Wicked Lil' Brat(5)

Sighing loudly, I sit back down on my seat and take a gulp out of my red wine. Finally, peace. Who knew that being alone could be better than being on a date? The answer flashes through my mind as I look at the man by the counter, Mason Kane. He’s already facing forward, drinking another glass of whisky as if the whole situation between me, Robert, and him never happened. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m already going up to my feet; with the glass of wine in my hand, I walk up to the counter and sit down on the stool next to him.

“Thank you,” I say, running my tongue over my dry lips. He glances at me, not even bothering to turn his body, and waves with his own glass.

“No problem,” he responds with a smile, and then turns forward as if I’m not here, eager to find out more about him. Yes, I said it; he intrigues me. Sure, he looks almost old enough to be my father, and he’s also my boss, but it’s not like I’m doing anything wrong here… Besides, even though he’s probably in his late thirties, early forties, he doesn’t look anything like his age. Oh, no, he looks like one of those Hollywood stars that don’t ever seem to age. And there’s something about him, an aura of… power? Dominance? I don’t know, but I wouldn’t mind finding out.

“Becca,” I introduce myself, extending my hand toward him. He glances at me again, his eyes slowly going down from my face to my hand. He doesn’t recognize me from the office, it seems, but a soft smile appears on his lips and he finally reaches for my hand with his own, giving me a gentle handshake.

“Mason,” he tells me, a spark flickering behind his eyes. “So, Becca,” he continues, turning his whole body toward me, “what’s a girl like you doing with a guy like that?” My heart starts galloping inside my chest as I realize that I finally have his attention. Smiling, I drink the rest of my wine while I ponder my next words.

“Waiting for someone better to come along,” I say, my smile turning into a veiled grin. I really don’t know why I’m trying so hard to flirt with him; I just know that I have to do it.

“I see. Well,” he smiles politely once more, grabbing his whisky and finishing it, “good luck with that.” Shit, he’s really playing hard to get. Either that or I’m too young for him and he doesn’t see me like a real woman, one with whom he’d like to… Christ, what am I saying? Am I really thinking of unbuttoning that shirt of his and seeing what’s underneath it? Am I really this desperate to find out the taste of his lips? Yes… Yes, I am. I mean, I’m having a drink with Mason Kane, the King of Wall Street, for God’s sake!

“How about you? On a date with a bottle of whisky?” I ask him, hoping to God that I’m not overstepping. I don’t why he’s sitting here by himself, but I really don’t want to ruin this.

“You got me,” he replies, raising both his hands in the air as if I was pointing a gun at him. “Sometimes a good scotch helps ease a troubled mind.”

“And what’s troubling you?”

“Nothing you would care about… Unless you also know how to ease a troubled mind, that is,” he says, smiling quizzically. We lock eyes, and I already feel my body temperature rising. Not only that, but between my thighs… Well, let’s just say that ‘dry’ wouldn’t be a term I’d use to describe the state I’m in right now.

“Maybe I know of a way to make you relax…” I hear myself saying, my heart thrashing inside of my chest. I can’t believe that I’m really saying this. What’s gotten into me?

“As long as it doesn’t involve yoga,” he tells me, that grin still dancing on his lips. “You look like the kind of girl who’d do yoga.” I blush at his words, even though there’s barely a hint of wickedness to them. Yet, I can’t stop myself from thinking that he’s imagining me in tight yoga pants and bending over…

“I do yoga, yeah,” I grin back at him. “But that’s not what I have in mind right now…”

“A special kind of yoga then?” he smirks, fully committed to the verbal spar I’ve pulled us both into.

“A very special kind of yoga,” I continue, feeling more and more comfortable with this back-and-forth conversation. It’s just words, right? Of course, the moment this thought goes through my head, he gets up from his stool and leans into me.

“Show me,” he whispers into my ear, placing one hand on top of my knee and slowly sliding his fingers underneath the hemline of my dress. I gasp and almost stop breathing as, with his eyes still locked on mine, he runs his fingers all the way up my leg, only stopping when he finds my soaked thong.