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“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.
    When he pinched her nipple, Leyla figured she was pretty much done for. Her breasts were sensitive, but Mason touched her with just the perfect amount of pressure. She arched her back and whimpered into his mouth. God, she wanted more.
    He ripped his mouth away and studied her with hot eyes. She knew what she would see if she glanced down at herself right then. Tousled hair, unbuttoned top, her right breast plumped up by his hand, her nipple long and tight. She didn’t want to look down at herself. The reality would force her brain back into action. There was a certain comfort and simplicity in letting one’s vagina do the talking. “Mason, please…”
    Slashes of red crested Mason’s high cheekbones. “You’re so beautiful.” He dipped his head, pulling her nipple into the wet cavern of his mouth.
    If she’d thought that Mason knew how to touch a nipple, that was nothing compared to how well he could suck one. He was a