His Pawn (The Manhattan Tales Book 1)

by Thorne, Willa

  I reached the bottom step and bolted for the front door to the building. The door suddenly swung open. Mason stormed inside and grabbed me as I nearly fell over.

  “Get off me!” I screamed, thinking it was that guy.

  “Shh. Jill. It’s me,” He said, and I let out a shaky breath. I’d never felt such relief wash over me until that moment in my life. I am safe. Protected.

  “Who the fuck are you?” I Heard Mason growl as he steadied me against the wall.

  “Who me? I’m just a friend trying to make sure the girl gets home safely.” I heard that voice explain. I watched him hold his hands up in a surrendering motion.

  Mason suddenly gripped the guy by his hair and slammed his front against the wall.

  “What did you give her and how much?” I heard the demand in such a threatening tone. I could only focus on the waves of nausea that washed over me.

  “Just a little long island iced tea and some tequila, man. What the hell is wrong with you?” The guy mustered, plastered into the wall.

  “Mason, I want to go home…” I squeaked. I looked up to see him with his fist in the air, ready to strike. He looked at me and I could tell he was fighting the urge to smash the kid’s face in, but he lowered his fist.

  “If you ever go near her again, I will break every fucking bone in your body,” He threatened instead, let go of the guy so roughly that he smacked the wall one last time, and then scooped me up and stepped into the mild night air.

  After easing me into his silver Bentley, I began sobbing, completely out of my mind. He didn’t even have to say anything. At this point, the alcohol was fully in my system and I was too intoxicated to accurately read him. He drove through the streets of Manhattan.

  “Please, please don’t tell Travis,” I sobbed. His expression was unreadable. “I was so stupid.” Still, he said nothing, and finally parked outside of a diner.

  “Where are you taking me?” I asked, struggling to unbuckle my seatbelt.

  He still said nothing as he parked the car, got out, and then retrieved me from the passenger side. He steadied me as he walked me into the diner.

  “You need to eat something,” He stated. Once we found a booth, he ordered me a grilled cheese and fries and a large glass of water. When I look back on the trip to the diner, I find that it was mostly a blur. I ate some of the food,very slowly, when I wasn’t feeling the nausea.

  “I can’t guarantee that Travis won’t know,” he finally stated. “But if he doesn’t find out, I won’t tattle on you… as long as you promise not to pull a stunt like that again.”

  I nodded, sipping the water.

  “I can’t hear you Jillian,” Mason spoke calmly.

  “Yes, yes I promise. No more,” I answered softly as I put a fry into my mouth.

  This will definitely not happen again- oh God, my head…

  After I’d finished eating, I felt better with water and food in my system. I was a little steadier now, and Mason brought me home.

  My brother was out and my mom was sleeping. Thank goodness…

  To my surprise, Mason tucked me into bed as appropriately as he could. I’d just turned eighteen and he was in a relationship. I was still wearing my cocktail dress, but he pulled the covers over me. He was a perfect gentleman the entire time.

  “Is your relationship really serious?” I blurted out.

  Mason cocked a brow at me and then stifled a smile. “You are going to feel like shit tomorrow morning.”

  “Do you love her?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “This much, or this much?” I spread my arms wide, almost hitting him in the face, and then pinched my thumb and forefinger together.

  “Very much.”

  “I don’t think she loves you. She only gets excited when you talk about your boat, or money, and she downplays you when you talk about things that are important to you,” I blurted. It was true based on my very few sober observations of her while we’d all gone out to eat at restaurants, but… What the hell? I’m never drinking again.

  Mason appeared agitated but remained calm. “I’m going to blame the alcohol for that one, Jill. Take some Advil in the morning and eat a bagel.”

  “Okay,” I said and rolled over. That was the last bit I remembered from the evening.

  Present Day

  Mason’s absence was lonely. It was pathetic that it felt so lonely without him. I had Elyse. I spoke to my mom and brother on the phone regularly. I had my classes and school work to keep me busy, and Mrs. O’Malley kept me entertained with her stories of living in Dublin before coming to New York. Still, my mind drifted to the last time I’d seen him: Netflix night, when he teased me and tickled my feet and then took me in most rooms of his home. I recalled how I felt my blood heat at his touch, how he started out tender and then steadily grew harder and rougher. It surprised me that I enjoyed it so much. My hand trailed to the sides of my hips, wishing I still felt the indent of his fingerprints. The way it felt when he splayed my legs and took me from behind over his desk, or how he bound my hands with my own panties and had me ride him in the dining room. He drove into me so deep. I wanted this man, and I was in withdrawal.

  My mind wandered randomly to the night he rescued me from my own stupid, naive choice to attend a party in high school. If I hadn’t said anything, I know he would have smashed that guy’s skull. It was one of two times I’d seen Mason nearly lose his temper like that. He never did tell Travis about the party, or the drinks.

  I held up my end of the promise I’d made him that night. I stayed away from Hazel and her crew. They didn’t bother me either. I stuck with my extracurricular activities and maintained good grades. I managed to stay out of trouble for years… until I reconnected with him again. Isn’t it ironic how the very man who made me promise to stay away from trouble is the same one who coaxed me into signing this contract?

  Mason had been gone for nearly two weeks, so imagine my joy when I received a text message from him one afternoon during my Thursday economics class. But, his words made my heart wrench.

  Mason: I’m on my way home. Pack your things.

  What? Why?

  I texted him this very question, but he did not answer me. I was so confused and crushed, wondering why he was kicking me out of his home before the contract was complete. I wanted more time with him…

  Stupid, stupid girl. He’s probably tired of you. I tried to reason with myself, but all I could think about was Netflix night. I knew he felt the same bond that I’d felt, the same white-hot chemistry that coursed between us. There was no denying that. The text message just made no sense to me. I gathered my notebook and bag and slipped out of class early.

  I arrived in Mason’s penthouse, only to find people already moving my things for me. Mrs. O’Malley was busy removing all of my clothes from the hangers in my closet.

  “What is going on? Why is he kicking me out?” I asked her as I watched this scene helplessly.

  Mrs. O’Malley seemed rushed. “His family is returning with him from Mumbai. They will arrive in a few short hours. He’s moving you to his apartment on West 87th Street, my dear.” This was all she answered.

  My eyes widened. A tingle of excitement coursed through me. He’d never spoken of that apartment since the first night when he mentioned it was “better equipped.” He never mentioned it since.

  Then, I realized why he was moving me out while his family visited. He’s ashamed of me. I’m his dirty little secret. That hurt, a lot. I am not classy and elegant like the women he took out in public. I will never be that woman. I felt my face contort as I fought back tears.

  “Don’t worry, dear. His family never stays for longer than a few days.” Mrs. O’Malley gave me a stiff smile, and I could see stress in the wrinkles of her eyes. What are you not telling me? I wondered, but I kept silent and helped pack my own things instead. All the while, I wondered how Mason was doing.

  I wondered if his family was as mean-spirited as I perceived them to be… I let
out a deep sigh, desperately fighting back my own emotions, as every trace of my existence was wiped clean from Mason’s penthouse and transferred over to his apartment on West 87th Street.

  I am unclear as to why Mason refers to his property on West 87th Street as an “apartment.” I was surprised when Rick pulled up in front of a brownstone building, with beautiful curves in the architecture.

  “Which floor does Mason have?” I asked, surveying the exterior of the building. The building was a perfect white, with matching ornate railings that lined steps in the color of burnt sienna. The entire neighborhood was exclusive and absolutely dazzling. It didn’t seem like a neighborhood that belonged anywhere near reality. Not my reality. Trees lined the smooth sidewalks and I could see that there was a bay window on the second floor which would give a lovely view of Central Park West.

  Rick chuckled, snapping me away from my daze. “He takes up the entire building.”

  Wow. “Well, that’s not an apartment,” I blurted, and Rick only chuckled.

  I followed Rick and walked up the steps, and into the “apartment.” I just looked around, struck by another daze. A rustic and cozy design greeted me. It was a sharp contrast to the sterile, yet modern design of his penthouse. The rooms were small, but it seemed that Mason wanted to maintain a Victorian character to the house.

  Deep, dark hardwood floors greeted me in every room, with gorgeous rugs spread out appropriately. Most of the doors in each room were open and welcoming. I could see Mason’s study on the first floor. I peeked inside and found model airplanes of every size. I do not know very much about airplanes, but Mason was clearly interested in them. Models of every possible design were strategically situated around his office, complimenting black and white photos of very old airplanes.

  One photo in particular caught my interest. It was very old and grainy, but sized to fit above the mantle of his hearth. It was a very old photo of a an airplane and a man was standing proudly in front of the aircraft. There were some similarities between his smile and Mason’s. I smiled as I looked up at the photo. Interesting… This study seemed like an open book into the secret passions of Mason Woodward. He was obviously fascinated by aircraft, mainly old World War II aircraft.

  The library was just next to the study, and was much smaller in scale than the one at his penthouse. Perhaps this is why Mason refers to his West property as an apartment. The square footage of each room seems much smaller in scale than the open floor plan of his penthouse.

  The rustic feel to the design continued in the parlor and even in the game room. Wow, he even has a game room. A large flat screen was situated on a cream colored wall, and every game console imaginable was stored in the dark glass cabinet doors below the flat screen. Of course he had a pool table and a very fancy poker table. This was all too much.

  I went up the dark wood steps to the second floor, and found two bedrooms with one shared bathroom. It was incredible. I assumed the smaller of the rooms was my guest bedroom and I was correct. My clothes and belongings were already neatly organized in the closet. Gosh these people work fast.

  For once, Mason’s bedroom was not locked. I peeked inside and found it to be nothing outside of my expectations. I saw nothing more than a King Size bed with a neatly tucked silk duvet in black. There was a spotless white rug, plush under my feet, and a dark stone hearth. This is just how I imagined his bedroom. There was a polished armoire with his cologne and coin chest neatly situated on top. I could see that he had a large walk-in closet, even with the door open a crack. Good God this man has money to blow.

  I let out a deep breath, feeling overwhelmed. I exited his bedroom and returned to the narrow corridor of the hallway, thinking that my tour was over, but then I remembered that there were three floors, not two.

  “What’s on the third floor?” I asked Rick, who waited patiently for me at the far end of the hall.

  “Storage,” He answered. He pointed toward the far end of the hall, to a set of very narrow, dark steps that I had not seen earlier as I had passed. There was a thick wooden door at the very top.

  “That floor is strictly off-limits. Mr. Woodward has instructed if you need anything placed in storage, you can let him know and he will have it placed.”

  “Um, okay…” I answered, puzzled. What the hell would I need placed in storage? This is all too weird…

  “He also instructed that he will go to you when he is ready. The fridge is fully stocked. You should want for nothing. You will have no need to look for him at his hotel. But, I only want him…

  My face fell, clearly seeing now that my worst thoughts were true. He didn’t want anyone to know about me. I was shameful.

  Rick left me with a key, and I retreated into the guest bedroom. Now alone in this beautiful home, all I could do was cry. I cursed myself for crying. Was I sobbing because I was ungrateful? No.... that wasn’t it.”

  Tears streamed down my face, making my eyes red and swollen. The gut-wrenching truth only twisted the knife in my chest further. This thought only brought about another round of fresh tears.

  I’m in love with Mason Woodward....

  ****

  I tried to immerse myself with school work. I had an economics exam in two days, but the mysterious door on the third floor was really getting to me. If it was only storage, then why was it off-limits?

  I had a feeling Rick was lying. I set my highlighter down and left my textbook in the library where I had been attempting to study. I ascended the narrow wooden stairs and tested the doorknob that greeted me at the top. Locked, as I’d expected. Unless Mason was harboring some deep, nasty secret, there was no reason why his “storage” should be locked and off-limits in a home that he didn’t use much.

  I sucked in a deep breath and gave up, went down to the kitchen and made myself a sandwich, and tried to distract my restless thoughts with some TV. I woke after dozing off, shut off the flat screen, then got ready for bed. My heart was heavy, missing him.

  I reminisced about better times with Mason: All those times he’d helped me without any ulterior motive, his ‘I don’t give a fuck’ smile. You need to stop dwelling in the past… it is gone, the thought intruded into my mind.

  My mind was uneasy even as it shifted from fond memories to darker, sinful deeds I’d done with the very same man. I missed the way he felt inside me, his length ramming into my core, gripping my hips in an act of ownership. Oh God… I let out a gasp as tingles of pleasure from the thought alone made my pussy clench.

  I couldn’t resist. I reached down, closing my eyes as I slid a hand down my stomach toward my own private area. I touched myself, imagining it was him touching me.

  “Oh Mason…” I moaned softly, reliving all the sweet, delicious things he’d done to my body over the weeks. I continued playing with myself, but I was growing frustrated. I couldn’t do to myself what he did to me.

  My body became an electric pulse of energy under his touch… I just couldn’t make myself respond like that without him. I shoved two fingers into my soft, wet folds and thrust as best as I could, but it was no use. My frustration was only growing.

  “I’m not a porcelain doll. Stop treating me like a flower,” I groaned, trying harder to give myself release. My fingers felt like nothing compared to him. I couldn’t even mimic the touch. I rolled over, pressing my face into the pillow so my fingers could go further inside and I moaned softly, feeling bits of pleasure. I imagined it was his fingers pleasuring me, not my own.

  “Oh fuck yes, Mason…” I groaned softly into the pillow.

  Suddenly, I felt a hand grasp my hair in a huge handful and pull my head from the pillow. My heart lept into my mouth from the shock and fear I experienced in that single moment. I hadn’t heard anyone enter the property.

  “The filthy things you say when you think I’m not watching,” I suddenly heard Mason’s low voice in my ear.

  His fist was still knotted in my hair as his hand slid up my ass and trailed down the curve of my lower back. He had me he
ld in such a way that my body could not move without ripping hair from my scalp.

  Oh hell, yes… My heart beat wildly in my chest. Adrenaline coursed through my veins as wet heat pooled in my black lace panties.

  “Mason…” I breathed.

  I couldn’t even look into his face as I felt his fingers grip into the cheeks of my ass. I gasped, moaning at such a feral touch. I could feel how he was wound so tight, straining to maintain any level amount of control as his fingers dug into my skin. The line between pleasure and pain was blurred.

  “How long have you been here?” I managed to ask, overcome with lust.

  His grip on my hair tightened as he pulled me to my knees by the nerves in my scalp. His voice was low and velvety in my ear.

  “Long enough to see how much I’ve corrupted you, my little flower.”

  My breath hitched. This was so unlike the Mason I was accustomed to. He’d been rough with me once, but still careful. This was.... I don’t know. I couldn’t think clearly.

  His hands trailed, feather light, down my collarbone to my breasts. I still couldn’t look upon him.

  “What would your brother say if he knew how dirty you really are?” He twisted my nipples between his thumb and forefinger.

  I gasped and tried to press my body into his, as his fingers continued to enjoy my breasts. His grip on my scalp was still tight and I couldn’t move.

  “Please…” I moaned softly.

  “Please what, Jilly Bean?” He growled softly in my ear. His hand trailed down my front, into the warmth beneath my panties. His fingers brushed against my slick folds in an effort to torment me.

  “Oh… Please just take me.” I gasped.

  Two fingers suddenly thrust inside me, pounding into me hard. I moaned loudly, and Mason added a third finger.

  “I want a more descriptive word, sweetpea,” Mason said into my ear, still fingerfucking me.

  My whole body shuddered with the electric pulse that only he could give me. He was like a caged animal, trying to keep himself in check. He was so tense, far beyond what I’ve ever experienced with him before. I could only sense the pent up frustration and stress he’d dealt with in the last two weeks.