He loses the battle.
Swearing and moaning my name, Mason pistons his hips and releases inside of me. His orgasm is exquisite, the tensing of his stomach, the noises he makes. He drops his head against my shoulder and pants in hot breaths, only contented for a few seconds before he’s sliding down my body and nuzzling his mouth against my clit.
“Oh . . . oh, God.”
I reach blindly for his hair, my eyes closed in bliss. I feel his hands take mine and link us together on either side of my body, his fingers pressing into the tops of my hands.
My legs shake against his head as he sucks and sucks on my clit. I moan when he blows lightly across it.
“You’ll say yes?” he asks, and I know he’s smiling. I can practically feel it against my skin he’s so close to me.
“Yes,” I breathe.
He squeezes my hands. He rolls his tongue heavily over that smooth bundle of nerves, and I wait, I wait for him to ask while my body tightens and warms all over. I wait while blood rushes in my ears. I strain to hear his voice. Is he asking? The only thing I can hear is my own heartbeat and my answer, over and over as my orgasm pulls me apart.
“Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.”
I collapse against the sleeping bag, my skin slick with sweat. I feel Mason’s lips on my thigh as he presses them there.
“Will you marry me?” he asks.
Smiling, I look down my body between my legs.
Mason raises his head. He looks so unsure for a man who just got his answer multiple times.
Was I not loud enough?
I sit up and grab his shoulders, pulling him until he’s on top of me. I kiss his mouth. “I’m sorry. What was that? I couldn’t hear you.”
His lip twitches. Leaning back a bit, he stares down at me, smoothing his hand over my cheek. “Will you?” he asks, staring at my mouth, waiting for that one word I will never make him wait for.
“Yes.”
He collapses, burying his face in my neck. “Baby.”
“Don’t let go of me.”
I feel the slight shake of his head, his lips on my skin and the wetness leaking from his eyes.
“Never.”
BROOKE
My hands are shaking. Sweat builds up on my palms.
Jesus. How hot are these people trying to make this fucking wedding?
I suppose there’s a bright side to sweating my ass off standing here. If the bride hates the cake, it’ll probably end up melting before she cuts into it anyway.
I’m doing this delivery alone. I wanted it this way, until last night when I cried to Mason and begged him to cancel his classes this morning so he could be here to support me. I took it back immediately when it actually occurred to me that he would do that.
I won’t have him missing anymore classes because of me. He’s missed enough.
Turning my head, I glance at the cake on the table beside me as I wait for the bride. To my standards, I think it looks . . . okay. Maybe better than okay, but I’m not the one getting married.
Yet.
My thumb twists the engagement ring around my finger.
The flowers look as realistic as I was able to get them. The icing is flawless. This morning when I snapped a picture of the finished product and sent it to Dylan she called me and squealed in my ear.
I begged her to stop. Reese really begged her to stop. She still has another week to go before Blake is due to arrive and if she goes into early labor because of me, I might as well pack up my apron.
Reese will fire me himself.
As I’m looking up the stairway leading to the bridal suite, my phone beeps in my back pocket. I slide it out and read the message.
Mason: How’s it going, sweetheart? You doing okay?
A door closes at the top of the stairs. I glance up and see the bride and a woman walking with her in my direction. I look down and quickly type my response.
Me: I’ll let you know in a minute.
I tuck my phone away. Standing beside the table, I clasp my hands in front of me and concentrate on remembering to breathe. It’s a challenging task, and one I might benefit from disregarding.
Passing out right now does have it’s allure. I’ll miss the rejection.
The bride gasps, raising a hand to her mouth when she gets halfway down the stairs. Her eyes glued to the cake.
I don’t know what to do. I debate on giving this disaster a right shove and fleeing out the doors behind me.
“Oh, my God. Look at it, Mom!” She hurries down the remaining steps and stops in front of the table. She fans her face. “Shit! I’m going to cry. I can’t cry.” She cuts me a look. “Don’t make me cry!”
“Okay? Um . . .” I gesture at the cake. I pray I don’t vomit all over it. “I’m s-so sorry. The flowers weren’t the easiest for me, but I’m very certain it takes good. It’s at least edible.”
“What?” she laughs, moving quickly and throwing her arms around me. “You’re so funny. I love it!”
“You do?”
“Yes!” She releases me and admires her cake. “The flowers are perfect. They look just like my bouquet, right, Mom?”
The older woman beside her nods. “Absolutely stunning.” She gives me a warm smile. “You have a real talent, young lady.”
I look from the woman, to the bride, then back again. “Um . . . thank you. Dylan, our main baker, is on bedrest so I did this by myself. I was really nervous. I ate some of the practice one I did.”
“It’s perfect. All of it. God, thank you again.” The bride squeezes my hand, then grabs her mother and flees back up the stairs.