Chapter 12
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 of passing 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’d fucked 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.
“Juliette,” she offers proudly.
“If she lost twelve pounds, she’d be dead, Julia,” Trystan adds, ignoring her outstretched hand, but her attention has moved on with deadly precision to the reason we are all in attendance.
“Mason Mercer.” It's a salacious slur from her slutty mouth. Yeah, I went there. She was a slut and a bully. My bully.
“Hello,” is all he offers her, ready to move on with the evening as efficiently as he moved on with our journey here. Aydra appears at my side while we are guided to the table, her gown swishing as she moves like a gazelle. Meanwhile, I’ve morphed from Cinderella to Gloria from Madagascar.
“You know her?” Aydra inquires, slowing to allow my much shorter stride time to catch up with hers.
“She and I attended school together. We didn’t move in the same circles. She was…”
“A cunt?” Her eyebrow rises. Yes, Aydra. Although a word like that escaping from her perfect mouth has my mouth hanging open.
To ensure the humiliation was far from over, Juliette Nesta-Vrees was seated two diagonal tables away, in the direct line of sight of both Mason and me.
She made a point of coming to our table repeatedly throughout the evening, pouting like a petulant toddler when Mason’s attention wavered, which it did often.
“I work with the Fenkel’s, Mason. Perhaps you and I will work more closely together in the future.”
To his credit, he didn’t engage, opting to sip on scotch and discuss an upcoming deal with Trystan and other table guests.
Juliette was not our only table visitor, however.
Throughout much of the evening, men and women alike came to speak with him, shake his hand, or pester Trystan for “some face time with the great man.” Aside from an early conversation with Aydra, and a pat on the shoulder from Trystan on his way to flag down some Japanese vodka he had a hankering for, I was, for want of a better word, mute.
My plates were cleared, still laden with food.
“Are you done, ma’am?”
“Yes, thank you.” I couldn’t stomach the sumptuous creations arranged like art forms on geometric plates; whenever a fork was near my lips, my gaze caught on Juliette’s cheeks puffed out as if she were blowing up a balloon.
Over ten years later, she is still mocking my food intake, only the stakes are higher now.
We had evolved from a middle school cafeteria to a Winston Abercoombe Grand Hall gala fundraiser.
Only she hadn’t moved on at all. My starched linen napkin wasn’t required to blot any food from the corner of my mouth.
Instead, it blotted threatening tears from the corner of my eyes.
I wouldn’t let them fall here. I’d wait until I was home, the deadbolt dragged into place behind the front door, and then I’d let them loose.
A river of tears to flood the floor with the liquid salt of my despair, and let it carry me far, far away.