Chapter 11
“What the fuck is that?” I roar upon noticing Bri’s desk has been swamped under an array of framed photographs, miniature figurines, and one of those kitsch fake plants with a smiley face and sunglasses that mimics your words and sways when it repeats them back to you.
“Um, décor?” Trystan offers, looking up from his tablet.
“Décor is throw pillows on a sofa. This looks like Ikea threw up all over her workstation. Or is it Walmart? Where do you even shop for shit like this?”
“And an advance on her salary? What, am I the damn Deutsche Bank now?”
“Oh, lighten up. I thought more regular sex would improve your sour mood. Her sister’s sick and needs some testing, remember?
I can have twenty-five thousand in her account right now.
That’s what, ten days’ worth? That covers her until the middle of next week.
Even I think this one will last until then. ”
Hilarious, asshole. It’s not that I don't want to advance the money. She wouldn’t have asked for it unless it was important.
Or any doubt that she will still be here at the end of next week.
It’s about control and release. I have control, and I release the funds once people do the things they are paid to do, to my exacting standards.
Whether they’re my print managers, news anchors, blog talent, it doesn’t matter.
I am the CEO; I call the shots. Not her.
“Ugh. Fine. Put twenty-five across now. Don’t say anything; let her work it out for herself. And when she’s back from Brooklyn, she can come to the Fenkel lunch with us.
Saul and Rosy Fenkel own some strategic smaller networks up and down the East Coast. They do their thing, we do ours.
We’re not friends, nor are we enemies. We coexist as distant colleagues in the industry.
Like Sabrina and I are coexisting. Her commencement could not have come at a busier time, with the Mercer Christmas photographs that mother insists on turning into a Ron Howard spectacular.
She’s not the organized lover of all things festive like Bri assumed, the only reason the shoot took place at the first hint of September, is to allow the editors and team of retouchers the time needed to produce something worthy enough to send out five thousand copies of, along with festive baskets to her nearest and dearest in the myriad of industries touched by the Mercer palm.
There will be line softening and skin blurring, all to appear pure and unblemished to the world.
That in itself is the biggest illusion, because while we may play nice, proffering professionally wrapped faux gifts and chortling over snifters of brandy on a set couch, the ugly truth hides underneath.
Papered over like a student rental, and away from inquisitive eyes, the Mercers are a family fractured.
The killer blow rests inside a folder locked away in a secure location that only I can access.
When unearthed, it will make Ebola look like a nasty scrape, so the timing is as critical as the safety of a shelter once the bombs rain down.
If there is one thing I’ve learned in media, it’s that timing is everything.
The contract states that the receiving party is to live in an establishment approved by me.
They should seek permission and notify me if they are entering my private space, like the penthouse at Onyx One.
There is no reason for them to be in my personal areas unless it’s fetching a particular timepiece for a formal look or cufflinks given to me by Magnus and Marin when I turned twenty-one.
The EPA’s never enter my bed there, unless it’s to drag me out of it when I’m stinking of booze from a night out.
Even then, it’s Trystan who would be tasked with that, given we’re well matched in mass, although I’ve got him covered in the muscle department.
He’s the typical English cad type, hair a little longer, and expensive spectacles that perch on the bridge of his nose when his contacts irritate him to the point he can’t take anymore.
The same nose I broke when we were fifteen and fourteen.
No EPA has ever lived with me in any capacity other than out-of-state layovers, and even then it’s separate bedrooms in a suite, with Trystan in another.
Any intimacy typically occurs in my office or car, once the partition is raised, although every driver knows what’s going on.
They’re not blind, or immune to the intoxicating scent of sex that drips from us when we exit the vehicle.
I pay them well enough that salacious gossip isn’t an issue.
My private office quarters see plenty of action too, if I’m honest. In theory, a bedroom and bathroom suite with a small kitchen makes sense to a busy executive who works eighty to a hundred hours a week.
Most of the newer high-rise executive apartments feature these suites as business standard.
When Sabrina commented that the suite was twice the size of her current apartment, my body shivered with an uneasy feeling that she may dwell in substandard accommodations, although the full week schedule has meant any other arrangements cannot be made until we can all breathe for a moment.
She turns up punctually and polished each day, which is all I can ask of her.
And so far, there has been no evidence of any undue scratching pointing to an infestation of mites or something equally revolting in her living quarters.
Raul steers the car along a modest, tree-lined street, the dappled evening light warming faded brick buildings and outdated apartment blocks.
The overhead hum of engines from entering and exiting Newark jets has been a constant companion for the last twenty minutes of our journey, reminding me how thankful I am for Onyx One’s opulence and soundproofing.
“We’re here, sir,” comes Raul’s accented rasp.
“Thank you, Raul.”
“Shall I go up and fetch Ms. Sabrina while security waits with you?”
The blacked-out vehicles at our front and rear form the perfect bookend arrangement. “No, that’s okay. I will go up myself.”
“As you wish, sir.”
I exit the vehicle, my actions mirrored by a man from each bookend sedan, arms reaching to button suit jackets over the tops of holstered firearms.
“She’s on the third floor,” I offer both men before making my way inside the building with no intercom. Frowning, we move past a small group of teens huddled near the path, craning their necks to see a noisy video or reel playing as it’s held up by a skinny kid around twelve or thirteen.
The elevator is tagged with graffiti, thick black angular lettering highlighted by colorful shadows and shine bursts.
Angling my head to the side, I make my intention of taking the stairs known to my guys, both of whom are on full alert to any potential threats.
We ascend to the third floor and find apartment 308, knocking firmly on the door three times in an act I’m worried might crack the thing.
She lives here. I’m the first to admit I was raised with unbridled wealth and privilege.
A fleet of cars and copious staff to take over the tasks of childcare, food preparation and tending to the immaculate gardens on the estate we were brought up in, minus the rare and exotic plants in the conservatory that mother fussed over with the pride of a parent.
Plant parent, not her own fucking children.
Not one of us was even allowed in the conservatory where she and her ladies would take tea, only once we were teenagers and able to appreciate the beauty and relevance of rare and coveted things, were we deemed worthy of her presence and that of those pretentious fucking plants?
The sound of a chain unbolting and a door opening in a wide arc startles me back to the present, and what a gift she is!
Sabrina is almost regal in a pale green gown that drapes over her curves in all the right places, and a thigh-high split in the silky fabric to showcase her toned leg encased in champagne gold strappy heels.
“Good evening, Mr. Mercer.” She nibbles at her bottom lip as I take her in.
“Good evening, Sabrina. You are a vision.”
She beams a smile I will remember until my final breath. All straight, white teeth encased in plump, kissable lips glossed in a pink so light it's almost the same color as her lips themselves. The same color I dream her nipples will be once I strip her down and appreciate her properly.
“Sir.” Jack’s clipped tone over my shoulder alerts me to a potential threat. A man has just exited an apartment further down the hall, and both men put their bodies reflexively between the potential threat, Sabrina and me.
“We need to leave,” I announce, torn between wanting to appreciate the vision of her standing in the doorway, or her body astride mine in the back of the car.
Sabrina indicates to the elevator, and we pause.
I don’t think any of us would relish three flights of stairs in those heels, so we move en masse to the sentinel silver doors, unblemished on this level.
Once inside the confined box, with its mélange of food smells and lingering body odor, all I can think of is moving her out of this building and closer to the office.
To save time on the commute, of course. Nothing more; she’s an asset only. I protect my assets.
Once inside the safety of the car, we move as a convoy.
Sabrina is nestled snugly into the space next to my hip and under my shoulder, away from prying eyes and rogue reporter questions, for now.
Seizing the opportunity of an almost forty-minute trip to the venue, I pull her onto my lap in a movement so unexpected, it draws a gasp from that perfect mouth.
“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.
She rocks 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 traffic light.
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.