Chapter 32
The water from the shower seems to have a spray radius of a quarter.
I guess it serves me right for turning my back on my working-class roots and becoming dependent on the rainfall showers with multiple jets in the penthouse of Onyx One.
It’s my own fault, but if given the option to return to these post-pool showers with tepid water and limited spray, I’m not sure I want to.
Onyx had a pool, of course, but it felt foreign and out of place among the mega-rich, always bustling to some appointment, movie premiere, or political meeting.
That, and the pool drain is hidden. So, I can swim as many laps as my body can take, but when I submerge my head after the rotation of an inhale, the view through the orange goggle lenses is nothing but perfect tiling.
Of course it has underfloor drainage, along with the multiple Jacuzzis, mineral plunge pools, steam room, Turkish baths, infra-red saunas, and on and on it goes.
In a moment of clarity, I resolved to use the pool I have always used in the two and a half years I have lived here, then get swept up in the luxury and, more importantly, temporary, lavish opulence of Onyx.
My hair isn’t completely dry when a message pops up from the man himself, the man who is in my conscious thoughts and subconscious dreams—Mason.
Mason
Urgent! You are required in the office.
Me
Yes, sir, I’m on my way.
The urgency was his apoplectic rage following a meeting with the Mercer Group.
A meeting attended by soon-to-be-retired Magnus, Michael, Mitchel, and of course, Mason.
He’s a pacing mess, throbbing neck veins, a firmly set jaw, and hair that looks like he’s run his hands through it one too many times.
His jacket and waistcoat are gone, as is his tie.
His look is more business casual post-work drinks than CEO of one of the biggest media companies in the US, and a subsidiary of a massive corporation he had the good fortune of being born into.
In the months I’ve worked alongside and under Mason Mercer, I’ve learned not to question his logic or intentions.
I’m not paid to question; I’m paid to do everything outlined in that twenty-seven-page contract.
“A word of warning,” Helen whisper-shouts when she notices my approach, “he’s in a filthy mood. Tread carefully.”
Keeping my strides measured and robotic, I mouth an appreciative “Thank you," while holding up crossed fingers, which garners a coy smile. The woman knows his moods; if anyone can deal with him, it’s Helen.
Not me. I push through the main double doors and continue past the conversational table set up and hover at the glass door and partition.
Mason sits in his chair, the regal king on his throne.
His tie has been removed, leaving him only in his pale blue button-down and navy waistcoat and pants.
His watch glints in the overhead lighting as he rolls his wrist, the other hand perched under his chin.
“Sabrina.” It’s a grainy rasp through the charged air, the slightest hint of a slur letting me know the tumbler of Macallen on his desk is not his first. It may not even be his second.
“Yes, sir.” I continue through the doorway, awaiting further instructions.
They didn’t come. Instead, he repeats my name over and over like a mantra.
My confusion must be evident because he adjusts to a more upright position and swings the chair ninety degrees to face me, while beckoning me toward him with his index finger.
Panic surges through me. This Mason has been dormant for weeks.
He resembles the man who hired me, not the man who has comforted me and been more friend and lover than CEO and boss.
This is full business mode, the candor that crushes companies and cancels careers.
This Mason stares at me, legs spread, arms resting on the chair.
His gaze sweeps over my body from chin to shin, then back up again, slowly, deliberately.
“You needed something?” My voice falters as I expel the words, more accusation than question.
At first, he doesn’t react, simply sits there and stares at me, knowing how uncomfortable I must be.
This is part of his tactics. Sit it out until the other party reacts first. He’s had decades more experience with mind games and reading nuanced body language.
“I met with the Mercer Group today,” he begins finally, announcing each word as a separate entity.
“Yes, sir, I saw it in the calendar.”
His smile is slow and barbarous. Each muscle protests at being forced into an unnatural curve. “Did you see anything else, I wonder?”
At first, I don’t respond, unsure if his words are meant for me or simply his vocalized self-reflection. “No, I guess you didn’t. No one would have seen this coming.”
I freeze. This feels different. This must be the long-held anger they refer to in the four types of anger in psychology.
Anger that works in a productive space and drives change and justice through action.
He pulls me to him, my hips flush with his lowered head as his arms encircle my waist. He breathes me in for several seconds, loosening his hold while his palms slide over my buttocks and squeeze hard.
Unprepared for the action, a small yelp escapes and is met with a chuckle, sinister and lascivious.
“On your knees for me,” he whispers, unbuckling his belt and opening his pants.
He slides down the zipper and a hand in between the splayed sides of his open trousers.
Mason palms his erection through his boxers before sliding the hem of them down and freeing his cock.
I discard my bag to the side of his desk, moving it out of the way while I sink to the plush carpet below.
“That’s it,” he praises. “The only position I ever want to see you in, unless it’s under me,” he states, running a hand down his vest and resting near his hip bone.
I take hold of his engorged, angry length, each vein pronounced and pulsing.
He is firm and velvet soft, the heat of him transferring to my hand and in turn my mouth as I take him deep in my first pass.
Normally he likes me to lick the underside of his shaft and swirl around his crown, perhaps even play with his balls before the true act of fellatio takes over.
Today, though, seems like a day he needs me to be dirty.
To get the job done so he can move on to his next task once his balls are emptied.
His hips buck up as I continue to suck and release, my saliva coating him and providing additional lubrication when mixed with his plentiful, salty pre-cum.
Every time his crown hits the back of my throat and I gag, he reacts with a groan, “Take it” or “Just like that, yes.” My hand fans across his powerful thigh for balance when he jerks forward again and again.
This isn’t about me giving him pleasure; he’s taking it.
He’s using my mouth and fingers to get himself off.
A required release. I slide my other hand under his heavy sack, now exposed thanks to him sliding his restrictive clothing down further.
From his navel up, he’s still a polished businessman at his desk, the magnate reigning over his corporation.
From the waist down, he is intent on taking what he needs from me.
I’m mid-suck and mid-squeeze when I hear the door whoosh open and Trystan enter with a flourish. “Where’s the fire?”
Mason groans, his head thrown back against the headrest while he awaits an impending climax. “Give me a minute. No, wait thirty seconds and I’ll tell you,” he huffs out between thrusts.
“Ah, I see, and well, I hear. Thirty seconds, you say. You want me to come back?”
“N—no. Ugh, stay right fucking there.”
“Sure. Oh, hey, Bri. Don’t talk now, not with your mouth full.” Complete and utter mortification drowns me. If I could picture his face delivering that line, he would be in full naughty schoolboy mode, daring a reaction or punishment for insolence from his moody, agitated boss.
A palm taps the side of my face. It’s not hard or forceful, more a reminder of the task at hand, or in this case, mouth. “Don’t you stop, don’t you slow down for anything. I’m right there. I’m right fucking there.”
His cock hardens further; a sure sign he’s at the precipice.
Mason gates down at me with eyes drenched in a tempest of swirling tones.
I flatten my tongue further, hollow my cheeks and, slurping sounds be damned, give him my all.
There is no point being quiet and dainty; Trystan already knows I’m down here.
“Oh, that’s it. Yes, that’s it, Bri. I’m coming. I’m gonna…”
“Nothing like an arrival announcement, hey,” Trystan deadpans, a mocking slow clap, the percussion to Mason’s released groans and grunts as he empties across my tongue and down my throat. Wave after wave of salty, creamy cum affronts my tastebuds as I struggle to swallow.
“Take it all, all of me. Such a good fucking girl for everything I give you.”
I do. I continue to work to clear all remnants of his orgasm from him, from me, and any of my saliva from him.
As I pop off the end of his spent dick with a wet pop, he turns to the drawer and pulls out two cloths, tossing one at me.
He uses the other to dry off thoroughly before tucking himself back in and refastening his Brioni pants that have somehow, miraculously, escaped any wayward droplets.
I wipe my chin and pat my mouth before rising from my not-so-secret position.
Trystan sits opposite, one ankle bent and resting on his other knee.
“Ms. Broe. Lovely afternoon, isn’t it?” Damn him.
He’s playful and good natured, yet he too can sense the simmering storm, aware of the crackling tension charging the air and troubling the man we both work to assist in different ways.
“Both of you might want to sit down for this,” he begins. Trystan stands, moving to the adjacent chair and offering his up to me. “Drink?”
“This is ominous,” he replies while sitting and taking up an identical position to before.
“It’s the most Mercer thing I think I’ve ever seen.”
“Then, yeah, I’ll make us all a drink. And I’m warning you now, they’re gonna be doubles.”
Mason finishes the last of the amber liquid in his glass and slides it over the mahogany surface with little care for glass or furniture.
Trystan returns from the bar with three glasses more than half full.
Doubles? They look more like triples. He places one down on Mason’s desk after first sliding a coaster under it.
He then places the remaining two drinks on our side of the desk.
“The Mercer Group, at the insistence of new chairman Michael, has decided to implement some restructuring after Magnus retires on January 2 following sixty-five years of hard work and insightful implementation.”
“Okay…” Trystan presses, sitting forward.
“It seems my beloved mother knew about this and wanted to forewarn me, which itself was the first red flag of the many.”
“About…”
“From January 2, after Magnus Mercer retires from the helm, the company structure and shareholdings will be… redistributed in accordance with family lineage and legacy directly from Magnus. Michael will retain fifty percent; Mitchel will have his allocation increased to thirty percent. Nic will retain fifteen percent as the next child in line despite not working in any of the company's stake holdings, nor does she want anything to do with Mercer money. Because she has a son, her stake doesn’t waver.”
“So that leaves—”
“Yep. They explained that I could approach another stakeholder to raise my holding up to the seven and a half percent I would be theoretically entitled to, before both Mike and Mitch said they wouldn’t budge with any of their allocation.
That left Nic, who was more than happy to sign over all of hers to me. ”
“Okay, well twenty percent of a multibillion-dollar empire is still a shitload of money. That’s not so bad.”
“Come now, Tryst, did you think it would be that easy? Nic’s share comes with the provision that a maximum of two and a half percent be transferred to me. I’m capped at seven and a half if this deal goes through.”
My mind is racing to compute everything. The calculations, the breakup of a family business that rewards some family and penalizes others. The importance of sons carrying on lines and legacy hasn’t even taken Mason’s future children, should he have them, into account? “How is that fair?”
Mason spins in his chair, the glass pinched between his thumb and forefinger.
“It’s not. I’m being set up to be pushed out.
Which I don’t think I need to explain the ramifications to either of you.
” No, he doesn’t. If he doesn’t have a job, then neither do Trystan or me.
Or Helen for that matter. Before I can let the thought sink in, Mason steeples his fingers.
“Trys, who is our non-Mercer contact in Barcelona?”