Chapter 14
Pen and I share a cozy cocktail table at O’Rordys, an upscale Irish bar with over three hundred global whiskies to sample. She answered my panicked message within a minute and suggested we meet for a drink to discuss plans going forward.
“Juliette? Jules? Nasty fleas?”
“Yes!” Nasty fleas was a moniker Pen had given Juliette at the height of her fascination with my extra weight.
It provided a temporary distraction from the turmoil, and because we weren’t cruel bitches, the name never saw the light of day other than in our hushed discussions.
Unlike our classy selves, Jules still found it necessary to announce me as Flabby Sabby in public.
At a gala dinner where I entered like a princess and exited like a crushed insect.
“Oh man. What the actual fuck is she doing working at Fenkels?”
“I don’t know, but Trystan and I have to work with her on an upcoming deal that has something to do with a pilot program out of Georgia. I think I’d rather resign than sit with her on anything. But before you say it, I can’t, I know. Even so, she makes me want to peel my skin off layer by layer.”
“The last time I heard anything about her, she was a junior sales rep for some pharmaceutical company. How did she end up working in radio, and with that whiny voice?”
The ice in my vodka soda does another lap around the glass, chased by the disintegrating paper straw. My last few days working at Mercer Media have made me feel like a column of pulp about to tear in two.
“Bri, it’s mush. Stop.” She snatches it away and places it on a cocktail napkin. “So, other than Juliette Nasty Fleas, is everything else okay at MM?”
Is everything else okay? Well, Mason has reprimanded me twice for indiscretions with pivotal departments.
Marketing and Acquisitions both had to endure his explosive rants when vital information was missing for a presentation, or with acquisitions, the incoming manager’s name was misspelled.
That presentation was done prior to my starting, and Trystan owned that slip-up.
Mason Mercer, however, took it as a perfect teachable moment to outline the importance of proofreading and editing.
“Irrespective of your starting date here at Mercer Media, Ms. Broe, if you are part of the executive team, your name is tied to everything you put forward with your peers. That means you missed Trystan’s error; an error you should have taken the time to research and amend regardless of who wrote the copy.
Correct?” I mock in my best grumpy tone.
Pen raises an eyebrow and sips her drink, unaffected.
“Oh, Bri. The Mercers aren’t known as mercenaries for nothing.
Turn up, do the job to the best of your ability, rake in the thousands of dollars, and get Caitlin right.
And have mind-blowing sex with a hot CEO.
You just need to take the good days with the bad, babe. ”
“When it’s just the two of us, he’s this filthy-tongued sexual god.
Or if some part of him isn’t inside some part of me, he’s softly spoken, encouraging, even.
When he has an audience available, people to preach and posture to, he’s a different person entirely.
It’s like he has something to prove, and a ballistic missile wouldn’t dislodge the chip from his shoulder. ”
“Oh, Bri.” Her delicate hand reaches for mine across the sticky table before she thinks better of it.
“As much as I thought I’d enjoy the office stuff and dread the fancy evening events, I’m kind of dreading all of it.
” She readjusts, and her elegant fingers cover mine, the skin of her palm flushed and soft.
“Every job has diamonds and coal, Bri. Would you rather book a date for the man who promised you forever?”
My gut curdles from the vodka soda and mozzarella sticks, now simmering like an oily raft in my stomach.
Renver Soarke, the left wing and alternate captain for the New York Hammers hockey franchise, had been Penny’s significant other before her accident.
They got together about four months earlier, having met at a season launch.
Renver was incredible throughout Pen’s rehabilitation, even championing her role at Covet when she could work again.
Around five months ago, they’d called it quits over a hotel photo scandal involving a trio of naked women, Renver, and the Hammers center and captain.
Talk about messy. That was a glaring reminder of how ruthless the press can be when they get the slightest whiff of a breaking story.
Penny broke too. And now this piece of shit thinks it’s okay to contact his ex to provide a date for an event, and not think anything of it?
“It’s fine. I’m… fine. I sent him a gorgeous up-and-coming model called Aydra.”
“Coal, everywhere,” I say, swallowing the last of the vodka and dwindling ice cubes in one gulp.
“Maybe Mercer Mining could use the coal,” she says with a giggle. “Fuck knows you and I are the only diamonds around, hey.” I’d salute her statement if I had anything in my glass to toast her with. As if on cue, the coal continues to burn.
Mason
Meet me at Onyx One in thirty. Penthouse. Simon will buzz you up. Bring an overnight bag.
Me
Sure thing, boss.
Fuck.
The early rays send a broadsword of light onto the easel and current work, still messy with unshaded areas and crying out for texture.
It’s been weeks of non-stop work, almost continuous sex, and the ache in my thighs while I sit here in sweatpants and a messy bun is a reminder of just how fortunate I am to be in this position.
I don’t want to think about how many women have gone before me, or how many will come after me.
Because they will, even I know that. I am a paid sex worker who handles correspondence and cock.
Paid well for days I’m not even in the office, like today.
I’m still tethered to the end of the umbilical that is my work phone, knowing any minute I may be summoned to present myself, sans underwear.
The fizz of unease threatens to consume me every time my family texts to ask how I am or how my new job is tempered when I can deposit another twenty thousand dollars into their account.
“Another bonus? Wow, Bub, you must be kicking goals. Well done, you!”
If you only knew. I’m not kicking goals, I’m kicking myself.
Caitlin has seen a specialist in retinal diseases.
She had to sit through a battery of tests and scans, one costing over eight thousand dollars alone.
There is no way she would have been able to see such a respected and knowledgeable surgeon if I wasn’t working for Mason Mercer.
That thought stills the leg when I want to kick myself.
It doesn’t still the thoughts that I’m a high-end hooker who dabbles in realistic charcoal portraiture.
The gradient of blacks and grays sweep across the subjects as if the light source is a mimicry of my current studio light, only from the other direction.
I wanted to capture the longevity of these epic chess games, and both men transposed with late afternoon light depicts the length to which both men go to battle their foe.
The bones of the piece are there. After sixty-eight hours of work, the players, board, and surrounding pigeons all have structure and shape.
I estimate another thirty will be needed for blending and shading, adding textural details and passes with a kneadable eraser to highlight depth and shadow.
I’ll use a mechanical pencil for the finer points like skin pores and laughter lines, both of which each man has in abundance.
A sign of lives lived. They found laughter during years when war and sadness surrounded each of them. Then they found each other.
The crystalline waters are a blue I never knew existed in nature.
I should have known better. Colors exist in nature before they are tweaked and toned for a PMS wheel.
It shimmers like a Victorian mirror as our private jet readies for landing, wheels engaged and seatbelts fastened.
Mason and I are here to attend the nuptials of an industry power couple.
Kacey Kruger is an Olympic gold medalist and current long-course speed skating world champion.
Her groom-to-be, country music superstar Cal Vincent, known for adding a bluesy rasp to his country songs, which divide as many fans as they attract.
Purists complain about cross-genre colonization while his fans eat up his ingenuity with a spoon.
These two will be married tomorrow on a private beach surrounded by flamingos amid a kaleidoscope of fading sunset hues.
I’m here in the capacity of Mason’s date.
Bringing an assistant to the wedding would be considered gouache, although plenty of celebrities have landed with inflated entourages in tow.
A fleet of Rolls Royces are on hand to whisk guests to the private accommodations.
Ours is a private bure-style hut nestled beachside amongst fragrant plumeria and coconut palms. A hut is an understatement.
Dark, glossy floors open up behind the carved double entry doors, a stark contrast to the white walls and chalky linen on a similarly carved four-poster bed.
It looks bigger than a king. Is there a bed bigger than a king-size?
Vases of orchids pepper entry consoles and the eight-seater dining table that looks out past plantation shutters to the surf beyond.
“True paradise,” I say, turning in a circle on the expansive porch beside a plunge pool and outdoor shower.
“It is,” he adds with a salacious grin. “However, I do believe the view between your legs is just as pretty.”
Mason stalks forward with feline predatory precision, unbuttoning his linen shirt as he moves.
For the flight to the Harbour islands, he surprised me by opting for lightweight pants and a linen button-down.
The temperature in New York may have cooled, but the Bahamas enjoy a tropical haze that never fluctuates unless a hurricane lashes through with monsoonal rain and destructive winds.
Today, the monsoonal rain might be the saliva pooling while I have a front seat to Mason Mercer shedding his clothes.
I’ve never seen him naked. I’ve never even seen him shirtless.
More often than not, he remains fully clothed while I am bent over his desk or kneeling at his side waiting to please him orally.
Now we have a sumptuous bed, and I’m gifted the opportunity to drink in his nakedness.
Untying the knotted straps of my maxi dress, it pools to the floor while his gaze roams up from the pile of fabric I just stepped out of, up my legs and to the white lace underwear concealing me from his penetrating stare.
“Christ, you are pretty.” It’s a rasp. A label I’ve never known before, and not from a man like Mason. He’s drinking me in like a Long Island Iced Tea, no paper straw required.
“I’ve never seen you naked,” I pant, as his fingers lift the lacy waistband and tug.
The scrap falls away completely, fluttering to the floor like a leaf on a summer zephyr.
As his own shirt leaves his frame, ridges of corded muscle reveal themselves under skin so taut, smooth, and inked?
Mr. Mercer has a host of chest and torso tattoos and one peeking from his shoulder blade as he turns to step free of his trousers.
He could be carved from marble. The perfect muse to an eighteenth-century sculptor, except for one glaring anomaly.
His cock, currently hard and pointing straight at me, makes the cherubic masterpieces in Europe look like dollar store knockoffs.
It’s thick and long with a network of bluish veins circumnavigating his shaft before stopping at the angry plum-colored head.
I’m in danger of drowning in my pooling saliva if I don’t swallow soon, yet I’m transfixed by his masculine perfection.
Pre-cum glosses the tip of the most delicious dick I’ve ever seen.
Yes, I’ve seen it, sat on it and sucked it before, but not like this.
Now, the director has drawn the stage curtains and shone the spotlight, rather than reading lines in the dark wings.
An entirely new level of intimacy with the most powerful man I’ve ever met.
I’m guided backward and onto the opulent bed by a toned thigh so perfect, I curse his need for clothes.
Even in his most vulnerable state, he still oozes confidence and a surety I can only aspire to.
This man, this marvelous man wielding wealth and power as lightning bolts of polished perfection.
He is a tempest of buried emotions and a juxtaposition of quarreling values at times.
When we are alone, I just click with Mason Mercer.
Not the CEO, not the pushed-out media puppet.
Him. And I get paid as the receiving party.
His weight settles over me like a blanket, his skin a furnace of heat and want.
I await his cues, my mind a maelstrom of wanting to reach for him, kiss a path up his hair-dusted pectorals and to his neck, only I can’t.
He’s in control and won’t let me forget it.
An ill-timed touch is often met with a bite.
A warning. This is his show, not mine. I may be along for the ride, but the journey and destination are his to own; his to claim.
Only once he has kissed me, his tongue forcing entry between my parted lips, may I reciprocate with the same fierce fervor.
The power imbalance is untenable. We both know that.
Still, neither of us remedied the situation.
I won’t because I need the money. He won’t because he needs the hit.
Like an addict with a drug, he can’t stop.
“Open up,” he says, nudging my thighs apart with one of his own.
It’s a bark. Met with the contrast of his tender kisses along each breast while his hands pull and knead at each nipple.
Oh my God, this man draws out my sweetest notes as he draws his bow with practiced ease over each string.
A maestro in tune with his instrument. The swollen head of his cock drags along the seam of my pussy lips and through the pooling wetness.
A maddening torture. A further act of potency worn as a brand.
On an exhale, he enters me fully in one thrust, confident and capable.
My back bows at the impossible feeling of fullness with each thrust. This completeness differs from the rear entry positions he favors in the office, or either of the cowgirl scenarios in the back seat of the limousine.
No, this is in bed, an alternate perfection, and one I never want to let go of now that I’ve experienced it.