautiful it makes me feel like I might as well die because there’s nothing else worth seeing in this world.”
I shrug again, embarrassment warming my face.
“But don’t let it get to your head. I know you’re capable of assholery. Especially toward me. It’s just that, I guess…I don’t know. Ifbewitchingis a real power that exists in this world, the way you smile and laugh would probably be proof of it. Or something.”
Mason stares at me, unresponsive. I wait, patient, hoping my words will shred some of that spiky armor. I notice the barest twinkle come ablaze within his honey-brown irises. It flickers in and out, like it’s attempting to stay lit against a frigid breeze. I want to cup myhands protectively around that little flame—to shield and nurture it until it’s a wildfire.
“I’m sorry about yesterday,” I say, flinching. “I should’ve asked before sticking my lips on you. I thought…it seemed like…anyway.” I clear my throat. “It’s probably bad taste to bring that up and then ask again, but I really,reallywant to kiss you on this counter. Is that okay?”
Mason looks lethargically between my eyes, like he’s trying to decipher my intentions. His slender fingers are still nestled against the break of my chest. “I rejected you,” he says, as if reminding me will stir some underlying hatred to make me shove him away.
“You did,” I agree.
He blinks slowly, his impassive, level expression never wavering. “If you want,” he says.
That’s not good enough. “Do you?” I ask sternly.
“Do I what?”
“Want.”
Uncertainty pulls his brows together, like he’s not sure why I asked, or why his own interest matters. After a torturously long moment, in which his knees are still barely framed on my hips, and his face is inches away, he says, “One.”
I shift forward. He’s unbearably still, but I can feel the warmth of his exhales against my chin. Tentatively, I lean my lips against his cool ones, the rest of my body as unmoving as his own. I linger for two seconds before drawing away to observe him.
It’s simple and quick and elementary. I don’t think he wants anything more intense. His hand, which has been sprawled on the counter behind him, lifts so he can graze his index finger against his lower lip. It’s like he saw the kiss happen but didn’t feel it. That wouldn’t be surprising—his mouth is probably as numb as the rest of him.
“What are you feeling?” I ask quietly.
Once again, he looks at me with faint mystification, like I surprised him. “I don’t know,” he admits. “Nothing.”
“What can I do to make itsomething?” I hope I don’t sound as desperate as I am. Why does he feel so unreachable right now? What’s changed since last night? At least in my basement, he reacted to me—he was nervous, flustered, conflicted. But this?
Is he even conscious?
“You can try again,” he says listlessly. “If you want.”
“Tell me whatyouwant,” I plead.
That flame in his eyes is wavering again despite my attempt to kindle it. “I ruined something good by wanting too much from it,” he breathes. “So I just. Don’t anymore. It’s fine.”
