I stayed in my room until the garage went quiet.
When I finally came downstairs, Mom was on the couch with a glass of wine and Mason was at the kitchen counter eating leftover pizza like he hadn’t just bent me over my dresser and filled me. He looked up when I walked in. His eyes dropped to my shorts for half a second, then back to my face. I felt the slow leak of him every time I moved.
“Pizza’s still warm,” he said.
“Not hungry.”
Mom glanced between us. “You two fighting again?”
“No,” Mason answered before I could. “She’s just being weird. Usual.”
I grabbed a bottle of water and left before my face gave me away. Upstairs I locked the door, shoved a towel between my legs, and tried not to think about the way he’d looked at me in the kitchen. Like he already owned the next four days.
