Veiled Desire Read online

  “No problem.” The irony of him being credited for Sasha playing matchmaker for his sister and some random guy was not lost on him.

  “In the meantime, I was going to see if I could call off my date on Valentine’s and spend time with Leyla. I don’t want her feeling—”

  “No!”

  Sasha blinked at him.

  He tried to moderate his tone. “I mean, your girl will be pissed.”

  “Eh. We’re not that serious. Honestly, when she suggested it, I didn’t even realize what night it was.”

  Sasha may not be serious, but Mason was willing to bet the woman wasn’t so blasé. “You don’t have to worry. Leyla and I made plans.”

  He waited for Sasha to jump into his usual suspicious mode, a bit relieved to have the truth out there, but instead, his friend shook his head and walked over to him. He tensed, expecting a punch.

  Sasha’s hand came down on his shoulder and he squeezed. His face was sober. “Wow. I’m the luckiest guy. I can’t tell you how happy I am that you’re looking out for Leyla. I rest a lot easier at night knowing someone I trust is right here for her.”

  Damn, but that blood-brother bond was thick. He smiled weakly as the thumbscrews of guilt twisted a bit tighter. “Thanks. She’s important to me too.” Sasha couldn’t know how much. “Hey, I need to shower.” He tried to imperceptibly remove Sasha’s hand from his shoulder. All that misplaced faith and gratitude had a way of making a man itchy.

  “No problem. I’ll see myself out. Thanks again.”

  Mason mumbled a goodbye. He waited until the door shut behind his friend before digging in his pocket for the note. Dinner was perfect. I can’t cook like you, but I tried. Sleep first, then eat.

  A smile lifted some of his depression, and he opened his fridge. His blue cooler sat on the top shelf. He withdrew it and set it on his counter.

  Inside were two sub sandwiches, piled high with meat, a plastic cup of applesauce, and a…juice box. Mason grinned as he pushed the straw into the foil package and sucked in the taste of cherry childhood.

  Childhood. His smile faded as he stared at the food, a classic kid’s meal.

  Not maternal. Please God, anything but that.

  Veiled Desire

  Chapter Four

  Leyla let her legs hang off the bed, and she stared at the fourteenth circled in red on the calendar on her bedroom wall. In red, not because it was one of the busiest days of the season at the shop, but because she would get to spend the evening with Mason.

  With their opposite schedules, she hadn’t seen him over the last few days, but he’d made his presence known. Every evening, she returned home to a wonderful meal in her fridge. Every morning, she tried to reciprocate with her less-impressive attempts. He seemed grateful in his notes, so though it wasn’t exactly an equal exchange, she’d kept it up. It made her feel good to think of him coming home all tired and eating something she’d prepared for him, even if it wasn’t gourmet.

  Speaking of which, she needed to get her butt in gear. She sighed and stood, quickly throwing a sweatshirt over her cloud and moon pajamas. She had to be at the store early today, so though it was barely six, she’d go drop off the food for him right now.

  Retrieving the cooler she’d packed last night from her fridge, she slipped on a pair of flip-flops and walked across their shared backyard, around his house and inside the front door.

  It still kind of weirded her out to waltz into his home. It bespoke of a higher level of intimacy than that of just friends, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about that. To cover her nervousness, she hummed an old Fergie song as she walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge and bent to deposit his food.

  “This is a nice thing to wake up to.”

  The gravelly voice made her jump, and she lurched upward. The crack of her head hitting the top of the fridge was followed by a sharp wave of pain. “Ow.”

  “Are you okay?”

  His big hands were on her hips, then her arms, guiding her away from the fridge until she stood facing him.

  He wore only a pair of light blue scrub bottoms, knotted low on his hips. She couldn’t figure out where to look, there was so much bronze skin and it was everywhere, all over, surrounding her. He cupped her chin and raised her face until she looked deep into his eyes. Had they always been so blue? They should have been bloodshot with all the graveyard shifts he’d been pulling, but the whites were startlingly clear. “Leyla, are you okay?”

  It was the worry that was so obvious on his face that snapped her out of her trance. “Yes, of course. Just a bump.”

  He smiled, but it was a distracted one. “To go with your humps?”

  She flushed, recalling the song she’d been humming when she entered. He cradled her face in his hands. With his thumbs, he brushed her hair away from her cheeks. She tried not to replay the memory of those thumbs hooking into his briefs, slowly sliding them over his hips…

  “Your pupils look okay. But you really may have a bump here.” He lightly pressed against the back of her head. She flinched, not so much because it hurt, but because his lips had come closer to her. He frowned. “Let’s put some ice on that.”

  Before she could protest he pulled a bag of peas from the fridge, wrapped it in a towel and turned her around. The magnets on the fridge swam in front of her eyes as he pressed the cold compress against her scalp. “Better?”

  It didn’t really hurt, but she couldn’t say that now without looking foolish, so she nodded. “What are you doing home?”

  “Oh, should have told you. I worked a half shift last night. I wanted to sleep a bit before tonight. I figured we’d be out late. Between that and the two extra shifts I traded for this week, I get the next four days off.”

  Out late? Even though she knew he was referring to the way their usual evenings together extended to late-night discussions, her dirty mind supplied images in Technicolor, of all the other things they could be doing out late tonight. And all of the things they could continue to do for four. Whole. Days.

  He misinterpreted her shudder. “Still hurt?” He lifted the cold bag away. Before she knew what he was about, he blew a stream of air over her scalp.

  Every strand stood up and did a happy dance, as did the rest of her body. She closed her eyes and tried to regulate her breathing.

  “By the way, I love these jammies. The bunny ones are my favorite, but these are hot too.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Why funny?”

  She rolled her eyes, even though it was wasted with him behind her. “Yes, I’m sure most men would find cartoon pajamas attractive.” Immediately, she cursed her tongue. Had she sounded like she was fishing for compliments?

  “You’d be surprised. There’s something wildly sexy about a woman who looks comfortable. All of that satin and silk in your store is nice, but I wonder how a girl can wear it without being in pain.”

  Wildly sexy. Was he talking about women in general or her? To cover her uncertainty, Leyla huffed a laugh. “Some of them, yeah. Especially the negligees. But the bras and panties are designed to be comfortable. Trust me, we get a nice discount to try them out and pimp them in the store.”

  She thought he hissed something, but she couldn’t make it out. She heard a thunk behind her, probably the bag of peas on the counter. He blew on her scalp again, his hands running through her hair to shift the strands aside. The better to get to her injury, she figured, but the sensual tugging made her stomach clench. Her breathing accelerated, and she swore the next time he blew, it was closer to her ear, not her head.

  Like an idiot, she scrambled away and turned to face him, trying to force a smile. “I’m okay. Really. Why don’t you go back to bed? I’ll just let myself out.”

  “Nah, I’m up now. How about breakfast? Does French toast sound good?”

  It took a stronger woman than she to refuse breakfast cooked by a shirtless male who looked oh-so-nice. “Um. That’s fine.” To avoid looking at his lovely back, she walked over to h
is breakfast table and started to gather the papers that lay all over the surface. She’d changed out the rose on the table yesterday, so it was full and vibrant red today.

  He put the pans down on the counter. “Hey, I’ll get to that. Don’t worry about it.”

  “No, it’s fine. Really, you know me, I’d rather clean than cook.”

  “You don’t have to clean up my mess. Thanks for doing it the other day, but I can handle it.”

  She didn’t have to, but it was an easy way to keep her flustered self busy. Mason could clean up after himself, he just didn’t place a huge importance on it. Since he wasn’t messy, just a bit disorganized, it didn’t bother her too much. She tried to inject a note of teasing in her voice. “Seriously, it’s cool. Get to cooking.”

  “Slave driver.”

  “Well if you’re going to call me names…since I’m the one who’s been marching over here at the crack of dawn every day this past week, I think I deserve for you to upgrade your French toast to stuffed.”

  “Whatever. You should be offering to make this breakfast for me. You know I have to sneak past Nosy Nancy to get into your house? She asked me yesterday if she could see what was in my cooler.”

  Leyla smiled, thinking of the curmudgeon who lived across the street from her. “What did you say?”

  Mason did an excellent imitation of an evil laugh. “Well, master, I told her it was filled with a fresh kidney you were keeping cold for me until I could conduct the operation.”

  She gave a short laugh, imagining the old woman’s sniff of horror. “You didn’t. You know her nosiness is only rivaled by her naïveté. She’ll have the whole neighborhood believing we’re embroiled in some shady enterprise.”

  He snorted. “If they believe her, they’re idiots.” Mason whisked the eggs in a bowl. “By the way, your door is sticking in the frame.”

  “I know. I was going to pick up some sandpaper next week.”

  “Leave it. I’ll handle it while I’m off in the next couple of days. Is that faucet still leaking?”

  She swept a hand over the table, brushing off a small pile of crumbs. “It’s not that bad. Sasha said he would look at it when he got a chance.”

  “Why don’t you tell me this stuff? There’s no need to bother Sash when I’m right behind you.” His tone and motions were impatient as he pulled the loaf of bread out of the bread box.

  I wish you were right behind… Naughty Leyla. “Really, it’s not a big deal.”

  “Tell me next time.”

  Since he was looking at her so expectantly, she nodded. “Fine.”

  “Good. Can you get me the cream cheese?”

  She hid a smile at the knowledge that, despite their banter, he was making her stuffed French toast. “Sure.” Leyla retrieved the blue box from the fridge and watched as he put breakfast together. There was a certain eroticism in the way he moved around the kitchen, an economy of motion and ease that she’d never noticed before.

  Mentally, Leyla snorted. If she was finding him cooking breakfast erotic, she really hoped she didn’t have to watch him do laundry or something. She might pass out.

  “So, I thought maybe we could go somewhere nice tonight.”

  “Nice?”

  “Yeah. I mean, nicer than what we usually do.”

  “I hate to break this to you, but anything nicer than fast food or the diner is usually swamped or reserved on this night.”

  He smirked. “Don’t you worry about that.”

  She narrowed her eyes on him. “Do you have something planned?” Nah, this had been an impromptu idea on his part. Valentine’s dinner reservations took a bit more work than just deciding to go somewhere.

  He shrugged.

  “Where are we going?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  “Mason, you have a lot to learn about girl-speak. ‘Where are we going?’ is usually code for ‘What should I wear?’”

  “Oh. No jeans. A dress.” He nodded decisively. “Red. Or blue.”

  “The place cares what color I wear?” she asked, amused.

  He glanced up at her from beneath his lashes. “You look good in bright colors.”

  Her hoodie felt a bit too warm all of a sudden. “Oh. Thanks. I’ll think about it.”

  He shrugged and turned, but not before she saw a light flush color his cheeks. “Whatever. Want to grab some plates?”

  Happy for the distraction, Leyla set the table and helped him arrange the food. By tacit agreement, they kept the conversation light and breakfast passed without incidence.

  As Leyla chewed her last bite, savoring the taste of strawberry, cream cheese and cinnamon, she glanced up to find Mason’s gaze on her mouth, his eyes just a bit unfocused. He looked hungry. And since his plate was clean, she figured it wasn’t for food.

  Her heart rate accelerated. Though she was careful with her love life, she’d received her fair share of admiring looks over the years. She knew what male interest looked like. But…Mason?

  Well, why not? Hadn’t she spent months wrestling with her attraction and feelings for him? Why wouldn’t that desire be reciprocated?

  Baby.

  Sweetheart.

  This is a nice thing to wake up to…

  “Why don’t you call me Lee-Lee anymore?” she blurted out. Sasha had tagged her with the nickname in childhood. Though her brother had grown out of it, Mason had continued to use it affectionately. But now that she considered it, he had switched to only calling her by her given name for months.

  He didn’t seem at all startled by her pulling the topic out of thin air. “Because it’s a child’s name. Neither of us are children, are we?”

  She was a bit too rattled to answer. Her heart pounding, she swallowed the lump in her throat and deliberately set her fork to the side. Leyla dipped her finger in the remaining syrup on her plate. His eyes flicked down to follow the lazy figure eight she made and followed her finger back up to her mouth, where she enclosed it and…sucked.

  His eyes flared, and he bit his lower lip. Hard.

  Oh my. Well, this was very interesting.

  Leyla had never considered herself a wilting flower, so as much as she wanted to swoon a little, she stiffened her spine at the obvious signs of desire she was suddenly noting all over him. Dilated eyes, chest rising and falling. Even his nipples were hard.

  Want to taste. Then maybe he would reciprocate.

  Her head was spinning from the onslaught of the sudden epiphany. Did he just want her for sex? Because that would never work. She wasn’t set up to be a fuck buddy. But if he wanted more, did she? What about Sasha? How would her brother react?

  Her natural humor kicked in, and she tried to fight the sudden urge to laugh at herself. Sasha had always been the impulsive Karimi, but here she was, ready to go nuts on the basis of a couple of hot looks. Time to slow down and really think about this. He hadn’t given her that much encouragement, if she looked at it objectively.

  To distract herself, she picked up her plate and stood. “You done?” Without waiting for anything more than his nod, she picked up his empty plate as well and carried them both to the sink. A small pile of dishes had already been gathered there.

  As she grabbed the sponge and drizzled some soap on it, she heard the scrape of his chair behind her. “You don’t have to do that.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “Seriously, leave it.”

  Trying to diffuse some of her tension, she forced a smile into her voice and made a tsking noise. “Look at all these dirty dishes. You and I both know you’ll let these gather until you don’t have any other choice. I still have a few minutes, and I’ll just—”

  Without warning, hard hands closed over her hips, and she dropped the sponge. He swiveled her around. Reaching behind her, he wrenched the water off. “Goddamn it, Leyla. Stop treating me like a kid.”

  She blinked up at him, stunned at both the anger on his face and the hard tone of his voice. “I’m not.”

  “You are. I�
�m not your son, and I’m not your brother. I can do my own fucking dishes.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You don’t need to swear at me.”

  He sneered. “Are you going to chastise me for my language now?”

  “Someone needs to. You idiot. I certainly don’t think I’m your mother.”

  “Then stop acting like it. You don’t have to clean up after me. You certainly don’t need to do my fu—”

  She slapped her hands against his chest. “That’s a nasty swear, Mason. Say it again, and I will make you sorry. I was doing the dishes because you cooked, you ass.”

  He stilled. “Do you mind if I use it and I’m not swearing at you?”

  “What?”

  “Fuck.”

  The short, graphic word looked erotic on his full lips. She caught her breath.

  “Do you object to the word or the context?”

  “The-the context.”

  His lips quirked. “I’ll keep that in mind. I apologize. I’m sorry if I overreacted.”

  “I’m not your sister,” she blurted out.

  “I know that. I’ve known that for a while. The question is, do you know it?”

  “Yes.” She realized at that moment that her slightly damp hands were flat against his chest.

  His naked, hard, hot chest.

  Leyla had never touched him so intimately. Hugs, pecks on the cheek, pats on the back; that was it. The way she’d been raised, males and females who were platonic friends didn’t touch each other inappropriately. Mason knew and respected that.

  She couldn’t look at his face. Instead, she studied her hands, so small against the wide expanse of his chest. Her one hand curved over his developed pec. She only had to move just a smidgeon to scrape the nail of her pinky over his nipple.

  Then he was growling, a low rumbling noise, using his tight grip on her hips to pull her closer and crowd her against the counter. He shoved one hand into her hair, tilted her head and lowered his lips to hers.

  All she could think was that she no longer needed to wonder if he desired her. He didn’t bother with an exploratory foray or gentle teasing. He kissed her as if they’d been kissing for years, as if he had an absolute right to her lips and her mouth. It was hot and carnal, his mouth open on hers, his tongue stroking against hers and inside. When she twined her arms around his neck and sank into him, he made a rough noise and captured the zipper on her hoodie. One quick tug had it undone, and then it was like her shirt just magically undid itself of its buttons for him as well. He pushed it to the side with rough impatience until her breast filled his hand.