Seduction (7 page)

THE MORNING
breeze off of the Hudson filled Mason's lungs as he made his usual trek from Seventy-second Street up to Ninety-sixth Street and back. After a night of carousing at the club, he needed to clear his head, and a jog along the river was just what the doctor ordered. Mason had gotten off track, and was seeking out sex at the club when he should have been upstairs in his office doing paperwork. His brain seemed to be residing in the head between his legs, instead of in the head on his neck. When he left the club in the wee hours of the morning after having an oral ménage à trois with two women—and his brain was back where it belonged—he swore to himself that that would be the last time he used BD2 for his personal pleasure. He'd seen firsthand how Trey's life was almost destroyed after having a torrid affair with a client and he didn't want to suffer the same fate. Mason needed an anchor to keep him from drifting back into the decadent waters of the club, but there were no buoys in sight.

After his run, he was drenched with salty sweat and headed home to shower and change. Mason dressed in his signature Seven jeans, put on a starched white, French-cuffed shirt, but let the cuffs hang loose past his wrists, for an urban casual look. He slipped on a pair of black Gucci loafers sans socks. He slapped his freshly shaven cheeks with aftershave, grabbed his wallet, planted it inside his back pocket, and headed out the door. Mason was craving his daily dose of double espresso so he walked two short blocks to Borders. On his way to the bookstore, he passed up a Starbucks on the corner of Seventy-fourth and Broadway. He could have easily bought his jolt of java there, but what he wanted wasn't at Starbucks or at the corner coffee shop. What he craved could only be had at Borders.

The bookstore café was crowded as usual, and Mason scanned the patrons as he stood in line, but she wasn't there. Ever since he met “The Mystery” woman a week ago—well, he hadn't officially met her—he'd been coming back to Borders in the hopes of getting a proper introduction, but she hadn't been around. Mason regretted not engaging her in a conversation when he had had the chance, but that day in his jogging gear he was sweaty and scruffy, and shied away from introducing himself. The way he looked she probably thought that he was a lowlife scrub. Ever since then, he rushed home after his run, showered, and changed. In the event he saw her again, he wanted her to see how well he cleaned up.

“A double espresso, and a poppy-seed muffin,” he told the cashier when he stepped up to the counter. After the cashier gave him his morning pick-me-up, he walked toward the tables to find a seat.

There she is,
Mason said to himself as he spotted the back of a woman wearing a canary yellow blouse with a matching sweater tied around her shoulders. He almost tripped over his own feet as he rushed over to the table.

“Excuse me, is this seat taken?” he asked, smiling and exposing his perfect chalk white teeth.

The woman turned around, looked up at Mason, and said, “No, it's not.” She moved her tote out of the seat so that he could sit down.

His heart dropped when he looked into her face. It wasn't his “Mystery Woman” but a replica. From the back, the women were identical, but up close and personal, there was a marked difference. This chick had a face only a mother could love. Her teeth—what was left of them—were crooked. Her skin was a canvas of red pimples and unsightly pockmarks. Her only redeeming feature was her hair; it was long and wavy. But upon closer inspection, Mason realized that it was a bad weave.

“Hi, I'm Beatrice,” she said, extending her hand to him.

Mason reluctantly shook her hand. “Hi, Beatrice.” He purposely didn't offer his name in return. He just stood there looking dumbfounded. He'd made a colossal mistake and didn't know how to extract himself from the situation without seeming rude.

“Here”—she motioned to the chair—“sit down.”

The last thing Mason wanted to do was to sit. He wanted to sprint out the door. But since he had asked if the seat was empty in the first place, he sat down so he wouldn't seem schizophrenic.

“Do you live in the neighborhood?” she asked the second he sat down.

“Uh,” he hesitated, “yeah.”

“Can you tell me where the nearest cleaners is? I just moved here from Mississippi, and I can't find a good cleaners, shoe repair guy, or a decent market. This city is so big and confusing that I'm having a hard time finding my way around. I'm used to country roads and friendly faces.” She smiled, exposing her beat-up grill.

Mason wanted to say,
Maybe you need to go back to the country.
But instead he said, “Coliseum Cleaners is half a block away, going south. It's on the east side of the street. You can't miss the bright red awning.”

She looked confused. “On the south side of the street, going east?”

“No, on the east side of street, going south,” he repeated.

“Do you mind showing me after you finish your coffee?” she asked in a helpless damsel-in-distress southern accent.

Mason nearly choked on his espresso. He wouldn't be seen dead with the likes of her. “I'm sorry, but I have to run,” he said, abruptly getting up from the table. Before she could utter another word, he was taking giant steps toward the door with his coffee in hand. He knew he was being rude, but at this point he really didn't care, all he cared about was putting some distance between him and Ms. Southern Belle.

“Watch it!” Terra shouted as Mason ran into her with his open cup of espresso, spilling the hot coffee down the front of her shirt.

He had been so busy trying to escape that he hadn't paid much attention to where he was going. “Excuse me,” he said, looking into the face of his intended prey.

Terra reached into her tote bag, quickly retrieved a handkerchief, and dabbed at the coffee stain, trying in vain to absorb the dark liquid before it ruined her bright white shirt.

Mason looked at the coffee collage on her blouse and began to apologize profusely. “I'm so sorry. I didn't see you. I'm so sorry,” he repeated. “Let me get you some seltzer water so it won't stain,” he said, and rushed over to the counter.

When he came back with a bottle of Perrier, Terra was sitting at a window table, rubbing the stain with her monogrammed handkerchief. “They didn't have any seltzer, but I thought that this would work just as well,” he said, drenching a napkin with the carbonated water and handing it to her. He wanted to rub the spot himself, but it was right near her breasts, and he didn't want to get slapped in the face for being out of line.

She took the napkin. “Thanks.”

Mason watched her dab away at the stain; the more she soaked her blouse, the more transparent it got. It was like having his own private wet T-shirt contest. His eyes were glued to her every movement, and when he saw her nipples peak through the sheer bra that she wore, his lethargic dick woke up. Mason wanted to rip her blouse off and suck her nipples right there in Borders. She was just the type of anchor—beautiful and sexy—that he needed to keep him from straying into the bowels of BD2. He picked up another napkin and poured the rest of the Perrier on it. “Here, let me. It's the least I can do,” he offered anyway, hoping she wouldn't refuse.

Terra pushed his hand away. “No thanks, I've got this,” she said in a terse voice as she shot him the evil eye.

She didn't seem like the type who was into small talk, so Mason didn't bother. “At least let me buy you another shirt,” he said as a peace offering.

Terra loved white shirts, and had a closet full of them in different styles and fabrics. “No thanks, that won't be necessary,” she replied, taking in his appearance for the first time. He too had on a white shirt. The last time she'd seen him, he was less than appealing in a tattered T-shirt and baggy sweatpants, but today he was cleanly shaven, smelling good, and casually dressed. He was just her type—tall, handsome, and well groomed.

“Well, if I can't buy you a blouse, the least I can do is buy you dinner,” he said, smiling like a schoolboy.

Terra was tempted to take him up on his offer, but she declined. Though he was fine as hell, she wasn't interested in getting to know a random stranger. She needed to use all of her energy to rope in Sage. “No thank you.” She stood up. “Excuse me, but I need to go home and change,” she said, holding the handkerchief against the stain.

She walked briskly out of the café before Mason could get her information, but he had her number all right—she was the stuck-up, hard-to-get type—and he'd have to work a little harder to get her attention. Wooing a sophisticated woman like that would be challenging, but the victory would be well worth the fight.

SAGE WAS
up to his perfectly groomed neck in architects, floor plans, and contractors. The reconstruction of the soundstage located in Long Island City, just east of Manhattan, was consuming nearly eighty percent of his day, and it was nearly impossible to fit his other responsibilities as CEO in the remaining twenty percent. He was tempted to hire a consultant to oversee the project, but this was
his
baby, and he wanted to be hands-on in every single phase of development.

“Yeah, Roy, I have the drawings right here on my desk.” Sage was on the phone with the chief architect for the renovation. Roy Snyderman was the best in the business, and being the best he was in high demand and traveled throughout the country consulting with clients and overseeing projects. He had offices in New York, Beverly Hills, and London.

“So tell me, what do you think?” Roy asked, pleased with the work he had done.

“What do I think?” Sage repeated the question. “I think this is not what we discussed. I told you to design four state-of-the-art sets, and I only see two in the drawings.” Sage drummed the white tip of his black Mont Blanc on the architectural drawings and huffed into the phone.

“That's because the soundstage isn't large enough to accommodate four separate sets. Unless you want four tiny, closetlike sets, there's only space for two. So I used my discretion and designed two spacious, functional sets,” Roy stated, firmly holding his ground.

“When are you coming back East?” Roy was in his West Coast office working with executives from Universal on a new project. “We need to sit down and go over my vision again, because clearly it's skewed,” Sage spat into the receiver, sounding completely disgusted.

“I'm leaving for London tomorrow and won't be back until late next week. In the interim, you can meet with Susan Bergman, my VP of Design, and go over any revisions you have,” Roy said calmly. He dealt with temperamental clients on a daily basis, and was un-frazzled by Sage's curtness. He then added, “But unless you want to build on extra square footage, the existing building will only yield two sets.”

Sage didn't have any intention on meeting with Roy's underling, so he ignored the comment and asked, “How long would it take to add on an extension?”

“We're talking at least six to eight additional months. We'll need to draw up new plans and have them approved by—”

Sage cut him off, “That's entirely too long. I plan to have the studio up and running before the end of the year.”

“Well in that case, I suggest you stick with the original plans, since they've already been approved, and construction is under way,” he said, giving Sage a dose of reality.

Sage sighed heavily. His vision was being compromised, and he didn't like it, not one little bit. He was Sage Hirschfield and Sage Hirschfield rarely made concessions. “Let me think about this,” he said as he sighed again.

“Don't think too long, because if we're going to scrap these plans and start over from square one, we'll need to move ASAP,” Roy said, sounding as cool as an autumn breeze.

“Understood. I'll be in touch,” Sage answered curtly, and pressed the speakerphone button, disconnecting the call, without saying good-bye.

Out of frustration, Sage suddenly grabbed the drawings off his desk and began balling them up with his fists. He swiveled around in his chair and threw the crumpled pieces of paper one by one against the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked Park Avenue. He hadn't anticipated this little snafu, and was pissed. He wanted desperately to prove to his father that he could stand on his own two feet without being propped up by the family legacy. “Fuck!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. Sage began to count to twenty to cool his jets. He needed to blow off some steam, and he knew just who to call to relieve the stress. He turned back to his desk, picked up the receiver—because this was one conversation he didn't want broadcast through the speakerphone—and dialed Missy.

“Hey, Baby,” she cooed into the phone. With caller ID, she didn't have to pretend like she didn't know who was on the other end.

Her sexy voice began to instantly calm him down. “How's that fine ass of yours doing?” he asked, getting straight to the point.

“Tight and waiting for you,” she purred.

“What are you wearing?”

“A thin white T-shirt, without a bra, so my titties are loose and free, and a tight, pink thong.”

“Go into the bathroom, turn on the cold water, cup your hands underneath the faucet, and put that ice-cold water on your T-shirt until it's soaked,” he instructed.

“Okay, Baby, whatever you say.” After a few seconds, Missy said, “Ohh, it's sooo cold.”

“Look in the mirror. Can you see your nipples through the shirt?”

“Yeah, Baby, I can see 'em.”

“Are they hard yet?” Sage asked, envisioning the silhouette of her round nipples.

“Oh, yeah, they're so hard they're poking through the shirt. Oh, Baby, you should see how tasty they look.”

Sage closed his eyes and imagined Missy standing in front of the mirror wearing a wet T-shirt, with her double Ds showing through. He loved playing with her voluptuous rack. It was probably saline-enhanced, but he didn't care; these days it was no big deal since most women had implants. “Play with your nipples for me, and then reach down and suck them through the wet shirt.”

Missy made a smacking sound as if she were sucking her own nipples. “Ohhh, they taste sooo good,” she purred.

At the thought of her sucking on those big ass titties, Sage's dick twitched inside of his silk boxers.

“Are you hard yet, Baby?” Missy asked instinctively.

“I'm getting there,” he said, putting his hand on his heated crotch.

“Mr. Hirschfield,” his secretary called his name through the intercom before he had a chance to release his throbbing cock, “Ms. Benson is on two.”

“Hold on, Missy,” he said, and pressed the intercom button. “I can't talk to her now, and hold all of my calls for the next thirty minutes,” he said abruptly and disconnected the intercom.

“Now where were we?” he asked, returning his attention back to Missy.

“I was just going to tell you to take out that big dick. Can you do that for me?” she asked, turning the tables and taking control.

“Yeah, Baby.” Sage unzipped his pants and eased out his turgid erection.

“Are you holding
my
dick?”

“Yeah, Baby, I'm holding
your
dick.”

“I want you to close your eyes and stroke it up and down. Keep stroking it up and down, and up and down until it stands at attention. How does that feel?”

“Ohh, it feels goooddd!”

“Now grip it as tight as you can, and imagine you sticking that hard pole in my tight little ass. Imagine the head pushing through first; ease that rod in slowly. Now my asshole is gripping your dick so tight causing you to ooze a little pre-cum. But don't cum just yet. I need for you to punish my ass 'cause I've been a bad girl. Now…RAM IT, MOTHERFUCKER!” she yelled into the phone.

Sage increased the pressure on his cock and began stroking faster and faster, as if he were inside of her. “Take that, you dirty bitch,” he grunted.

“Is that all you got, you filthy bastard?”

“Bend over and spread those cheeks, Bitch, because I'm going to rip your hole wide open,” he said in a hushed tone so his secretary couldn't hear.

“Bring it on, you dirty motherfucker, because I'm primed and ready for a good ass fuck,” she hissed into the phone.

His sensory memory took over, and he could feel her tight ass as if he were deep inside. He tightened his grip and pulled his dick from the base to the tip and back again. Missy was the only woman he knew who preferred to be butt-fucked instead of the old-fashioned way, and he loved every minute of it. Sage could cum in her ass without worrying about making any babies. He kept stroking and stroking until he felt that undeniable urge to cum. “Oh, shit, I'm cumming. I'm cumming.” He let out a shriek as a river of semen rushed out of his tiny hole, onto his hand, and was absorbed into his gabardine slacks.

Knowing she had completed a job well done, Missy purred, “Was it good, Baby?”

Sage was still breathless. “You're…the…best,” he said in between gasps of air.

“And don't you ever forget it!”

“I gotta run, Missy. I'll talk to you later,” he said, ending their afternoon sex session, and put the phone back in its cradle.

Now that he had bust a serious nut, he could concentrate on solving the dilemma at hand, but before any business could be conducted Sage needed to change his pants because the cum had made an unsightly chalky mark. As he walked into his private bathroom with adjoining closet, he thought about Terra. Seeing her dressed like a party girl the other night in low-cut jeans and a provocative leather bustier, he couldn't help but wonder if she was as wild as Missy. He wondered if he could call her a dirty bitch while fucking her up the ass, or if she would suck his dick until he squirted cum down her throat. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that Terra was just playing dress up for the night, and the combination of name calling and lewd sex was not her flavor; she was too well bred for such raunchy seduction.