Page 13 of Mason

Now, hours after being bent over Mason’s desk with my ass stinging under the flat of his palm, sex is all I’m thinking about. My pussy clenches with the memory and before I can avert my thoughts, I’m wet.

Fucking soaked.

I trail my fingers across my breasts and pause at the tight nub of my erect nipple. In my mind, Mason’s fingers close around them and squeeze. I let out a sharp gasp and quickly pull back.

Good grief. What the hell has gotten into me? It’s like being spanked somehow awakened a part of me that I’d long ago forced dormant, and now I Can’t. Get. Enough.

Dangerous and foolish thoughts. Because it’s painfully obvious that Mason isn’t interested in me. Each touch of his hand, every slap, was intended to punish me, to prove a damn point. His “message” still stings.

So then why do I want more?

So much more…

I slide my hand into the silky bottoms of my pajamas, imagining Mason’s firm cock pressed up against my slit, pushing to enter and fill me completely. “Yes,” I whisper, finding the swollen tight knot of my clit beneath my fingertips.

Closing my eyes, I begin rubbing myself, imagining Mason’s cock between my legs.

My butt circles on the mattress while I aggressively rub.

The orgasm begins to build, but so does my frustration at the inability to recreate the pain. I slap clumsily at my thigh, but there’s nothing more than an annoying, momentary sting. Filling my mind with the picture of Mason’s hand coming down hard against my flesh, I find myself in the role of naïve observer, watching the action as though hovering above the scene. I imagine the determination in his steely eyes as he slaps me again and again. It’s enough to trigger my climax.

Beneath my fingers, my clit swells.

Rolling waves of heat wash through my pussy and fill me, and now I’m coming.

But it’s as if Mason is somehow here, making me come through his ministrations.

The spasms are fierce, and as I lay gasping, enjoying the way the ripples tumble in on themselves like a hot wave, I realize that I’m in trouble. Deep, unfathomable trouble.

Because now that Mason Wood has had his hands on me, I can’t imagine ever being touched by anyone else.

* * *

Piles of garbage still line the streets when I hail a taxi and direct the driver to the Daylight Holdings office tower at the center of the Financial District. The ball of emotion in my stomach churns with increasing intensity, lack of sleep and first day jitters taking a back seat to the anxiety of seeing Mason again.

His smoldering eyes haunted my dreams.

If there’s one thing I’ve always been able to take pride in, it’s my professionalism, which up until the past few days, I would have deemed beyond reproach.

But Mason Wood has easily compromised that reputation, found the hole in my moral code and exploited it relentlessly.

For now, anyway.

As we pull up to the building, I decide my very survival in this industry depends on me stitching it back together.

Success is always, without exception, the result of determination, grit, and tears. I need to prove to Mason that I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty.

“First day?” the cabbie says, smiling when I hand him a crumpled stack of bills.

I nod. “That obvious?”

“Relax,” he says. “This city preys on the weak.”

And my new boss is a formidable predator, I think. I lug my leather briefcase out of the taxi, grab my coffee, and step onto the sidewalk. Across the street, the famous Charging Bull statue stares at me in challenge. My eyes flit to the temporary addition of the Fearless Girl sculpture, and my chest swells with pride. I have a job on Wall Street.

Me.

Olivia Landers.