CHAPTER FIFTEEN - MASON

 

She’ll be good.

“I’ll go to the mall with you,” she says. “And we can eat something else. Not spaghetti and meatballs or hamburgers.”

She’ll be good.

“Mason.”

“What?”

She sucks in a deep breath and lets it out. “I promise. I’ll be good. You can’t leave anyway. You got paid already, right?”

I nod, but don’t look her. I did get paid. A lot of fucking money. And my mom is in the experimental treatment program. So her stepfather held up his end and not only am I not holding up mine, I feel like I’m making everything worse. I feel like I’m making her worse. I just can’t put my finger on what’s wrong here. I mean, I know the whole thing is wrong. She’s wrong, he’s wrong. The estate, the criminal record, the marriage. All of it is so very wrong.

But I don’t have a firm grip on why it’s wrong.

Baylor’s excuse for why he wants his daughter to marry this guy makes some sense. In one breath I believe him. He’s worried about her. And anyone who spends time with this girl gets that she’s disturbed. So is it so bad that he wants to take care of her?

But when I take another breath I see it another way. This place. That room. Those clothes, that food—it gives me a sick feeling inside.

“I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll… I’ll clean the dress. We can take it to the dry cleaners at the mall and—”

“Fuck that dress. It’s ugly as sin.”

“OK, well… I won’t try to seduce you anymore.”

I still don’t look at her but I do crack a smile.

“Please,” she says, scrambling off the bed to kneel at my feet.

Good God. Why does she have to do that?

She rests her head on my knee, wrapping her hands around my leg. “Don’t leave me here. I promise to do whatever you say.”

“Everything?” I ask, finally meeting her eyes.

She nods. “Yes. Everything.”

“You’ll stop swearing?”

“Yes.”

“And be polite?”

"Yes, I promise.”

“And respect yourself and others.”

“Um… yeah. Of course. But what exactly do you mean when you say respect myself?”

Is she kidding me right now? “Lyssa,” I say.

“What?”

“You know what I mean.”

“OK, so… I won’t take five years to finish college, or waste money, or wipe my face with my wedding dress, or—”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.” Jesus. How is she so clueless?

“I don’t understand.”

“Respect yourself. Don’t wear those clothes, or put your hair up in pigtails like you’re a little girl, or eat comfort food at every meal. You need to grow up, OK? You need to grow the fuck up!”

She stares at me for a moment. Shocked by my outburst. Hell, I’m kinda shocked by my outburst too.

“OK,” she finally says.

“You’ll do that?”

She nods. “I promise. I will.”

I close my eyes and wonder if it’s good enough. I feel like I’m losing myself by being around this girl. Like she’s twisting me into something I’m not. And I don’t like it. I like her… but I don’t like how she makes me feel.

It feels dirty.

She makes me feel dirty.

Wild Thing. She sure is.

“Mason,” she says.

“What?”

“Just… please. Can we go to the mall?”

We do go to the mall. There are three cars to choose from in the attached five-car garage and she shows me where the keys are. I still have the van, but that van is creepy as all fuck when I look at it. I kidnapped her in that van.

What the hell was I thinking when I took this job?

Well, that’s easy. I was thinking about my mother. I needed that fifty grand pretty bad that day. And Baylor was blackmailing me.

Still, both those reasons feel a whole lot like excuses right now.

Why does this girl affect me this way? I don’t understand it.

Anyway. We take the brand-new Mercedes to the mall. White with tan leather interior and every gadget you can think of. Is it weird that Lyssa matches her car?

Because Lyssa kept her promise and managed to put together an outfit from her closet in her real bedroom that doesn’t show off her tits or her ass.

A shapeless dress that has a high collar and hits her just above the knee. It’s white, not pink, and her shoes have a heel on them, so that’s a plus. At least she doesn’t look like my fucking daughter.

I wear… the same thing I’ve been wearing. Which only serves to remind me that I didn’t plan on being here for ten days. This was an in-and-out job and now it’s not.

Or it is, if you have a dirty mind. Which I apparently do. I’m going crazy. This job, this girl, this house—all of it is making me crazy.

When we get to the mall I take Lyssa’s hand—I don’t know why I do that either. I just do—and we walk around looking at shops.

“Where do we find a wedding dress?” I ask.

“I have no idea,” she says. “I haven’t been to a mall since I was twelve.”

I laugh at that. “Me either.”

“Blind leading the blind,” she says, leaning into me. “Let’s shop for you first.”

So we do. Not a department store, which is where I usually get my clothes, but a designer label that has its own boutique. But I’m a quick shopper. I know exactly what I like and soon we’re out in the mall walking past the lingerie store.

Lyssa stops.

I shake my head at her.

“This is grown-up,” she says. “Those bras and panties you’ve been giving me are for little girls.”

God, it sounds kinda sick when she says it like that.

“Come on,” she says, tugging me into the store.

A saleswoman comes over immediately. Smelling money, or desperate for conversation, or hell, maybe she really does just want to make sure Lyssa gets the perfect-fitting bra.

They disappear into a dressing room while I browse the goods, stopping at the nighties. I have never bought underwear for a woman before. Mostly because I always make sure I do not have a girlfriend on Valentine’s Day when such a purchase is expected. But I could see Lyssa wearing some of this stuff.

I pick one off the rack, walk over to the dressing room, and hand it to the woman helping her. “Tell her to try this one on.”

She waggles her eyebrows at me, and even though I have a desire to put distance between myself and what she’s inferring, I keep my mouth shut and don’t even try to explain. There’s no good way to explain who and what Lyssa is to me in this moment, anyway.

Lyssa giggles in the dressing room. Yells, “Mason, are you out there?”

“I’m right here,” I say.

“What’s this for?”

“Your wedding night,” I say. “Unless you have something already.”

“I don’t,” she says. “But I love it. It’s very grown up.”

“Good,” I say, cringing at her words. The saleslady is waggling again. Oh, wedding, that waggle says. I ignore her. Because I do not want to discuss the wedding I’m not a part of.

When Lyssa gets tired of trying things on, she emerges triumphant and hands the saleswoman a whole armful of pretty bras and panties. And the nightie.

“Fits,” she says, shrugging one shoulder at me.

I pay for it all, because I did promise her new underwear.

But I like paying for it. Feels good to have a lot of money. I’m not poor, by any means. But that’s mostly because I’m a saver by nature. My jobs are here and there. Sometimes I’m super busy, sometimes I’m not. I’ve learned to live below my means.

When we’re done there we head into another boutique that sells dresses and Lyssa chats with the saleswoman about something that might be appropriate for a wedding.

“What do you think I should get, Mason?”

“Up to you,” I say.

“No, really,” she says. “I want to know your opinion.”

This exchange earns us a weird look of confusion from the saleswoman.

“Not pink,” I say.

“No.” She laughs. “I still want white.”

“No ruffles,” I say.

“Done,” she says.

“How about this one?” I point to a very sophisticated dress on a mannequin. Long, fitted, satin, two slits up the side, crystal beads covering the tight bodice, and strapless.

“I’d like to try that one on,” Lyssa tells the woman.

She smiles at me as she turns to follow the woman to the dressing room, and I look around. Wondering how one chooses just the right dress for her wedding day. Then feel guilty for choosing Lyssa’s dress for her.

I wander over to the dressing area just as the saleswoman—Margaret, her name tag says—comes out, almost bumping into me.

“Oh,” she says. “Sorry.”

“Totally my fault,” I say.

“You’re Mason?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“And you’re not the fiancé?”

“No,” I say.

“Hmmmm.”

“What?”

“She wants you with her. She’s in room six.” And then she gives me a stern look, which I fail to understand.

I wander in, looking for room six, and find the door open. “You beckoned,” I say.

“Unzip me,” she says. “And close the door.”

I close the door, notice that the room is walled in on all four sides for maximum privacy, then walk over and pull her zipper down as she lifts up her hair. My cock suddenly reminds me that I did this very thing a few hours ago and it ended up getting sucked. Cocks remember stuff like that. They are easily trained that way. Get it once, they expect it every time.

I suck in a deep breath as she lowers her dress over her shoulders and lets it fall to the ground.

She’s not wearing a cotton bra anymore. And her panties were definitely not made for a little girl.

“I see you wore something home from the last store.”

“Do you like it?” she asks, looking at me in the mirror.

And again, my cock is saying… Are we having a Groundhog Day? Because I could swear we just did this. And if it happened once…

Easy there, fella. Don’t get excited. It’s not gonna happen again.

He doesn’t listen. Because Lyssa looks like a fucking lingerie model in her matching yellow bra and panty set. All she needs is a pair of those huge wings and she could be on the runway.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Lyssa says.

“Knock, knock,” a voice says on the other side of the door.

Lyssa goes over to the door, opens it a crack, takes the dress, and says, “No, thank you, we’ve got it.”

Then shuts it in her face.

“Lyssa,” I say.

“I said thank you,” she protests. “I wasn’t being rude.”

“Maybe she should help you get the dress on?”

“No.”

I cock an eyebrow at her.

“What? I’m not seducing you. I’m standing way over here, see? And besides, you picked it out. Don’t you want to see it on?”

Which is dumb. Because I could wait outside and still see it on her when she’s finished.

“Put the bags down, Mason. I need your help.”

I drop the bags and walk over to her as she unzips the new dress, removes it from the hanger, and says, “Hold it, so I can step in.”

“Lyssa,” I say.

“Just please,” she begs. “You’re making a big deal out of nothing.”

Which is not true. She’s playing games with me again. And my cock is doing its best to play along, against my better judgement.

I hold it, back side facing her, and she puts her hands on my shoulders to steady herself as she steps inside the dress. I pull it up her body and she holds it against her breasts, then turns and says, “Zip me.”

I do, and again, I feel like this day is on repeat. Which is making me think about how she sat at my knees and sucked my dick.

When it’s zipped she turns to face me. “What do you think?”

I place both hands on her shoulders and turn her to the mirror. “What do you think?”

She smiles at herself in the mirror. “Now this is a wedding dress.”

And I agree. So different than the one she used to wipe my come off her face.

“But oh,” she says, turning to look at her ass in the mirror. “Panty lines.”

And then, before I even realize what she’s doing, she reaches inside the side slits along each thigh and pulls her panties down, kicking them off to the side.

“Lyssa!”

“This is why I never wear underwear,” she explains. “I need to see if it looks OK without them. Because with them—”

“You are not walking down the aisle with no panties on.”

“Oh, yes, I am. This is a no-panties dress and you picked it out. So you have to live with it.”

My cock agrees with her. Because I’m fully fucking hard now.

She glances down at it, then lifts her eyes to mine, and says, “I hope you’re not thinking—”

“I’m not,” I say.

“—because if you wanted to do dirty stuff in here, we could get caught—”

“Don’t worry,” I say.

“—and Margaret would be so disappointed in us if she caught the best man fucking his best friend’s fiancée.”

“What?” I say, doing a double-take.

“That’s what I told her. It’s kinda hot, isn’t it?”

“No,” I say. “It’s kinda sad, actually.”

“Well, it was a lie, anyway. So that just makes it hot.“

“Jesus, Lyssa.”

She mouths the words Wild Thing at me, then reaches down to grab my cock.

I push her away, but she backs me into the mirror with a bang.

“Everything OK in there?” Margaret calls from the other side of the door.

“Just fine,” I yell back, glaring at Lyssa.

“Come on,” she whispers. “Wild thing, hold me tight.” And then she giggles.

“That’s not even how the song goes—”

But I stop. Because the next thing I know, she’s on her knees in front of me, the button popped on my jeans, the zipper down, and my cock is in her hands.

“Lyssa,” I groan.

“Tell me no,” she says, then sticks the head of my cock in her mouth, pressing her tongue up against my shaft, before I even have a chance.

“Would you like another dress?” Margaret calls.

Lyssa eases her mouth off my cock with a loud smacking sound and looks up at me. “What do you think, Mason? Do we need to try on another one?”

“No,” I call back to Margaret. “We’ll let you know if we need anything else.”

“I could wrap it up for you,” Margaret offers, just as Lyssa puts my cock back in her mouth and takes me deep into her throat.

“Uh… we’re not quite…. oh, God… done yet,” I say.

“OK, I’m right out here if you need anything.”

“Great,” I groan. Because Lyssa is giving me a full-on head-bobbing messy blow-job. And against my better judgment, my fingers are now tangled in her hair, urging her on.

She pulls off me, both her hands on my thighs, pushing me back, and then she stands again.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Making you choose.”

“Choose what?”

She backs up against the mirror and whispers, “You know why you chose the dress with two slits?”

I already know where this is going.

“Because I can do this.” She pulls the center portion of material aside and flashes her bare pussy at me. “And you,” she says, grabbing my shirt and pulling me towards her so my cock bumps into her leg, “can put that inside me and I don’t even have to take my clothes off.”

“I’m not gonna fuck you,” I whisper back.

Why not? she silently mouths and simultaneously pouts.

“Because you’re not mine, Lyssa.”

She sighs. Frowning. Giving up. Because she leans back against the wall and wilts. “I want to be yours.”

“You can’t be,” I say.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re engaged. And I’m just… I’m just your fucking babysitter.”

She slides her hand between her legs, then withdraws it and places the tip of her glistening wet finger against my lips.

I close my eyes and open my mouth, my cock totally in charge now. I suck on her finger the way she was just sucking on my cock.

“Please,” she whispers. So low, I almost don’t hear her. “I promise to be good in every other way if you just… make me feel loved right now.”

I pull her finger out of my mouth and say, “Lyssa,” feeling sad for her.

“We can pretend,” she says. “Right?” She places both her hands on my cheeks and leans in. Kisses me.

I kiss her back.

I know I shouldn’t. I feel the guilt of a best man fucking his best friend’s fiancée, and I don’t even care.

If her name is Lyssa Baylor then I want to fuck my best friend’s fiancée.

“Everybody pretends,” she whispers past my lips. “It’s all fake, Mason. So who cares, anyway?”

She pulls her dress aside again, reaching for my cock. And when she tugs on it, I do the unthinkable. I take two steps forward and we’re not even two steps apart. So now my chest is pressing up against her breasts, forcing her against the wall. She lifts up her leg and I brush the middle section of satin dress over the side of her thigh to get it out of the way.

And after that, it takes no effort at all to slip my cock inside her.

The one thing I told myself I wouldn’t do.

I would eat her out, and let her blow me. And kiss her, and suck her nipples, and smack her ass, and all that other stuff. And it would be OK if I just didn’t fuck her.

And now I’m fucking her.

In her wedding dress.

Which I picked out.

Which she is wearing for me.

And I will not be the one waiting for her at the end of that aisle when that wedding day finally catches up to her.

“Wild Thing,” she whispers past my lips as I kiss her and fuck her slowly.

I think I love her.

Because I can’t stop this. Even if I wanted to—and I don’t—I can’t stop this. And even though I know stupid Margaret probably has her ear up to the door, listening as I slide my cock in and out of Lyssa’s wet pussy, I won’t stop this.

Lyssa hikes her leg up higher and I reach down, pick up her other one, and press her back against the wall as I begin to thrust harder.

She moans, then bites her lips to make herself be quiet.

And I moan, and she places her fingers over my lips to make me be quiet.

And then Margaret is knocking and asking us questions and we ignore her. Just… ignore her. Because Lyssa’s breathing heavy, like an animal. And I’m doing the same.

And we are just animals.

We are just… wild things.