by Paige North
Fuck that.
I stand with a huff and stomp to Mason’s office, my teeth grit, utter fury making my blood boil. There are a million things I want to yell at him, but the second I step into the room, every single word escapes.
All but one.
“Hi.”
“I appreciate your patience,” he says, without even looking up from his paperwork. “Please, be seated.”
I shoot daggers into his bowed head, full-on anger simmering just beneath the surface of my practiced calm.
I work my way to the chair and gently pull it away from the desk. My fingers thread together in a ball on my lap. “I wanted to apologize for yesterday,” I say, stammering a little. Get it together, Liv. “You were right.” At this, he lifts his head a little.
“Go on,” he murmurs.
“I have a lot to learn, and instead of graciously accepting the position you offered, I was rude. Offensive.”
“I’ve got tough skin,” he says, now commanding me with his cool glare once more.
I blink, as if to reset the direction of my naughty thoughts. Just the word “skin” ignites a fire in my belly that makes me want to reach out and touch his, to run my fingers along his sinewy muscles. The tension intensifies, almost blinding. I should shrivel in nervousness, but instead, I’m empowered by the way he stares at me. Like he could swallow me with one gulp.
“If the position is still available, I’d like to accept.”
He gives me a wolfish grin. “May I ask why the change of heart?”
I bite on my lower lip. Mason Wood expects complete honesty, but I’m not ready to admit the truth—that I’m totally desperate, facing the abyss of professional and financial ruin. I lower my gaze. “After some careful thought, I realize that a job at Daylight Holdings is an excellent opportunity to eventually further my career.”
Mason nods. “Good. I’m prepared to re-offer you the position…”
My relief begins to unravel.
“But the conditions have changed.”
Snap.
My stomach clenches. “What do you mean?”
“You had an opportunity to make a decision yesterday,” he says, standing up and circling me slowly, looking down on me as he walks. “But you didn’t have the guts to pull the trigger. If you’d been trading, the market would have punished you for being so indecisive.” He stops in front of me, so close I can almost feel his touch. My body lights up like it’s on fire. “Instead, I will play the role of the market—and you will be punished.”
A lump swells in my chest. “Punished?”
“Punished,” he repeats. There’s a dangerous tone to his voice that makes my toes curl into my heels. “Take off your clothes, Miss Landers.”
Chapter 6
My heart feels like it’s beating through my rib cage. I could swear Mason just asked me to take off my clothes, but that can’t be right. “Excuse me?”
He quirks an eyebrow. “By now, I think you’d know that indecision isn’t a quality I value, Miss Landers.”
My entire body begins to quiver. His eyes burn through my jumper and burrow under my skin, deep into my bones. I chew on my lower lip, unsure how to proceed. Surely this must be some kind of joke.
“Shoes first,” he says, sweeping his gaze over my feet.
A numbness washes over my skin, transporting me from reality to this surreal moment.
“You can’t be—“
“I am,” he says darkly. “Now take it all off. Or leave immediately.”
My mouth goes dry.
What is happening?
“You want me to take off my clothes,” I say, astonished.
“I think I’m speaking plainly enough.” He folds his arms, seeming a bit bemused, but still deadly serious about his demands.
“I don’t think this is allowed.”
“I’m allowing it,” he replies. “Not only am I allowing it, I’m making it a condition of your employment. Now strip or leave.”
My thoughts race through all the possibilities, calculating the risks and rewards of various responses and actions.
In the end though, I operate on pure instinct.
It’s as though my mind and body are disconnected, signals crossing even as I slip first out of my heels, and then slowly unzip the front of my jumper. My stomach fills with butterflies and my head with trepidation. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know this is wrong. Unethical, even. But that knowledge isn’t enough to make me pause.
Mason commands the room. This moment. Even my traitorous body.
What the hell is going on?
I slide the jumper off my shoulders and down to my waist, fingertips skimming the soft flesh on my hips.
My cheeks burn red.
Knowing the kinds of women he’s used to seeing naked makes this that much more horrifying.
At the same time, I can’t deny that I actually like this at some level.
I like knowing he wants to look at me.
Mason’s eyes lock on my chest, and I’m acutely aware that my taut nipples peek through my bra. My breath hitches. I exhale slowly, as if to pause the inevitable. A low growl emits from Mason’s throat, and it flips a switch inside of me.
He leans back in his chair and crosses his feet on the glass surface of his desk. “Don’t stop now, Miss Landers. Things are just starting to heat up.”
Jesus. He isn’t kidding. My teeth sink into my lower lip hard enough to sting.
Turning away for a moment to gather my courage, I unclasp my bra, then lean forward, cradling my full breasts with my cool hands. As the narrow straps slide over my shoulders, I turn back to him and let the bra fall to the floor. Every nerve ending in my body snaps to attention, truly awakened for the first time.
Looking down at my chest, I see that my nipples are tightly puckered, their color deepened by arousal, and as round and firm as two ripe berries. A flush of embarrassed heat creeps up the side of my neck and behind my ears.
“More,” Mason says, his voice a low drawl of lust.
My hands trail across my stomach and along my sides, pausing as I hook my fingers under the thin material of my jumper, so that I can shimmy it down my hips. The cool, conditioned air nips at my skin, leaving tiny goose bumps along my flesh.
“I…I didn’t…” My words fail me as I hesitate to take it all the way down.
“All of it must come off,” he states flatly, and finally I comply.
I’m now completely nude and at his mercy.
Mason’s eyebrow quirks. “No underwear?”
I lick my lips. “They didn’t, uh, work with the outfit,” I say, voice cracking with humiliation. Every part of me wants to melt into the floorboards, disappear into thin air.
“Perhaps I underestimated you, after all.” He nudges his head toward me, narrowing in on the soft curve of my stomach, bloated from too much wine and ice cream. I’m sure he can see my heart beat under my skin, can hear its rapid thump of fear. “Continue.”
My chest fills with air. I allow the jumper to fall to the carpet, leaving me with only a thin pair of nude nylons, pressed tight to my skin.
“Fuck me,” Mason says in a low growl that curls my toes. “You’re so god damned sexy.”
No one has ever said that to me before, and my pussy clenches in response. The musky scent of my juices whispers under my nose.
Mason kicks his feet off the desk and stands. He walks toward me and shoves his hands in his pockets, drawing my attention to his groin. Beneath his trousers, his hard cock points erect. A rush of unexpected power—and desire—radiates from my core.
In one swift motion, Mason grabs my waist and spins me around. Before I know it, I’m bent over his desk, my cheek flat against the glass surface, blood rushing to my head. He pushes up against me, hard cock tight against my ass, and grinds his hips. “What does your gut tell you now, Miss Landers?”
A lump of unease inches up my throat, rendering me speechless.
His fingers curl under the waistband of th
e nylons and gently tug. I can hear the material begin to tear as he pulls them down over my buttocks to reveal my naked ass. My butt muscles clench.
Mason’s breath feathers across my neck. “Do you remember why you’re being punished, Miss Landers?”
I swallow hard. “Yes, Mr. Wood.”
“Good.” His fingertips drift along the curve of my ass. “Lovely.”
Without warning, the flat of his hand connects with my skin, sending a tingling vibration down from my buttocks to my thighs. The first slap is gentle, little more than a pat, and strangely sensual. I suck in a gasp.
“Did you like that?” he asks, catching me off guard with a stroke much firmer, more painful than the last. The sting takes me by surprise but I can’t lie. “Yes,” I say, so softly I barely hear it myself.
My mind just keeps repeating:
This isn’t happening.
Mason Wood did not tell me to strip naked and then put me over his desk to punish my bare bottom.
He spanks me again, twice in succession and with increasing force. I bite my lip to stop from crying out and barely have time to recover before he paddles me again. This time, I bite back a scream that is also a moan. Tears spring to my eyes but I blink them back. Why do I like this?
Mason flips his hand over and trails his fingers along my skin, soothing the stinging sensation with a gentle caress. “The markets can be very unforgiving,” he says, whispering. “They ebb and flow with unpredictability.”
My butt glows, throbs, pounds with hot blood that races through the tissue. It hurts, no question, but I’m reluctant to ask him to stop, because beneath the discomfort there’s something else. A low, deep throb of erotic pleasure.
His hand dips between my thighs, fingertips just grazing the tip of my clit. A delicious wave of ecstasy ripples through to my core. I let out a noise that is more whimper than moan, an almost plea for him to continue.
His palm connects again with my skin, harder. I dig my fingers into the side of the desk, arching and squirming. My flesh is pins and needles, stinging and numb. An intense yearning aches between my thighs, unlike anything I’ve ever before experienced.
“Sometimes, the markets can be cruel,” Mason says.
The ominous tone of his voice makes me clench, and yet, I’m still shocked when his hand hits my ass with another sharp slap. His fingertips drag across the tip of my clit and I feel the last of my willpower unravel.
My orgasm comes swiftly, unexpected. One second I’m biting down to stop from crying out, and the next, my pussy is clenched and throbbing beneath his touch. A wave of pleasure spasms through me, and in the throes of my climax, I whisper Mason’s name.
Chapter 7
In the long mirror hanging on the back of my bedroom door, I study myself critically, looking for any symbol—however subtle—that I have changed.
I run my hands over my breasts, nipples tight beneath the silk top of my pajamas. My fingers slide across my gently sloped stomach, along the curve of my hips. My flesh is firm and resilient. Smooth. Unblemished.
No different than this morning, and still somehow—
Changed.
I turn, pirouetting on my toes, and look over my shoulder at the cheeks of my bottom. At one time, I would have said they were too round, too ample, but I’m not so sure anymore. If this afternoon is any indication, Mason is an artist that seems to prefer broad strokes. He certainly wasn’t complaining.
After my “punishment,” Mason told me coldly to get dressed and report for work in the morning. Then he left the office with me still in it.
I could have snooped, but I’m sure there are cameras everywhere.
Instead, I quickly got my clothes back on and hurried out as if my very life depended on exiting the building within a matter of seconds.
So, I got the job.
I sure did.
My skin tingles and I’m sure beneath my pajamas I’m still red from his touch. Reaching around, I cup myself, cradling my tender ass cheeks in my palms, remembering Mason’s hands on me. An inkling of fear—and pleasure—spikes through me. Why can’t I stop thinking about him and why is it always about being fucked by him?
As if I even know what it would be like.
My sexual experiences could fit in a thimble and have room left over.
Closing my bedroom door, I crawl onto the bed. The mattress digs into my back, but I don’t roll over. I stare at the ceiling instead, listening to the thump thump thump of the obnoxious music playing from the apartment overhead. I’ve never met the tenant, but based on the raw tunes and gritty lyrics that grind through the vents, I peg him early 20s.
A young and inexperienced dope of a guy, unlike the fully formed man that spanked me today in his office.
Heat rushes to my cheeks and I close my eyes to block out the mysterious stains on the ceiling. And now it’s Mason’s face I see, hovering over me with those smoldering eyes and that perfectly shaped mouth.
My ass stings and I should be absolutely ashamed, but I’d be lying if there wasn’t a lingering rush of adrenaline simmering behind that humiliation. I’ve never been spanked before—not even by my parents with a wooden spoon. Certainly I’ve never thought of it in a sexual context.
Now, hours after being bent over Mason’s desk with my ass stinging under the flat of his palm, sex is all I’m thinking about. My pussy clenches with the memory and before I can avert my thoughts, I’m wet.
Fucking soaked.
I trail my fingers across my breasts and pause at the tight nub of my erect nipple. In my mind, Mason’s fingers close around them and squeeze. I let out a sharp gasp and quickly pull back.
Good grief. What the hell has gotten into me? It’s like being spanked somehow awakened a part of me that I’d long ago forced dormant, and now I Can’t. Get. Enough.
Dangerous and foolish thoughts. Because it’s painfully obvious that Mason isn’t interested in me. Each touch of his hand, every slap, was intended to punish me, to prove a damn point. His “message” still stings.
So then why do I want more?
So much more…
I slide my hand into the silky bottoms of my pajamas, imagining Mason’s firm cock pressed up against my slit, pushing to enter and fill me completely. “Yes,” I whisper, finding the swollen tight knot of my clit beneath my fingertips.
Closing my eyes, I begin rubbing myself, imagining Mason’s cock between my legs.
My butt circles on the mattress while I aggressively rub.
The orgasm begins to build, but so does my frustration at the inability to recreate the pain. I slap clumsily at my thigh, but there’s nothing more than an annoying, momentary sting. Filling my mind with the picture of Mason’s hand coming down hard against my flesh, I find myself in the role of naïve observer, watching the action as though hovering above the scene. I imagine the determination in his steely eyes as he slaps me again and again. It’s enough to trigger my climax.
Beneath my fingers, my clit swells.
Rolling waves of heat wash through my pussy and fill me, and now I’m coming.
But it’s as if Mason is somehow here, making me come through his ministrations.
The spasms are fierce, and as I lay gasping, enjoying the way the ripples tumble in on themselves like a hot wave, I realize that I’m in trouble. Deep, unfathomable trouble.
Because now that Mason Wood has had his hands on me, I can’t imagine ever being touched by anyone else.
Piles of garbage still line the streets when I hail a taxi and direct the driver to the Daylight Holdings office tower at the center of the Financial District. The ball of emotion in my stomach churns with increasing intensity, lack of sleep and first day jitters taking a back seat to the anxiety of seeing Mason again.
His smoldering eyes haunted my dreams.
If there’s one thing I’ve always been able to take pride in, it’s my professionalism, which up until the past few days, I would have deemed beyond reproach.
But Mason Wood has easil
y compromised that reputation, found the hole in my moral code and exploited it relentlessly.
For now, anyway.
As we pull up to the building, I decide my very survival in this industry depends on me stitching it back together.
Success is always, without exception, the result of determination, grit, and tears. I need to prove to Mason that I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty.
“First day?” the cabbie says, smiling when I hand him a crumpled stack of bills.
I nod. “That obvious?”
“Relax,” he says. “This city preys on the weak.”
And my new boss is a formidable predator, I think. I lug my leather briefcase out of the taxi, grab my coffee, and step onto the sidewalk. Across the street, the famous Charging Bull statue stares at me in challenge. My eyes flit to the temporary addition of the Fearless Girl sculpture, and my chest swells with pride. I have a job on Wall Street.
Me.
Olivia Landers.
Today, I will not think of Mason’s hands on my ass. I won’t fantasize about his tongue between my thighs. I will be a sponge, soaking up whatever I can learn from one of the most reputable hedge fund managers in the industry.
Clutching my coffee like a security blanket, I push through the gold-plated revolving door and into the quiet lobby. My heels echo on the tile floor as I make my way to the elevator. Once inside, I press the button for the thirteenth floor, and draw in a deep, calming breath. I practice what I’ll say to Mason, to Gertrude. Jesus. I can’t keep calling her Gertrude.
But I’ve barely stepped outside the elevator when Gertrude hands me a stack of folders, an itinerary, and the phone number for Mason’s car service. “Mr. Wood expects you at the airport within the hour.” She glances up at the clock, and then smiles thinly. “With traffic, you’ll barely make it. I suggest you call the driver.”
My eyebrows inch together. “JFK? La Guardia?”
Gertrude laughs without humor. “The private airstrip. You’ll be taking the jet.” She waves her fingers at me. “I wouldn’t recommend being late.”
I doubt there’s much Gertrude would be willing to recommend to me, I think, as I hurriedly slide into the back seat of Mason’s private car. My legs brush against the leather seat, cool against my bare thighs.