by Ivy Carter
My thoughts race through all the possibilities, calculating the risks and rewards of various responses and actions.
In the end though, I operate on pure instinct.
It’s as though my mind and body are disconnected, signals crossing even as I slip first out of my heels, and then slowly unzip the front of my jumper. My stomach fills with butterflies and my head with trepidation. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know this is wrong. Unethical, even. But that knowledge isn’t enough to make me pause.
Mason commands the room. This moment. Even my traitorous body.
What the hell is going on?
I slide the jumper off my shoulders and down to my waist, fingertips skimming the soft flesh on my hips.
My cheeks burn red.
Knowing the kinds of women he’s used to seeing naked makes this that much more horrifying.
At the same time, I can’t deny that I actually like this at some level.
I like knowing he wants to look at me.
Mason’s eyes lock on my chest, and I’m acutely aware that my taut nipples peek through my bra. My breath hitches. I exhale slowly, as if to pause the inevitable. A low growl emits from Mason’s throat, and it flips a switch inside of me.
He leans back in his chair and crosses his feet on the glass surface of his desk. “Don’t stop now, Miss Landers. Things are just starting to heat up.”
Jesus. He isn’t kidding. My teeth sink into my lower lip hard enough to sting.
Turning away for a moment to gather my courage, I unclasp my bra, then lean forward, cradling my full breasts with my cool hands. As the narrow straps slide over my shoulders, I turn back to him and let the bra fall to the floor. Every nerve ending in my body snaps to attention, truly awakened for the first time.
Looking down at my chest, I see that my nipples are tightly puckered, their color deepened by arousal, and as round and firm as two ripe berries. A flush of embarrassed heat creeps up the side of my neck and behind my ears.
“More,” Mason says, his voice a low drawl of lust.
My hands trail across my stomach and along my sides, pausing as I hook my fingers under the thin material of my jumper, so that I can shimmy it down my hips. The cool, conditioned air nips at my skin, leaving tiny goose bumps along my flesh.
“I…I didn’t…” My words fail me as I hesitate to take it all the way down.
“All of it must come off,” he states flatly, and finally I comply.
I’m now completely nude and at his mercy.
Mason’s eyebrow quirks. “No underwear?”
I lick my lips. “They didn’t, uh, work with the outfit,” I say, voice cracking with humiliation. Every part of me wants to melt into the floorboards, disappear into thin air.
“Perhaps I underestimated you, after all.” He nudges his head toward me, narrowing in on the soft curve of my stomach, bloated from too much wine and ice cream. I’m sure he can see my heart beat under my skin, can hear its rapid thump of fear. “Continue.”
My chest fills with air. I allow the jumper to fall to the carpet, leaving me with only a thin pair of nude nylons, pressed tight to my skin.
“Fuck me,” Mason says in a low growl that curls my toes. “You’re so god damned sexy.”
No one has ever said that to me before, and my pussy clenches in response. The musky scent of my juices whispers under my nose.
Mason kicks his feet off the desk and stands. He walks toward me and shoves his hands in his pockets, drawing my attention to his groin. Beneath his trousers, his hard cock points erect. A rush of unexpected power—and desire—radiates from my core.
In one swift motion, Mason grabs my waist and spins me around. Before I know it, I’m bent over his desk, my cheek flat against the glass surface, blood rushing to my head. He pushes up against me, hard cock tight against my ass, and grinds his hips. “What does your gut tell you now, Miss Landers?”
A lump of unease inches up my throat, rendering me speechless.
His fingers curl under the waistband of the nylons and gently tug. I can hear the material begin to tear as he pulls them down over my buttocks to reveal my naked ass. My butt muscles clench.
Mason’s breath feathers across my neck. “Do you remember why you’re being punished, Miss Landers?”
I swallow hard. “Yes, Mr. Wood.”
“Good.” His fingertips drift along the curve of my ass. “Lovely.”
Without warning, the flat of his hand connects with my skin, sending a tingling vibration down from my buttocks to my thighs. The first slap is gentle, little more than a pat, and strangely sensual. I suck in a gasp.
“Did you like that?” he asks, catching me off guard with a stroke much firmer, more painful than the last. The sting takes me by surprise but I can’t lie. “Yes,” I say, so softly I barely hear it myself.
My mind just keeps repeating:
This isn’t happening.
Mason Wood did not tell me to strip naked and then put me over his desk to punish my bare bottom.
He spanks me again, twice in succession and with increasing force. I bite my lip to stop from crying out and barely have time to recover before he paddles me again. This time, I bite back a scream that is also a moan. Tears spring to my eyes but I blink them back. Why do I like this?
Mason flips his hand over and trails his fingers along my skin, soothing the stinging sensation with a gentle caress. “The markets can be very unforgiving,” he says, whispering. “They ebb and flow with unpredictability.”
My butt glows, throbs, pounds with hot blood that races through the tissue. It hurts, no question, but I’m reluctant to ask him to stop, because beneath the discomfort there’s something else. A low, deep throb of erotic pleasure.
His hand dips between my thighs, fingertips just grazing the tip of my clit. A delicious wave of ecstasy ripples through to my core. I let out a noise that is more whimper than moan, an almost plea for him to continue.
His palm connects again with my skin, harder. I dig my fingers into the side of the desk, arching and squirming. My flesh is pins and needles, stinging and numb. An intense yearning aches between my thighs, unlike anything I’ve ever before experienced.
“Sometimes, the markets can be cruel,” Mason says.
The ominous tone of his voice makes me clench, and yet, I’m still shocked when his hand hits my ass with another sharp slap. His fingertips drag across the tip of my clit and I feel the last of my willpower unravel.
My orgasm comes swiftly, unexpected. One second I’m biting down to stop from crying out, and the next, my pussy is clenched and throbbing beneath his touch. A wave of pleasure spasms through me, and in the throes of my climax, I whisper Mason’s name.
Chapter 7
In the long mirror hanging on the back of my bedroom door, I study myself critically, looking for any symbol—however subtle—that I have changed.
I run my hands over my breasts, nipples tight beneath the silk top of my pajamas. My fingers slide across my gently sloped stomach, along the curve of my hips. My flesh is firm and resilient. Smooth. Unblemished.
No different than this morning, and still somehow—
Changed.
I turn, pirouetting on my toes, and look over my shoulder at the cheeks of my bottom. At one time, I would have said they were too round, too ample, but I’m not so sure anymore. If this afternoon is any indication, Mason is an artist that seems to prefer broad strokes. He certainly wasn’t complaining.
After my “punishment,” Mason told me coldly to get dressed and report for work in the morning. Then he left the office with me still in it.
I could have snooped, but I’m sure there are cameras everywhere.
Instead, I quickly got my clothes back on and hurried out as if my very life depended on exiting the building within a matter of seconds.
So, I got the job.
I sure did.
My skin tingles and I’m sure beneath my pajamas I’m still red from his touch. Reaching around, I cup myself,
cradling my tender ass cheeks in my palms, remembering Mason’s hands on me. An inkling of fear—and pleasure—spikes through me. Why can’t I stop thinking about him and why is it always about being fucked by him?
As if I even know what it would be like.
My sexual experiences could fit in a thimble and have room left over.
Closing my bedroom door, I crawl onto the bed. The mattress digs into my back, but I don’t roll over. I stare at the ceiling instead, listening to the thump thump thump of the obnoxious music playing from the apartment overhead. I’ve never met the tenant, but based on the raw tunes and gritty lyrics that grind through the vents, I peg him early 20s.
A young and inexperienced dope of a guy, unlike the fully formed man that spanked me today in his office.
Heat rushes to my cheeks and I close my eyes to block out the mysterious stains on the ceiling. And now it’s Mason’s face I see, hovering over me with those smoldering eyes and that perfectly shaped mouth.
My ass stings and I should be absolutely ashamed, but I’d be lying if there wasn’t a lingering rush of adrenaline simmering behind that humiliation. I’ve never been spanked before—not even by my parents with a wooden spoon. Certainly I’ve never thought of it in a sexual context.
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.
Today, I will not think of Mason’s hands on my ass. I won’t fantasize about his tongue between my thighs. I will be a sponge, soaking up whatever I can learn from one of the most reputable hedge fund managers in the industry.
Clutching my coffee like a security blanket, I push through the gold-plated revolving door and into the quiet lobby. My heels echo on the tile floor as I make my way to the elevator. Once inside, I press the button for the thirteenth floor, and draw in a deep, calming breath. I practice what I’ll say to Mason, to Gertrude. Jesus. I can’t keep calling her Gertrude.
But I’ve barely stepped outside the elevator when Gertrude hands me a stack of folders, an itinerary, and the phone number for Mason’s car service. “Mr. Wood expects you at the airport within the hour.” She glances up at the clock, and then smiles thinly. “With traffic, you’ll barely make it. I suggest you call the driver.”
My eyebrows inch together. “JFK? La Guardia?”
Gertrude laughs without humor. “The private airstrip. You’ll be taking the jet.” She waves her fingers at me. “I wouldn’t recommend being late.”
I doubt there’s much Gertrude would be willing to recommend to me, I think, as I hurriedly slide into the back seat of Mason’s private car. My legs brush against the leather seat, cool against my bare thighs.
“There’s coffee in the thermos,” the driver says. The corners of his eyes crinkle with amusement. “Mr. Wood asked me to tell you that he’s out of IVs.”
My cheeks go flush. A wry joke about my caffeine addiction is the only personal touch listed on my resume. Is it possible Mason read it after all? I use the thermos to refill my empty cup, and breathe in the scent of roasted hazelnuts. My mouth begins to water before I take my first sip. The hot liquid glides down my throat, smooth and rich. Sweet Jesus. It’s practically nectar from the gods themselves.
I settle into the seat and study the unmarked folders on my lap. Am I supposed to look at them? I flip open the top file and skim through the paperwork. I recognize a more recent series of trades that earned Daylight Holdings close to fifty million dollars and a front-page story in the New York Times. I squint at the notes scrawled on a slip of paper, trying to decipher the messy penmanship. I’ve only made out a couple of words when the driver announces that we are approaching the airstrip.
We taxi up the long runway to a small jet, where Mason waits at the base of a three-step staircase that leads into the plane. A heavy wind whips his tousled hair in front of his face, but I don’t need a view of his whole face to ascertain his mood. He stands rigid, stoic, a pillar of professionalism—and annoyance.
Anxiety nips at the nape of my neck. Will he come to the car to retrieve the files, or should I run them over to him?
He glances at his watch and I catch the flicker of impatience in his eyes. Okay. Take the folders to him it is. The jet plane’s engine roars at me in welcome as I step out of the car. My heels bite at the asphalt, still wet from the overnight dew. I balance the folders in my
arms and focus on walking, on not tripping, on not making a fool of myself. Anything to not further cement his harsh opinion of me—to think of me as something more than a klutz. That wasn’t on my resume.
“You’re late,” he says, by way of greeting.
A snarky response crawls up my throat but I tamp it back. “My apologies, Mr. Wood. I wasn’t aware you were going out of town. I got here as fast as I could.”
His jaw tenses. “If you had been early, you’d have seen my note.”
Again, I squelch my inner voice. I had arrived early, and Gertrude didn’t even give me the option of setting my things down in an office before handing me my orders. What else was on Mason’s note?
His Adam’s apple bobs. “Based on your lack of luggage, I can assume you haven’t packed adequate clothing.”
My throat closes in. “Luggage?”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Unless you plan on wearing the same skirt for the next three days,” he says. A mischievous grin curls his lip up. “I already know you don’t require underwear.”
That was a one time thing!
My whole face goes hot with shame, and in an instant, my resolve to keep things professional begins to erode. Damn him. I open my mouth to protest—I can’t be gone three days. Renee will be at my apartment tonight and I haven’t even taken down the picture of me and Mom—but he cuts me off with a dismissive flick of his hand. “A bag has been packed for you. I’m sure you’ll find it more than adequate.”
Despite my surprise, a thrill runs up my spine. “How can you be sure the clothes will fit?”
Mason’s gaze runs up and down my body, devouring me with a hungry stare that serves as a stark reminder of yesterday’s encounter. My ass clenches as if replaying the scene, and the tingle between my thighs is instant. “Your first lesson today, Miss Landers—don’t ever question me.”
My teeth sink into my bottom lip. I nod, precariously close to shrinking under the weight of his stare. He gestures toward the staircase and I tentatively climb aboard the small plane.
Five years after my father abandoned us, Mom dated a firefighter. He wasn’t particularly good looking, and he certainly didn’t model the stereotypical characteristics of the position, but I liked him well enough. One day, he took Mom and I in his small water bomber. The interior was just a shell—four seats, a smattering of equipment tucked into a small closet, a few odds and ends of safety equipment.
