Chapter 5
The longer Trystan takes vetting the next candidate, the more I itch to meet her.
If they come into the office for the formal part of the interview early, I know he’s given her a perfunctory review only, a sure sign that he’s missed something pivotal, or perhaps just wants to get it over with.
When the shit goes south, he messages to say the candidate wasn’t suitable and was sent away.
Good boy, at least he’s following my implicit instructions from yesterday.
Wanda was fine, my cock is still hard thinking about her follow-up interview.
A little fake and tight around the face, no doubt a legacy of her fame and reliance on fillers.
All I can do is hope she’s tight where it matters most. Doubtful, only time and a dinner reservation will tell.
“And through here is our CEO himself, Mr. Mason Mercer,” Trystan adds in his saccharine tone dripping with syrupy sweetness.
The tone he uses when he’s trying to get cock at a bar, or when things aren’t going his way in a merger meeting.
We are in neither of those scenarios, so why all the sugar?
Ah, now I see why. She’s breathtaking! She’s a good deal shorter than Trystan’s six foot four, even in a pair of sexy, strappy, matte-black heels I want to feel resting over my shoulders while I consume her.
Minimal, classic makeup with sexy as fuck eyes and what I think is referred to as a neutral lip.
Fuck, I part own and manage a company that prints fashion magazines; I don’t read them.
Her dark brown hair is almost black, pulled up in a high ponytail with just a hint of curl.
I imagine it wrapped around my fist, twice, as I thrust into her from behind.
If thoughts of Wanda had my cock hard, the vision in front of me has turned it to granite.
And of course, I’m required to stand and make her acquaintance, all with a raging hard on.
“Sabrina Broe, please meet Mason Mercer,” Trystan says, stopping just shy of my desk. His gaze darts down to my crotch as I stand, but he’s too professional to draw any more attention to the fact that it’s rock hard and about to burst through my zipper, or my subtle adjustment.
“Ms. Broe, lovely to meet you,” I say with the tone I reserve for fellow company CEOs and my father’s alumni.
It’s tonal perfection, polished over years of etiquette lessons, private school education, and years of strategizing with some of the biggest assholes in business.
The same resonance to get women to step out of their underwear and fuck me on a whim in coat closets or in first-class aircraft amenities.
“Hello, Mr. Mercer, sir.” She almost looks taken aback. Almost. But she catches her surprise in time. A move so efficient it almost appeared imagined.
“I understand Ms. Broe thought Michael was still at the helm,” Trystan adds by explanation.
There it is. Any internet homework she’s done has brought up the head of Mercer Group, not Mercer Media.
That’s a point off, Ms. Broe, although as my new tenure hasn’t exactly been made public yet, I’ll forgive her sin this time.
“I’ve allocated the full hour so we can take our time here,” Trystan says, pulling out Sabrina’s chair and gesturing for her to sit.
Asshole. He’s being a true gentleman with the chair theatrics, yet I felt possessive at his proximity to her shoulders as he helps guide her chair forward.
His sly grin shows he comprehends my exact thoughts, and he is indifferent to my ire.
Her tongue darts out to wet her polished lips, a move that has my dick stirring again.
I follow her eyes scanning the room briefly, not wanting to stray too far from the interviewing party and their probing questions.
When her gaze meets my lingering one, she smiles.
A genuine, crinkle-eyed smile with warmth and care.
She’s happy to be here, happy to share more about herself.
I’m instantly drawn to her, not just her polished presentation, but as she emits this kind of personable pleasantness, I can’t quite put my finger on; I’m more than intrigued.
She’s not preening and posturing like the candidates yesterday, or Wanda seeking reassurance that she was still relevant and youthful-looking despite being in her early forties.
Sabrina seems earthy and honest, in fact.
The makeup isn’t a mask; it’s an enhancer of her natural beauty.
It’s not a filter to focus on good areas and blur the bad.
Her clothing choice is sexy corporate, stylish perfection, not skintight, look at me garishness.
Please, please let this one be able to hold a conversation and the correct fork. Please.
Trystan begins with the usual machine-gun line of questioning.
Why she chose her double degree and major, why she left the publishing house, and where she sees herself in five and ten years’ time.
All standard interview fare, and Sabrina provides standard answers, except for the reason she left the publishing house.
She couldn’t remain there because it was untenable.
The official line from HR was that she had been offered a position elsewhere.
And yet, here she sits before the CEO of Mercer Media.
Position elsewhere, my left nut! What brings a vivacious, intelligent twenty-four-year-old to interview for a position she falsely believed catered to the needs of a man almost sixty?
“What are your interests and hobbies?” I ask, pretending to rifle through the pages of her personal details as if seeking clarity.
Clarity I won’t find because nothing is listed.
Yes, I checked. Her hand moves to her temple to flatten any potential flyaway hairs.
When she realizes that none exist, she sits a little straighter and sucks in a fortifying breath.
Christ, I only asked about her interests, not to harvest a kidney.
“Interests. Hmmmm,” she says, her index finger tapping her chin with a matching rhythm to my pulse. “I like to dabble in charcoal and graphite sketching. I’m not very good, but I am persistent. That’s got to count for something, right?”
Her self-deprecation alarms me. It’s clear from her demeanor and reluctance to elaborate on what makes her tick that she’s nervous.
Self-deprecation in business is a weakness.
She needs to back herself if she expects anyone else to do the same.
Trystan, ever the peacemaker, chimes in to right the ship.
“I’m sure your work is fine. I’d love to see some of it one day. ”
Her shy smile is infectious to the point of pain. Why is she not proud of her achievements? It’s an interest, a hobby for fuck’s sake, she doesn’t need to be Monet.
“Any sporting pursuits?” Trys adds.
“I do a lot of swimming,” she gushes. “I had terrible asthma as a child, and the doctor suggested it would be beneficial for my lungs. I guess I don’t see it as a chore anymore and have learned to love the endless laps.
I do a lot of my thinking when I’m face down staring at the bottom of a pool.
Any worries I send telepathically to that square drain. ”
I watch Trystan make a scribbled note and Sabrina smooths down her skirt.
This smaller table in my office is a version of the mahogany one in our conference room.
The detailed stain highlights the beauty of wood as a natural product, similar in so many ways to the woman sitting with us.
I’ve never wished this table to be anything else, but today I want it to be glass.
I want to watch those hands run over her thighs while there is a pause in conversation.
I want more than the tiny tidbits of information she’s willing to part with.
For the money I’m paying, I want it all.
“How much of the contract have you read?” My question is unexpected, given her recent candor with the swimming confession. Her body stiffens at my formality, brought out of her bubble with a wet pop.
“All of it,” she answers with fervor. “How could I sign the NDA otherwise?”
“Good point,” Trystan adds, uncrossing and recrossing his legs in readiness for the next line of questioning. The real meat and potatoes of why we’re all here.
“Sabrina, or do you prefer a shortened version of your name? Sab or Sabby?”
“My friends call me Bri,” she answers quickly. “I’m not a fan of Sabby.”
“Noted,” Trystan says, making another unnecessary scribbled note. “Bri, do you have questions before we begin the contract discussions, or should I continue?”
“I’d prefer you to continue, Mr. Hynd,” she says nervously, her hands eager to busy themselves. She intertwines them, separates them, and now each finger touches another. For comfort? Fortifying support?
“It’s Trystan, or Trys,” I interject before he can give her the spiel about Tryst by name and nature.
Don't want to scare the poor thing away at the first interview. And there will be no tryst buddy. You prefer cock, and she’s applying for a position to cater to me.
A personal asset, not a company one. His quiet chuckle seems to put Sabrina at ease as those tight shoulders relax somewhat, and that smile, my god that glorious smile, returns to her eager face.
“Before we get to the financial breakdown, let us first touch on the position and the stringent expectations. Is that all right?” Her buoyant nod is encouraging.