He chuckles, tapping me in the ribs with a toe. When I wince, he immediately comes to comfort me. “Fuck, Bri, I’m so sorry. I forgot.”
“Not sure how you could forget with my baseball eye and heroin addict lip scab!” When I first caught sight of my bruised and swollen features this afternoon, I wanted to cry. I’m not vain, per se, but I look fucking awful. There is no way Mason would want me next to him tonight. No way in hell. I can’t see much anyway, so best I sit on his ridiculously oversized sofanext to his best friend of fifteen years and consume champagne from his personal cellar.
“I hate that this happened to you,” he mumbles, upset at the whole situation.
It’s New York, Trys. People get mugged; it’s life. If I wasn’t so insistent on not letting go of the work cell, I might have noticed the other guy approaching from behind, grabbing the shoulder strap and escaping with his prize. My neck was the casualty in that exchange. “I am really sorry about the work phone. I know it wasn’t synced as recently as it should have been so there are dates that won’t be in there and things I?—”
“Bri, it’s fine. You’re fine, sort of. Now, let’s enjoy Mr. Mercer in Armani, shall we? Even with one eye, I’m sure you can still appreciate his form.”
“Why didn’t you go with him? To the awards night?”
His eyes meet mine before his turning head catches up to the process.
“You are joking, right?”
No, I think the idea has merit. They have a great relationship at work, often jovial and personal when it’s just the three of us in an office, or four if Helen sits in to update the twice-weekly calendar sessions.
“You think two men, one of whom is a Mercer, walking a gold carpet and broadcast to the world is an idea worth entertaining?” A shudder takes over his body, brief and subtle. Had I not been looking at him, it might have gone unnoticed.
“I just thought that you two are pretty close. You get on so well that it?—”
“Stoprightthere. Do not let another soul know your thoughts on this, and Bri, please for the love of God, don’t mention the idea of Mason and me attending anythingtogether.”
“Would Aydra be upset?” I inquire, thinking of the beautyI’d met weeks earlier, but hadn’t heard a word about since. My question is met with a cumbersome silence.
On cue, a valet opens the door of a white stretch Rolls-Royce. The vision switches to a presenter in a knockout sequined gown that hugs every curve. Wisps of soft chiffon dot around her like a cape sways as she explains how integral the Mercer family is to the media and entertainment industry. She recites the prestigious family’s generous donations to charities and causes like pediatric programs and youth on the streets. Michael and Alice Mercer appear, both regal, polished, and poised. The woman doesn't walk; she floats.
“Love the Givenchy,” Trystan praises. “And Valentino is an excellent choice for old Mikey boy.”
I almost spit out champagne. The aloof prick with the twin coal lasers for eyes would lose his ever-loving shit if anyone, let alone his son’s executive, referred to him as “old Mikey boy.” Michael answers the questions, a hint of a smile ghosting his lips when the presenter touches his arm. Alice remains stoic and graceful, smiling and waving before continuing along the carpet. She looks like an ethereal Grace Kelly.
“Ooh, ooh, turn it up,” Trystan hisses, folding himself in half to reach the remote.
“Mason Mercer, it wouldn’t be a Warner Awards night without your family here. What does this mean to you?”
I try to take in his reply, no doubt as polished and precise as the man himself. But a woman has just sidled up to him and taken his arm. The reporter with the microphone blanches, and then recovers, her gaze never faltering from Mason’s neatly clipped beard and incredible jawline.
“The fuck?” It’s half squeal, half shriek. Trystan’s hand covers his mouth.
“Is that?” My chest seizes with panic. I can feel the tightening pressure cloaking each lung like a crashing wave.No, no, it can’t be. Breathe, just breathe, horizon line, and count.
“Nooooo!” Trystan declares, his hand making a slashing motion.
“It is, Trystan, look!” The words fly out of my mouth unrestrained and dripping with caustic acid. As Mason continues forward, he shakes off and divests himself from his parasitic guest. Before they are out of shot, the toss of hair and wide, fake-as-fuck smile tells millions of viewers the sad realization that Mason Mercer just walked the Warner Industries gold carpet with Juliette fucking Nasta-Vrees. She didn’t get a directive not to touch him, walk three paces behind, or what dress to wear. No, she choreographed this whole thing perfectly. Part of me, some desperate, depraved part, wonders if she set me up to be mugged in the first place?
I’m roused from sleep by the most incredible dream. One where Mr. Masculinity himself is devouring me. His tongue sweeps a slow, deliberate path up my slit before settling his lips over my clit and sucking with the intensity of a commercial vacuum. His beard glistens with my arousal when he surfaces for air before diving back in to continue his delicious machinations. Oh my God, this man brings performance to every aspect of life, the boardroom and the bedroom.
“Shhhhh baby, I’ve got you. Let go for me, that’s it.” His affirmation speaks to my soul. My fingertips, buried in fistfuls of sheet, rise to delve into the silky strands of his tousled hair, the fibers still damp from a recent shower, and he smells oh so fucking good.
“Mason?” This is not a dream.
“Let go,” he orders, alternating between licking and sucking. Actual licking and sucking. Mason is perched between my spread thighs, the hazy remnants of dreamy sleep dissolving into alarming reality.
“What—” My head lies heavy on his designer pillowcase. “What are you doing?”
“Giving you my belated birthday present.” He grins, fucking grins at me from his determined position in the V of my spread thighs. “I want to make you feel good, but I’m alsoconcerned about not aggravating any bruising or swelling. By now, I think I know what your body needs.”
Before I can answer, he’s straight back to work, his tongue circling my clit while his thumbs hold me open, exposed. Pleasure coils its way from my core in a pulse so strong my back bows. My limbs move with uncontrollable rigidity as he pulls the most filthy words from me in a slew of chants and exclamations. One last lick, a type of pinch and suck, and I’m floating, the coil of want and need exploding in a wash of satiation I have never experienced before. Mason winks before withdrawing and resettling my shaking legs as I slowly sink back to post-orgasm reality. Once my eyes flutter open again, I notice he’s naked and hard. The plum-colored tip of his crown is swollen and leaking.
