Breaking Perfect (32 page)

His
boy looked down as if ashamed.

“Whatever,”
Sean said as he shoved him away and stormed out of the bathroom.

“Stop!”
At the commanding tone in Mason’s voice Sean stilled. He waited, his eyes glued
to the rumpled bedding that still reeked of the scent of sex. He couldn’t turn
to face him.

Sean
sensed Mason stepping closer. “I…I’m not sure I really thought this through.”
The uncertainty, the tentativeness in Mason’s voice was in direct contrast to
his former autocratic tone.

Part
of Sean’s heart dropped into the soles of his bare feet. He knew this would
happen. He sighed. “Enough said. I’ll get my shit and be out of here before you
get back from work.”

“No,”
Mason snapped and Sean wondered if that was panic he heard in his voice. The
weight of Mason’s palm on his shoulder was a balm to his confused heart. “I
just…I wasn’t prepared for all these old emotions to come back. I…I shouldn’t
be having these feelings. She’s my wife and I love her.”

“You
asked for this!”

“I
asked for it for her. I feel like I’m taking more from it than she is and that
was never my intention.”

“Okay.”

“You
don’t understand, Sean—”

“No
need to spell it out. Like I said, just let me get a shower and grab my stuff.”

“I
don’t want you to leave!”

Sean
turned on him. “
Then what the fuck do you want, Mason?”

He
found himself suddenly toppled back onto the bed, Mase’s mouth hard and
punishing over his. He gripped Mason’s damp hair in a tight fist and rolled on
top of him only to be forced to roll over again. Mase’s towel fell away and the
heat of their cocks struck like matches against tinder, burning hotly against
one another. Mase’s mouth kissed down his throat and bit at his shoulder.

Sean
was taken in an iron grip. Mase pulled hard on his cock and Sean’s hand touched
on the bottle of lube left tangled in the sheets from the night before. “Here.”

Mase
grabbed the lube and quickly filled his palm with oil and began stroking his
own flesh until it gleamed hot and shiny. He backed off the bed and Sean rolled
to his stomach, swiveling his hips to plant his feet firmly on the floor. Mason
wasted no time. Sean’s feet were kicked apart and then Mase’s cock nudging at
his hole. Their breathing was the only sound for a split second and then his
rectum stretched around Mase’s wide cock.

It
had been years since anyone had fucked him there. Thirteen to be exact. Never
had he ever wanted another man the way he wanted Mase. He would be a lying fool
to deny that he loved the man. The prick of tears and an unfamiliar tightness
in his throat were the prelude to Mase filling him in one fast, hard push.
Forgotten sensations wracked his mind and thrilled his body.

Once
seated deep inside, Mase didn’t take Sean hard as he expected he would. Rather,
he gentled his hold and seemed to fold himself over Sean’s body, blanketing
him, caressing him, making love to him. Slow and deep, Mason seemed to pour his
heart and soul into each stroke.

This
was what Sean had been afraid of, loving two people at once. While a short
affair with consulting adults was all well and good, emotions and pasts made
things altogether messy.
 
The sudden
awareness of his feelings for Liberty exacerbated everything.

Mason’s
lips pressed into his back as he whispered endearments over his flesh. “I don’t
know if I can lose you again. I wasn’t expecting to feel so much for you. I
thought I was over you.”

“I’m
sorry,” he ground out. Sean was so sorry for so many things. Mase probably
suspected he was apologizing for complicating their lives by showing up, but in
truth he was sorry for lacking the courage Mase deserved from him thirteen
years ago. He was sorry and ashamed that he couldn’t stand up to his father, a
man who had never loved him, for the man who had never done
anything
but
love him. And now…now he had fallen in love with his wife as well.

“I
didn’t expect it to hurt like this. I can’t seem to accept you leaving again.”

At
that, Sean pulled away and Mase let him go. He turned and kneeled on the bed,
facing his boy. Pain stitched into his heart at the sight of a deluge of tears
running down Mason’s face. With a gentle hand Sean wiped away the salty drops,
cupping the beautiful face, and kissed him.

“I
should have never left, Mason. I was a fool. I knew it the moment I left, I
know it now, and I will know it when I’m an old man leaving this world with no
one to love me.”

“I
love you.”

“I
love you, too, but it isn’t enough anymore. You have Liberty and your life is
with her. All this pain, it’s my fault. It’ll always be my fault and I’m so
sorry. Tell me what to do and I’ll do it. You want me to go? I’ll go.”

Mason
shook his head. “I don’t want you to go.”

“Then
ask me to stay and I’m yours. Libby’s too. We could make it work, I think.
She’s sweet and giving and…” What was he saying? What was he suggesting? The
hope that showed in Mase’s eyes wasn’t fair to any of them. Mase was right.
They couldn’t make these decisions without Liberty. He was having an affair
with her husband. What they were currently doing suddenly appeared very
different from what the three of them shared last night.

Today
there were intimacies that had remained closeted the night before. There was an
entire plane of emotions laced with a complex past that Liberty had no idea
about. It wasn’t fair to discuss these things without her there. He hated the
sense that he was somehow betraying her at the moment. He would never have Mase
again without her acceptance. Oddly, Sean wanted her acceptance as much as he
wanted Mason’s. He loved them both. Staggered by the realization, Sean looked
up at Mason, finally understanding the pain and fear, the incredible agony of
surrendering to love.

He
cupped his palm over the rough edge of Mason’s jaw and smiled sadly. “We have
to stop.”

* * * *

Liberty
stumbled back from the bedroom door and dropped the pile of linens onto the
white carpet. What had she just witnessed? That wasn’t lust, as she assumed the
night before. It was love, love rooted in a foundation she knew nothing about,
love that stood apart from her and Mason’s.

The
pain etched on Mason’s face told her he was breaking apart, torn in two
directions. Her husband was in love with Sean. How could she have been so stupid?
She’d never seen even the slightest evidence of Mason finding other men
attractive until she witnessed him with Sean.

There
was more than arousal fueling those desires that had come in to play in the
past few days. This was bigger than that. This was a history she had no idea
existed. She felt foolish and betrayed, and at the same time terrified she
would be cast aside.

Biting
her knuckles to stifle a sob, she quickly turned and rushed down the hall until
she gained the stairs. Her frantic steps didn’t stop until her feet crossed the
threshold of the guest room on the third floor. Looking back at the empty
hallway, she quietly closed the door and turned the key.

Liberty’s
body hit the wall with a thud as she staggered backward. Her spine slid down
the surface until her bottom came into contact with the hard floor. She stared
around the perfect room, taking comfort in its precise display.

Whitewashed
wood floors gleamed without the slightest fleck of dust. Pristine ivory carpet
fit the square room with perfectly measured angles. The thick button upholstery
of the white headboard delineated the various monochromatic throw pillows.
Everything was clean and perfect and pure. From the glossy white framed mirror
to the chic crystal chandelier, to the Irish lace curtains filtering in the
white rays of sunshine, there wasn’t a single impure mark. Then her eyes landed
on the pristine mantel painted a pale shade of eggshell.
 
There, centered beneath, like a gaping sore
was the black fireplace. A stain upon an angel’s wings.
She
was that
stain.

Liberty
looked down at her white linen pants and examined her pale polished toes. No
matter how hard she tried to wash out her boldness, it remained, that same
darkness seeping from her pores. Three tiers of metal, three crystal beads,
three shiny bulbs, three dressed windows, three round pillows, three white
sconces, one chipped toenail.

She
shouted, her voice hoarse as she reached for an object to throw, an object that
wasn’t there. Her fingers went to her one imperfect nail. She slid the tip of
her fingernail under the scale of hard polish and chipped away the remainder
until there was nothing but natural peach showing through. Nine perfectly
painted toes, one misfit.

Looking
down at the mess she made, she quickly stood. She wouldn’t get on her hands and
knees to clean up those microscopic flecks of chipped paint.
No!

Whirling
around, she marched into the bathroom of the guestroom. Under a curtain of
draped gossamer, sat a porcelain claw tub. Her heart beat hard in her chest.
Her shoulders trembled.

No,
no, no, no, no, no!

Her
eyes molested the white curves of the tub, its purifying purpose seducing her
demons without effort. One drop, one turn of the wrist, and the water could
flow. She could take off her clothes and climb into the scalding water and
immerse herself and wash it all away. A taste of serenity, a baptism that would
cleanse her of the devil’s fingerprints, the pain would be so good. Pictures of
patches of pink flesh played in her mind as shivers twitched her limbs. She
could make the hurt go away. She could own it, control it…
nine perfect toes.

She
took a staggering step forward and halted. Sharp pain buried itself inside of
her every nerve as some part of her refused to go to the tub. The long gold
spigot called to her. She could almost hear the tight, releasing moan as her
fingers turned the brass knob free. Her ears could summon the sound of water
pressing up through the pipes, beating back gravity with its force, the soft
flush of liquid breaking past the faucet and slowly pooling, filling the curves
of the tub. Her eyes fell closed and her head rolled to one shoulder as she
imagined the steam on her face, her curls tightening and moistening in the sultry,
hot haze coming off the water and caressing her dewy skin, consuming her flesh.
She moaned.

Her
hands tightened into fists.
One imperfect toe. Three lovers, one imperfect
third.
She didn’t fit. She and Mason had always been two, three seemed to
be better, but now she would be forgotten, a pawn for pleasure in a game of
deceit. They weren’t three. They were two and she was one.

Her
fist smacked against her thigh hard.
 
And
then harder.

Again!

She
struck the tender flesh under the linen of her pants until her muscles throbbed
and she vaguely recognized that the beginnings of a bruise would be forming
along her thigh. Far away in the distance she heard someone call her name, but
she couldn’t answer.

Don’t
go near the tub.
 
Don’t cross the street
without looking both ways.
 
Don’t walk
alone after dark.
 
Don’t go near the
tub.
 

She
wouldn’t do this to herself. She wouldn’t do this to Mason.

Punch.
Punch. Punch
.

She
thought of Dr. Young. Saw the woman’s number written in her notepad downstairs
by the fridge. Knew the number, imagined dialing it, but couldn’t move her feet
to get there. She didn’t trust herself to move in the right direction. The bath
was still calling her, tempting her.

Abruptly,
she stopped her self-abuse.

Two
dozen thumps, eight sets of three, and her thigh muscle was screaming for
mercy, but that wasn’t why she stopped.
 
It was the pattern that fulfilled, won out over the tub. With shaking
hands she brought her fingers to the tender flesh of her other wrist and
pinched until tears stung her eyes. There. Conquered. She would deal with it
later.

Trembling
fingers wiped at her cheeks, brushed over her hair, and straightened her
clothes. On a deep breath she forced her body to turn away and walk out of the
bathroom. She slammed the door behind her and moved to put the bed between it
like a bulwark. Her breath came fast and she stared at the white carpet, her
feet traveling over the snowy surface to the puddles of white sunshine over the
glistening wood floors. Then her eyes touched on two large feet and she saw
Mason watching her from the door, his expression full of horror.

* * * *

Mason’s
body quaked with relief when Liberty emerged from the bathroom and slammed the
door. He’d given her his word that he wouldn’t cross the threshold and enter
her sanctuary without a clear invitation, yet even from his self-imposed exile
in the hall he witnessed her internal struggle, saw her fighting back her
demons, and knew he would break his word if she intended on harming herself.

He
waited, seeing the effort it took her to collect herself as she sat on the edge
of the bed. This was his fault. He knew he fucked up the moment he saw the
linens dumped carelessly in the hall.

The
game was over. He pushed her too far and he would never forgive himself if he
sent her back to the dangerous place they’d spent the last five years clawing
up and out of.

She
seemed to catch her breath. The weight of Sean’s eyes on him from down the hall
pulled at his heart like a thousand hooks, but his focus remained on his wife
where it was needed most.

The
same selfish side of him that had gotten them into this predicament wanted to
call to his boy, ask for his support in helping their girl. But he wasn’t his
boy and she wasn’t
their
girl. She was his wife and Sean was supposed to
be a guest in their house. Liberty’s home. She was supposed to be safe here. He
never imagined she would evoke his promise regarding the third floor when the
entire house was intended to be her sanctuary, yet there she sat, unreachable
and yet only ten feet away.