Anna
Istare down at the scrambled eggs, bacon, and whole-wheat toast Mason made for breakfast. I fiddle with my fork. I take one bite, force it down a too-tight throat, and give up.
If only I could blame the food. But I only blame myself.
Somewhere between the ecstasy of last night and this morning’s light, I’ve managed to create an awkward tension between us.
It’s jarring. I fell asleep in his arms, boneless with contentment, only to wake up with a hollowed-out pit in the center of my chest.
And I hate myself for it.
I hate how one look at my face made his huge, happy grin fade away. I hate that I’ve replaced the gleam dancing in his eyes with sadness.
I want to rush in and make it better. Throw my arms around him and beg for forgiveness. Promise I have no doubts.
But I can’t, because I can’t lie to him.
A beam of light catches the tine of the fork, drawing my attention to the bruise marring my wrist. I brush my thumb over the pale purple spot as though I can wipe it away. I’m a teacher. I can’t have bruises. What will my students think? Their parents? My coworkers?
“I warned you,” Mason says in a flat tone. He uttered those words last night too, although then they’d been laced with amusement. “But you insisted on struggling.”
And I had. Stretched taut on his bed last night, bound spread-eagle, I’d writhed and twisted in helplessness, in all-consuming pleasure despite his orders to stay still.
I’d gladly paid his price.
I search his shuttered face, looking for something but not quite sure what.
His chin juts toward my wrists. “Don’t worry. You’re off on Monday for one of those school holidays, right?”
Sudden tears prick the corners of my eyes.Of course he remembers. I nod.
“The bruises will be gone by Tuesday. If you had to work on Monday, I wouldn’t have used cuffs.” He meets my gaze. “Despite the fact that it wouldn’t have excited you as much.”
“Oh.” Heat spreads up my neck. I drop my hands to my lap, no longer wanting my bruises to be a topic of discussion.
“It’s time to talk things through.” The resignation on his face nearly kills me.
I shake my head. I don’t want to talk. Talking means decisions. Talking means answers—answers I don’t have. My chin trembles. I can’t admit that what seemed so erotic and special last night, what felt so damn good I nearly lost my mind, now leaves a sick knot in the pit of my stomach.
I don’t want to hurt him.
His lips press together, but the rest of his expression softens. “Remember, this is about honesty. Just take a deep breath and tell me what’s on your mind.”
I pick up the napkin and hold it as though it’s a security blanket. We’ll get to the truth eventually. I learned that all too well last night, but for now I evade. “Who is the real Mason? Is he the man I’ve known for the last six months? Or the man from last night?” The one who made me scream with orgasms so intense I thought I was being ripped apart.
“You’re avoiding telling me how you feel.”
I take a shaky breath, praying he’ll let it go and praying he’ll push with equal fervor.
He sits back in his chair and raises his coffee mug to his lips, taking a sip before he continues. “But I’m not going to push, and it’s a fair question.”
I sag in my seat. Inexplicable sadness washes over me, making me tired and oh so weary. God, I’m a mess. Unsure what to say, I look at him with watery eyes, hoping he’ll continue so I won’t have to deal with the silence any longer.
He studies me for long, measured seconds. “They both are. I wasn’t pretending with you all these months. I’m the same man, only with a couple of darker layers added in to keep things interesting.”
My brows knit. “It’s more than a couple of minor changes.”
“Is it? Are they really that different?”