MASON (Billionaire Bastards, Book One) Page 11

  “You will be securely locked in,” he says, totally serious. “At all times.”

  The vibrating metal thrums in my stomach, strong enough to make my teeth chatter. It’s loud! I watch his lips move, which is strangely sensual even though I’m terrified as hell. In my imagination, I pretend that he promises to save me, should anything go wrong, and then the helicopter starts to lift off the ground. I grip the edge of my seat until my fingertips turn white and squeeze my eyes shut.

  My stomach is a roiling mess of nerves.

  I breathe in. Out. In.

  Mason taps my headset. “You’re going to miss the view if you don’t wake up.”

  Oh, I’m definitely not sleeping. I pry one eyelid open a sliver, squinting through the window, and my stomach tightens into a knot. We dip toward the skyscrapers, our reflection flashing against their mirrored surfaces, and then disappearing as we ascend. I open the other eye, but keep my gaze level. Don’t look down. Never look down.

  “Look down,” Mason yells, pointing at the floor.

  Bile rises up my throat and my cheeks puff out. I shake my head, which makes Mason laugh.

  To my surprise, we’re not the only helicopter in the sky. I count three in our immediate area. Tourists, Mason explains. Wall Street fades from view, replaced by the bright lights—even under early morning light—of Manhattan. A giant billboard of Garth Brooks stretches up into the clouds, and behind it, an old picture of Britney Spears.

  I risk a quick glance below and the traffic weaves in one continuous line through the busy streets, pedestrians shrinking to the size of ants. We cross over the Brooklyn bridge, swooping low enough to make my throat close in, and then up again as we careen toward New York Harbor.

  My breath hitches in anticipation.

  The chopper loops around the beautiful Statue of Liberty, so close I almost feel like I can reach out and touch her. My chest swells with emotion and I blink back a tear. I catch Mason staring at me in my peripheral vision and look away, embarrassed. He caresses my knee and then takes my hand in his. I have so much to say, but the words don’t—can’t—come out. This is the most magical experience of my life.

  Mason says something into his earpiece and the pilot nods. The helicopter makes a sharp turn and we hover over the Hudson River and back through the city. He points to something on the ground, and this time I gather the courage to look.

  MetLife Stadium opens up below us. The helicopter begins to descend, as though the football field is luring us in like a magnet. I press my face up to the glass, watching as the sharp white lines come into view. We land on the 50-yard line, the bleachers rising up all around us like mini skyscrapers.

  “Jesus,” I say, louder than I intend. “We’re in the middle of a football field.”

  The corners of his eyes crinkle. “So we are.”

  The pilot cuts the engine, and the propellers whir slowly to a stop. I exhale a breath I’ve been holding for far too long. “How do you think the Jets will feel about this?”

  Mason chuckles. “You say the strangest things, Miss Landers.”

  He pops open the door and climbs out of the helicopter. I wait for him to come around to my side, and take his hand, stepping out onto the perfect grass. My heels sink into the ground. I slip them off and curl my toes into the field, wondering briefly how many people ever get the chance to do this.

  “Walk with me,” Mason says, eyeing my bare feet with twinkling eyes. He’s getting a kick out of this, but it doesn’t bother me. I’m having the most fun of my life. Now that the fear of flight has abated, and even looking forward to the trip back.

  We hold hands, circling the perimeter of the field until we reach one of the goal posts. A picnic basket rests between the poles, a green and white blanket draped beside it on the grass. Mason squeezes my hand. “Hungry?”

  Speechless, I nod.

  Mason lays the blanket down, and opens the wicker basket. A bottle of champagne chills at the center in a bucket of ice wrapped in a checkerboard tablecloth. I sit next to him, tucking my legs to the side. Mason pulls out two glasses, sets them on the ground, and then lifts the bottle for my inspection, turning it slightly so I can read the label. Dom Perignon. “Nothing but the best for you,” he says, smiling.

  My stomach flutters. “You arranged all of this?”

  “I may have had a little help.” He licks his lips. “There is an assortment of cheeses in here…” He digs in the basket. “My receptionist assured me that you would enjoy this.” He holds out a chunk of what looks like fudge and grimaces. “Chocolate cheese, which sounds strange, but I figured she’d know.”

  I clear my throat. “What is your receptionist’s name?”

  He tilts his head. “Misty, of course.”

  I choke out a half cough-half laugh. “That was one of my guesses.” It’s the perfect chance to out her for this morning’s stunt, but I’m reluctant to ruin the moment. I eye the champagne. “Are we celebrating something?”

  Mason pops the cork, pours us each a glass. “It’s a big day on the stock market.”

  “It is.”

  Instead of elaborating, he lifts his flute as if in salute. We clink glasses, and he takes a sip, then gestures to the field with a head nudge. “So, what do you think?”

  I swallow a sip of the bubbling elixir, shivering as it tickles down my throat. “It’s big.”

  “Football fields tend to be,” he says, winking. A boyish grin lights up his face, making his eyes twinkle like stars. I could get lost in that constellation. “You think you could become a fan?”

  I shove my hand up in the air, my head slightly fuzzy after the exhilarating helicopter ride, coupled with mid-morning champagne. “Hell, yes!”

  He leans forward and kisses the tip of my nose. “Very convincing. I suspect you’d fill out a cheerleader uniform very nicely.”

  I duck my head, snorting with laughter. “Clearly, you’ve never seen me dance.” I thread my fingers through his. “Seriously though, what’s going on? Is Daylight Holdings buying season tickets?”

  I’m not a big football fan, but I can see the allure of watching a game up close. I imagine the bleachers filled with fans, green and white jerseys blowing in the breeze. The popcorn, the beer, the rush of adrenaline. Yeah. I could get into it.

  “Not exactly,” he says, grinning. “I’ve purchased the team.”

  Chapter 21

  Whenever Mason takes a call from one of his partners, his back inevitably stiffens. I don’t know if that’s because of me—or if there’s something deeper going on. I want to dig, investigate, peel through the layers. But it’s really not my place to ask, and I learned long ago that I’m no P.I.

  And yet, as I watch his posture now, rigid and unyielding, a perfect picture of self-control, I can’t parse that against the man who set up a picnic in MetLife Stadium last week and gleefully admitted to buying an NFL franchise. Boxes of New York spots merchandise are stacked in the corner of the office, including twelve jerseys, each with Mason’s name stitched across the back. The other night, he made me wear it to bed, and then put me in the role of awkward cheerleader as I stripped it off and left it on the floor.

  Turning to my computer, I scroll through transactions on the New York Stock Exchange, trying to distract myself from Mason’s tense conversation. He stands at the window, hands in his pocket, curtly speaking through the Bluetooth. His jaw jerks with increasing frustration.

  “Just make the God damn trade, Lucas,” he says. “Why are you questioning it?”

  A chill settles deep in my bones. I can’t hear what Lucas is saying, but it doesn’t matter—he’s clearly upset, and I have a feeling my presence is making it worse. I stand, smooth out the wrinkles from my skirt, and scratch a note to Mason on a message page about taking a break. Maybe sharing an office is a mistake. I’m suffocating under his partners’ clear dislike for me.

  Mason turns before I make it to his desk, and shakes his head, intercepting my plan. Annoyance flashes through his eyes, p
ale like ice. Quietly, I scrunch the paper in a ball and toss it into the garbage can, and return to my desk. Anxious energy trips along my spine. I’ve never been good at conflict.

  As per company policy, any major deal requires two partners to sign off on it. But lately, Mason’s transactions get more push back than before. I’m pretty sure that’s because of me too.

  I tidy my desk, shifting paperwork, dusting the glass surface with the rag I keep tucked in the top drawer. There is nothing personal at my workstation—no pictures or books, no framed awards, not even the box of colored paperclips Renee gave me to “liven up the joint.” I get the impression Mason would view them as childish, and I’m already fighting the stigma of being too young.

  My “welcome to the company” gift sits to the far left of my Daylight Holdings coffee mug, a gold-plated hourglass with the sLucas “Time is Money” etched onto the surface. Predictable.

  “I am one third owner of this company, Lucas,” Mason says, voice rising. “You would be wise to remember that.” I lift my gaze just as Mason begins to pace. His leather shoes leave imprints in the plush carpeting with each back and forth step. The tension is so thick you could use a chainsaw and still not hack through it. A growl rumbles from his throat. “Make. The fucking. Trade.”

  My back stiffens at his tone.

  I tap away at my keyboard, trying to look busy, but if Lucas doesn’t flip the switch on this transaction, Daylight Holdings stands to lose millions of dollars. I completed the research myself, which is probably why Mason’s partners are hesitant to pull the trigger.

  Another throaty growl from Mason. “She has nothing to do with this. These accusations need to stop.”

  Now I know he’s talking about me, and my gut begins to churn. It’s not often I cross paths with Lucas and Holden, but they make their disgust clear whenever it happens. Holden doesn’t look at me, Lucas ignores my attempts at small talk, and as evidenced by this phone conversation, neither of them respects my work.

  Even when the research is good. Like this particular transaction.

  Mason knows I’m right or he wouldn’t have sanctioned the trade.

  My computer pings, alerting me to the impending deadline. I tap my screen, drawing Mason’s attention. He nods. “Lucas, listen. We’ve got about two minutes here. We can argue about your concerns another time. Right now, I need you to authorize this fucking deal.”

  I hold my breath.

  The clock ticks down. Five, four…

  Mason mumbles something into the phone, and then slams down the receiver. Two seconds later, I get confirmation that Lucas signed off on the deal. Daylight Holdings is up three million bucks—a drop in the bucket for the company, but still, my chest swells with ridiculous pride.

  I breathe out slow relief, but my shoulders still ache with tension. It bugs me that Mason’s partners have such a low opinion of me. And based on what? “Do you think Lucas and Holden will ever warm up to me?”

  Mason’s head pivots. “What matters is your performance as my personal assistant,” he says, with cool reserve. Clearly I’ve touched a nerve. “Their opinions of you are irrelevant.”

  My heart pings off my rib cage. “For now, I guess. But what about when I make the jump to day trader?”

  “We’re nowhere near that stage,” he says.

  I lick my lips, carefully choosing my next words. While Mason never indicated a timeline for my review, I’m proud of the work I’ve accomplished—I’m first to arrive, last to leave, continuously checking the stock markets, predicting trends, keeping an eye out for a deal that will demonstrate my growing “killer instinct.” I’ve proven myself. At least, I think I have. “You still find me lacking?”

  Mason’s eyes flash and he stalks across the room, grabbing me by the wrist and pulling me toward him, and before I can even utter a gasp of protest, I’m bent over his desk with my skirt and panties around my ankles. Good God. My palms splay across the surface of the glass.

  His hand slides down the back of my thigh. “You lack patience,” he says, skimming his fingertips across my buttocks. “I told you that you must earn your position. I’ll decide when you’re ready. Can you manage to retrain yourself until that time?”

  He presses his groin up against my thighs and swivels his hips.

  I go instantly wet. “Yes,” I whisper.

  Mason’s response is a low throaty chuckle. “Good. As you know, I have a particular fondness for restraint.”

  There is a rustling of movement as he removes his belt, and then quickly wraps it around my wrists, tying them together before cinching it tight. The rough leather digs into my skin.

  At once Mason is behind me again, and before I can clinch my butt cheeks in preparation, his palm connects with my naked ass. I bite my lip so as not to cry out as the sting ripples all the way up my spine. He spanks me again, this time harder. His hand lingers for a brief second, fingers trailing dangerously close to my pussy.

  “Again,” he says, and I close my eyes, bracing for whatever comes next. My skin hums under his touch. I chew on the inside of my cheek hard. It shouldn’t, but my arousal grows stronger with each swift paddle.

  He leans close, pressing his hard cock into me. His breath whispers across my neck. “You’ve been a very bad girl, Liv.” My mouth goes dry. “But as always, you have taken your punishment well.”

  I release a juddering breath.

  His hands move to my waist and he spins me around. Blood rushes to my head. He grabs my ass and lifts me onto the cool desk.

  He wheels around his chair and plunks down. “Now for your reward.”

  I tilt my head back. Sweet Jesus, thank you. He pries my legs apart, and breathes deep. “I could bury my face in this sweet pussy all day, baby.”

  I open wider, inviting his lips, his tongue. With my hands still bound, I push down on his head, shoving his mouth closer to my sex. His breath is hot, not quite touching. My clit swells with anticipation. Hurry. I press my lips together to ensure I don’t speak aloud—Mason hasn’t given me permission to talk.

  But the first swipe of his tongue along my slit makes me cry out, louder than I intend. He grips my hips and licks me hard, his tongue rough and aggressive. I hear him groan against my wetness, and it’s almost my undoing.

  My clit throbs with the need to be sucked and licked. I arch my back in invitation.

  He grips my thighs and dives in. His tongues glides along my pussy, making me wetter, hotter, more desperate for his touch. I throw back my head and close my eyes, giving in to this—to him. Mason is like a drug, and I can’t fucking get enough.

  “You taste so damn good, baby.”

  His voice is low, rough. I have never felt so wanted and sexy. And wet. My God, I’m fucking wet. “Don’t stop,” I whisper.

  I lift my hips, pushing his tongue into the folds of my slit. He draws circles around the tiny nub of my sex, licking, and sucking, and flicking with just the right amount of pressure to increase the speed of my mounting orgasm. My teeth sink into my lip as I struggle not scream, aware anyone could walk into his office at any moment.

  The pressure mounts.

  He licks, sucks, flicks his tongue across my swollen pussy. Jesus, fuck. He’s going to make me come.

  I writhe under him, desperate for release.

  I’m beginning to pant.

  “Don’t you dare come,” he says. “Not yet.”

  I feel the orgasm surging so close and focus so as not to give in. “Please.” Sweat beads across my brow. “Please, don’t stop.”

  “Patience,” he whispers.

  His tongue moves like lightening between my thighs. Flicking, sucking, licking.

  But just as I feel my orgasm about to hit, Mason—

  Stops.

  I am right on the verge. It would take one lick, one feather of hot breath across my pussy to push me over the edge. I lift my head and watch, awe-struck, as Mason draws his tongue seductively across his bottom lip. He wipes his mouth—glistening from my juices—
with the back of his hand and stands.

  My body is electric, pulsing with longing so intense it hurts.

  “What the fuck,” I gasp.

  I expect Mason to drop his trousers and devour me with his cock, but my assumption is so wrong. Painfully wrong. Carefully he unbinds my wrists, gently kissing the welts caused by my struggle.

  My pussy throbs.

  Aches.

  Dear God, I have never been in so much torment, wanting to climax so badly and being denied it.

  Taking my hands, Mason lifts me to a sitting position and kisses my forehead with such sweet tenderness he’s like a whole other person. A Jekyll and Hyde, one minute punishing me, the next turning my insides to mush.

  “That’s it?” I say, breathless, aghast. He can’t fucking leave me like this!

  I can feel the dread unfurling in my chest. My stomach twists.

  “For now,” he says, smirking. “Consider this a lesson in patience.”

  Chapter 22

  We’re in a luxurious wine bar near the office, and it’s well past lunchtime. A few stragglers hang out at tables, but in our private corner only the quiet hum of classical music in the background distracts us. I study my glass, aware I’ve drunk half a bottle of Merlot and already feeling the buzz.

  My mind wanders back to the feel of Mason’s mouth against my vulva, the way he sucked me to climax in his office last week—and then days later left me on the verge of orgasm. Warmth spreads between my thighs. Sex with Mason consumes my thoughts, leaving me in a constant state of arousal. It’s dizzying.

  A slow flutter begins at my belly and dips between my legs.

  He stands, tosses a few bills on the table, and holds out his hand. “Come.”

  The innuendo makes my pulse leap. “That’s almost a given at this point, but we’re not quite there yet,” I say, smirking. The twinkle in his eye suggests we’re not far off.

  Mason’s car is waiting for us outside the restaurant, and I climb into the back seat. Soft music pulses through the speakers. I settle in and close my eyes, breathing in the familiar scents that are wholly Mason.