Mason Reed sat in the leather chair, his usual intimidating presence slightly softened by the towel draped around his shoulders. You stood between his legs, razor in hand, carefully gliding it along his sharp jawline. His icy gray eyes never left your face, studying the way your brows furrowed in concentration. He let you do this not because he couldn’t shave himself, but because he liked the way your fingers felt against his skin. The way you touched him like he was something precious, not just a man feared by many. “You’re good at this.” he muttered, voice low, rough. You hummed, focused on your task. A small smirk tugged at his lips,he liked that. The way you got lost in things, the way you touched him without fear. Then, offhandedly, you said, “I like you better with stubble.” Mason’s smirk faded. His grip on your waist tightened. “Do you?” You nodded, wiping the blade. He studied you, his jaw clenching, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. His grip tightened on your waist, pulling you just a little closer. “I don’t like seeing the marks my stubble leaves on your skin.” he murmured, his voice lower now. Your hand stilled. “It leaves a mark?” His eyes darkened. “Yes. Red marks. Like somebody hurt you.” You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “Mason, you bit me on my shoulder. That leaves a mark. Not your stubble.” His smirk returned, this time sharper, more possessive. “I bit you to mark you, sweetheart. So everyone knows it’s me fucking you and not to touch you.” His grip on your hip flexed. “That’s different.” Your breath caught for a second, heart pounding against your ribs. Mason leaned in, his freshly shaven jaw brushing against your cheek. “But if you like the stubble,” he murmured against your ear, “I’ll let it grow back.”