“I want you now!” The growl is punctuated by a thrust of my hips under hers. She can feel how hard I am. The woman is practically levitating because of the size of my erection trapped in my suit pants.
“Dessert before dinner? Is that even allowed?”
Her melodic cadence is teasing and intoxicating. Holy Christ, I want her. Badly. Snaking a hand up her thigh encased in nude lace-top stockings, I play with the edge of her lace thong, reveling in the scent of her arousal as it perfumes the back seat air. A heady elixir speaking to the hedonist in me. Sherocks those delicious hips over my tenting erection while I move the scrap of lace aside with my index finger. I work my zipper down with my other hand, tugging at the button and slide with clumsy fingers to free my aching dick. Ever the professional personal assistant, Bri takes over the maneuver and has my weeping cock free in seconds.
“I don’t want to get cum on this dress,” I warn, knowing how many cameras will be pointed our way.
“There is no way I’d let you get cum on this dress,” she fires back with indignation. That might be a furtive task considering her own arousal is all but dripping down her thighs and onto her nylons. Fuck.
“Condom?” she replies.
“It’s day seven after your contraceptive shot. We shouldn’t need one, nor do I want to wear one. I’ve had your mouth, now I want your silky cunt vicing my bare cock when you come.”
She gathers the fabric around her waist in gentle pools so it won’t crease. I aid her by lifting her hips, using my thumb to stroke through her slit and lubricate further. She’s going to need it.
“Oh my god, Mason!” Her smoky eyes blow wide as she maneuvers her body to take me.
“That’s it,” I praise, “you can take me. Sink down… mmm just like that.”
After rubbing herself all over my dripping shaft, my thumb and finger stretching her open, and a mountain of sage green fabric pooling around her waist, Sabrina sinks down, sheathing me in her delicious warmth, swallowing me to the root. My head lands on the Alcantara leather headrest with a soft thwack. Fuck, she feels amazing. If only I had her naked riding me, without this billowy barrier. I hold her hips with a grip tight enough to control her movements, but not enough to bruise her delicate skin. The car rolls to a gentle stop at a trafficlight. Hundreds of people still rush about, finishing their workday or about to start an evening shift somewhere. Food delivery drivers on scooters all but graze the window, oblivious to her rhythmic up and down motion, or when she adds a little grind and roll to her motion when I’m balls deep in her. She readjusts the folded fabric in one hand and places the other over the lapels of my jacket, covering my heart. “That’s it, ride me.”
“I’m right there,” she pants out alongside her breathy moans.
“I can tell,” I soothe, “Ride me faster, baby. Come all over my cock. Make it rain.”
With two more grinds, she does just that. The pulse point in her neck throbs with the same steady beat as my dick unloading thick spurts into her—bare. I can already tell I’ll want to be back inside her by the end of the evening. And every day after.
Mason Mercer has a filthy mouth. But, oh my God, does he know what to do with the equipment he’s been blessed with. He requested—no, demanded—my oral skills every day since I began the contract. Tonight, feeling like Cinderella off to the ball in my stunning silk couture dress and Valentino heels, was the first time he was inside me properly. When my conscience struggled with working in a position of power imbalance that also required sexual intercourse, the one thing that grounded my hammering pulse was that this was a task, like any other. In my mind, I was convinced the CEO was some suited silver fox who got lonely at times. The reality couldn’t be starker. Night and day, air and water. The CEO of Mercer Media is a fit, young, virile Adonis who pays for the pleasure of my company. A pristine package of perfection with his suit-clad muscular physique and a face that should frequent the magazines he oversees. This man—aloof at times, sure, but I see that as a challenge to conquer, not a turnoff—who was inside me moments ago, is now cleaning me with a tissue. If the mind-blowing sex didn’t take my breath away, his tender care post-coitus has robbed me of speech.
The car pulls away from the security detail and glides to a stop in the semi-circular forecourt. One of Mason’s men ushers the valet aside, instead opting to open the door while another stands sentry on the other side of the car, his hand over his ear as if to confirm instructions through an earpiece over the dint ofpassing traffic, the occasional siren, and valets whistling instructions for ride share vehicles. There must be two hundred people in this extravagant courtyard alone. Cordoned ropes section off photographers and camera crews from the attendees, the area bisected by a decorated blue carpet and towering statues, perfumed floral urns and so many competing voices, my nerves are exploding.
“Gentle smiles only,” Mason whispers, head bent low, so his breath tickles the sensitive skin on my neck. “Walk next to me but don’t touch me.”
Wait, what? Ten minutes ago you had your hand between my thighs, cleaning away the evidence of your climax. Go back five minutes more, and you were whispering a slew of filthy promises to me as you thrust up into me. Don’t touch me feels like a slap in the face. Confused, I falter at the edge of the carpet, righted by a man in black I recognize as private security. Mason, however, has made his way further up the carpet and is about to disappear inside the opulent brass doors held open by more urns, more flowers, and even more security. I plaster on what I hope is a gentle smile and make my way inside. I’ve barely caught my bearings and worked my way free of the entering foot traffic when Trystan appears at my side with a gorgeous woman in tow. Her shimmery lemon dress accentuates her light brown skin to perfection.
“Bri, I’d like you to meet Aydra. Aydra, this is Sabrina, or Bri.”
“Hello, Aydra, your dress is stunning. You are stunning,” I all but gush to the goddess standing at over six feet in her own shimmery heels.
“She is, isn’t she?” Trystan adds, a glint in his eyes behind those glasses I only ever seem to see him wear in the evening. “Where’s the boss? Did he ditch you already?”
Yes, Trystan, he did. Straight out of the car, after we’dfucked for eleven city blocks. His hand settles on Aydra’s hip, where he guides her further into the venue. Waitstaff zig-zag through assembled guests, offering champagne, cocktails, and spirits. Opulence like I’ve never witnessed glistens like stars dropped from the heavens themselves. Every table drips with impressive sculptures and fresh flowers. Stemware gleams like fluted treasure among a pirate’s loot of gold cutlery. The chairs are a mix of jewel tones, lacquered timber, and form a glorious perimeter to the black cloths and shimmering scattered crystals. It seems a shame to sully such a scene with people. Maybe if I close my eyes, I can remember the room so pristine and political, before it was just a backdrop to the machinations of Media benefit.
“There you are. Thought you’d deserted us early. Seems a shame when you know we’re all sitting together. Mr. Mason Mercer, please meet my date, Aydra Bressner.”
I turn in time to see our mutual boss take Aydra’s hand and bring it to his lips, never losing eye contact with the statuesque woman beaming at him. Trystan watches the act unfold before sliding his gaze to me, not before the nasally voice of my nightmares drenches me in a proverbial bucket of frigid water.
“Sab. Sabby? No way! Is that you?” Her twangy words have me glued to the spot and unable to move, wanting desperately to vault the milling crowd and slide into the car whistled forward out front. Oh, fuck.
“Oh my god,it IS you. Flabby Sabby,” she giggles, “how long has it been?”
Not fucking long enough. Mason disentangles himself from Ayda, and now all three of them bear witness to the unfolding humiliation.
“I mean, you’re not fat now. Well, not as fat! Another ten or twelve pounds and you’ll be there. Guess all you needed was the motivation, right?” From my peripheral vision, her self-satisfied smirk begs to be punched clean off her face. I wouldn’t risk jail time or this manicure for a bitch like her.
I turn with glacial slowness and the speed of a cheetah simultaneously. Mouse-brown hair with fresh highlights, an angelic face and overfilled deep red lips to match her gown. Juliette Nasta-Vrees. Kill me, kill me now.
“And you are?” Trystan demands.
