Page 72 of Thirst For Me
“Uncle Mason!”
My hands fly off my cock like I’ve been struck by lightning. I shove a pillow over my crotch as my niece’s footsteps pound up the stairs toward my bedroom, and my thoughts scatter like marbles.Jesus.Did I lock the door?
Yes.
Maybe?
Fuck. I yank the covers over myself.
“Mason! ICan’tFind My Labubu Have You Seen It?!”
“Kaylie!” Layne shouts up the stairs, and the footsteps abruptly stop. “It’s down here.”
“You found it?”
“Yes. Stay out of Mason’s room.”
The footsteps pound back down the stairs.
I blow out a breath and sink back into the bed, heart thudding.
Three seconds later, I tense when Kaylie screams, “Mason!!” and my nervous system fires up again. “Breakfast is Readyyy!!!”
“Okay!” I call back.
It’s like she truly believes no one can hear her unless she screams the place down.
I groan, shove off the covers, and get up, still half hard. Trudge to the shower. Consider jerking off as I get the water running.
Instead, I make it cold and quick.
Try to be grateful that my brother just made me breakfast.
But fuck me. I need to get the renos finished on that damn cottage. Get Layne and Kaylie and the dog moved out of here.
I just need some fucking space.
Some alone time. One fucking moment of sanity in my goddamn day, to jerk off or do whatever the hell I want to, in fucking peace.
Just a few more days.
The sun has just gone down and the smoothie bar has closed for the night when I find Sierra on the pier.
The set of steps down the side of the pier to the sand, right outside Pier Seven, is the only public access to the beach in Orchard Cove’s town center, and it’s the one that’s used by most tourists. Which is one of the main reasons this is such a prime location for a restaurant.
But there’s no one else on the beach that I can see in the fading light right now, or on the pier.
Just her.
As I approach, she’s holding out her phone and posing with a refillable Cutie Fruitie cup under one of the pier’s lamp posts, fiddling with the angles. Unzipped hoodie, hot-pink sports bra, yoga pants, platform sneakers. Hair smoothed back into a ponytail and braided.
Lips glossed. Nails done. Pierced navel showing.
She looks like a woman who could sell millions of anything without trying so hard, but has no idea.
“Taking selfies?” I inquire. “Hashtag:suck it, Mason Grant?”
She lowers the phone. “Just some social media,” she mutters irritably. “For Cutie Fruitie.”
