His Pawn (The Manhattan Tales Book 1) (15 page)

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 held 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.

“Please just… fuck me,” I begged him as his fingers continued to bring me to the edge of an intense climax.  My whole body shuddered as ripples washed over me.

Mason suddenly withdrew his fingers from me, and I nearly cried from the withdrawal.  I whimpered pathetically.

He grasped me by both arms and turned me to face him.  “Is that what you
really
want?  I’ll warn  you now: If I take you, I won’t go soft.  I’ve had one hell of a week.  I’ll fuck you hard. Long. Rough.”