Chapter 3: Breakfast for the Damned

Lust is a blade hanging over your head.

From the moment I saw him, all I could think was: sleep with him, sleep with him, sleep with him—on repeat, like a broken Spotify track.

He’s just too hot, and his voice is a problem.

If that face was next to me, gasping and whispering dirty things—just the thought made me shiver.

And honestly, reality matched the fantasy.

Mason’s got this killer self-control, all cool confidence, but in bed he blurs the line between control and wildness—until he loses it completely. The way he lets go... damn, worth every bit of the effort I put in these last six months.

At first, I even joked about spiking his drink to see if I could get a reaction. But that’s the kind of late-night thought you laugh off in the morning—definitely not my style, and way too risky. Besides, with our families’ business ties and Mason’s straight-arrow streak, I’d be all over the campus police blotter. My mom’s already on my case about life choices.

So I started showing up around him for work stuff.

Adults rely on seduction—switching from kitten to tiger to sad puppy on command.

Daily non-repeating outfits, perfectly staged Insta posts, rose perfume because I heard he liked it, casual touches, accidental run-ins, just enough vulnerability to keep him curious.

I learned to time my Starbucks runs with his, order the same drink, act surprised when our hands brushed grabbing the last donut at a student event. You know, the usual American college flirty warfare.

All business in person, playful online. After we’d talk shop, I’d drop a few suggestive texts.

He never bit—always changed the subject or left me on read. A total gentleman.

Until the night before last, when I got home from clubbing and texted him like always:

[I’m hungry. Want to eat you.]

Ten minutes later: [Okay.]

Honestly? I was a little shocked. And a little let down by how easy that was.

But I wasn’t about to let him change his mind. Sent a bath pic and my address.

I tossed my phone on the nightstand, heart pounding. Sometimes you just have to shoot your shot and pray he’s there to catch it.

My stomach’s growling, so I flip on the bedside lamp.

The mess from last time I got up is already cleaned up.

I sit up and call my assistant, Derek, to see if he can bring me some food.

Just as he picks up, the bedroom door opens: "Awake?"

Mason’s already dressed, same suit as before but a little wrinkled. The soft light takes the edge off his sharp jawline.

The wildness from earlier feels like it happened in a dream.

He’s checking his phone, hair damp, suit jacket half-on like he can’t decide if he’s staying or leaving. He looks at me and raises an eyebrow, all business, but there’s a smile trying to break through.

When I don’t answer, he tilts his head. "Want something to eat?"

I tell Derek never mind, then look up: "Why are you still here?"

Shouldn’t he have gone to see his ex?

She called last night, Mason didn’t answer, but now that it’s over, shouldn’t he be running out the door?

Mason frowns. "Where would I go?"

His tone is calm, but there’s a trace of confusion—like he genuinely can’t imagine being anywhere but here right now.

"...Didn’t you get a call last night?"

He thinks for a second. "Nothing urgent." Then he walks over: "Want food? Or... can’t move?"

Mason, out of bed, is back to being untouchable—distant, polite, just the facts.

I’m happy to let him take care of me, so I nod. "Want food. Can’t move."

He doesn’t say more, just scoops me up and carries me out.

He picks me up with zero effort, making me feel like a feather. My arms loop around his neck automatically. There’s something gentle but possessive in the way he moves, like he’s staking his claim without saying a word.

[Sis, your acting is worse than your credit score.]

[She’s loaded, though...]

[Main guy doesn’t care about her, he’s just polite. She’s shamelessly mooching.]

I’m in too good a mood to care about the comments.

My head rests on Mason’s chest—so comfortable.

He smells like my body wash, rose and vanilla mixing with his skin.

At the table, Mason pauses: "Can you sit?"

I roll my eyes, grinning. "Of course I can’t."

It’s not until he sits down with me on his lap that I get it.

He settles in, pulling me half onto his thigh, half in his arms. The old wooden chair creaks under us. I catch my reflection in the microwave—hair wild, cheeks flushed. This is one for the highlight reel.

The kitchen chairs are wood—pretty hard, not exactly comfortable.

There’s a plate of scrambled eggs, a stack of Eggo waffles, and a bowl of instant ramen—classic broke college breakfast-for-dinner. The mismatched plates look like they came from a Goodwill haul: one with a faded cartoon cat, another chipped at the edge. I wonder if he found the frying pan behind my waffle maker or just improvised. There’s something weirdly domestic about it that hits me out of nowhere.

Mason’s got great manners—even eating, he’s almost too nice to watch.

But my mind flashes back to a few hours ago—same position, way less food, way more heat.

"Can’t move your hands either?"

Mason mutters, eyes fixed on the table, chewing as he sets his fork down.

I turn to wrap my arms around his neck, nuzzling his jaw. "Feed me."

Same words as last night.

Mason’s body goes stiff. He gently moves my hands and gives me a soft smack. "Quit messing around."

All business, but still flirty.

I behave and start eating. If things heat up again, I won’t survive it.

The food is actually really good.

The comments are eating it up too:

[Main guy, put down that trash.]

[He actually stayed to cook? Wait for the big groveling scene.]

[Isn’t this normal? They’re together, he can’t just leave after a hookup.]

[She’s throwing herself at him, he’s the victim.]

[Side chick, enjoying that? He learned to cook for the real girlfriend~]

Enjoying it? Hell yes.

Other people plant the tree, I get the shade.

After eating, Mason sets me on the couch and heads to the kitchen to load the dishwasher.

His phone rings on the coffee table—caller ID says it’s his buddy, Ryan Kim.

The screen lights up with a goofy photo of the two of them at a tailgate, faces painted in rival college colors. Ryan’s the type who could talk his way into—or out of—any situation. Mason’s smile in the photo is rare and real.