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 easily 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.

“There’s coffee in the thermos,” the driver says. The corners of his eyes crinkle with amusement. “Mr. Wood asked me to tell you that he’s out of IVs.”

My cheeks go flush. A wry joke about my caffeine addiction is the only personal touch listed on my resume. Is it possible Mason read it after all? I use the thermos to refill my empty cup, and breathe in the scent of roasted hazelnuts. My mouth begins to water before I take my first sip. The hot liquid glides down my throat, smooth and rich. Sweet Jesus. It’s practically nectar from the gods themselves.

I settle into the seat and study the unmarked folders on my lap. Am I supposed to look at them? I flip open the top file and skim through the paperwork. I recognize a more recent series of trades that earned Daylight Holdings close to fifty million dollars and a front-page story in the New York Times. I squint at the notes scrawled on a slip of paper, trying to decipher the messy penmanship. I’ve only made out a couple of words when the driver announces that we are approaching the airstrip.

We taxi up the long runway to a small jet, where Mason waits at the base of a three-step staircase that leads into the plane. A heavy wind whips his tousled hair in front of his face, but I don’t need a view of his whole face to ascertain his mood. He stands rigid, stoic, a pillar of professionalism—and annoyance.

Anxiety nips at the nape of my neck. Will he come to the car to retrieve the files, or should I run them over to him?

He glances at his watch and I catch the flicker of impatience in his eyes. Okay. Take the folders to him it is. The jet plane’s engine roars at me in welcome as I step out of the car. My heels bite at the asphalt, still wet from the overnight dew. I balance the folders in my arms and focus on walking, on not tripping, on not making a fool of myself. Anything to not further cement his harsh opinion of me—to think of me as something more than a klutz. That wasn’t on my resume.

“You’re late,” he says, by way of greeting.

A snarky response crawls up my throat but I tamp it back. “My apologies, Mr. Wood. I wasn’t aware you were going out of town. I got here as fast as I could.”

His jaw tenses. “If you had been early, you’d have seen my note.”

Again, I squelch my inner voice. I had arrived early, and Gertrude didn’t even give me the option of setting my things down in an office before handing me my orders. What else was on Mason’s note?

His Adam’s apple bobs. “Based on your lack of luggage, I can assume you haven’t packed adequate clothing.”

My throat closes in. “Luggage?”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Unless you plan on wearing the same skirt for the next three days,” he says. A mischievous grin curls his lip up. “I already know you don’t require underwear.”

That was a one time thing!

My whole face goes hot with shame, and in an instant, my resolve to keep things professional begins to erode. Damn him. I open my mouth to protest—I can’t be gone three days. Renee will be at my apartment tonight and I haven’t even taken down the picture of me and Mom—but he cuts me off with a dismissive flick of his hand. “A bag has been packed for you. I’m sure you’ll find it more than adequate.”

Despite my surprise, a thrill runs up my spine. “How can you be sure the clothes will fit?”

Mason’s gaze runs up and down my body, devouring me with a hungry stare that serves as a stark reminder of yesterday’s encounter. My ass clenches as if replaying the scene, and the tingle between my thighs is instant. “Your first lesson today, Miss Landers—don’t ever question me.”

My teeth sink into my bottom lip. I nod, precariously close to shrinking under the weight of his stare. He gestures toward the staircase and I tentatively climb aboard the small plane.

Five years after my father abandoned us, Mom dated a firefighter. He wasn’t particularly good looking, and he certainly didn’t model the stereotypical characteristics of the position, but I liked him well enough. One day, he took Mom and I in his small water bomber. The interior was just a shell—four seats, a smattering of equipment tucked into a small closet, a few odds and ends of safety equipment.

Mason’s plane is not that plane.

A massive leather sofa curves around a fireplace. To the left, four stools line up in front of a bar. Soft lights pulse against the mirrored backsplash, where my pale face reflects back at me. I twirl a strand of wind-tousled hair around my finger. “Jesus,” I whisper. “Is that a gas fireplace?”

“It’s just an illusion. The fire isn’t real but you can still turn up the heat with a remote control.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling naïve for thinking the fireplace wasn’t some sort of optical trick.

Mason clears his throat and gestures to the couch. He takes the seat across from me, a high-backed throne chair befitting royalty. For one fleeting second, I pretend I’m a princess and that this kingdom—and this king—will soon be mine. Reality slaps me across the face. How ridiculous.

I close my eyes and inhale the woodsy aroma of earth and musk. Mason. It’s the same scent that still clings to my skin, even after scrubbing myself in the shower. I’d fallen asleep to that smell, and awoken with the faint scent of him in my hair.

The plane begins to crawl along the runway. Through the window, the asphalt becomes a blur and my pulse picks up speed. My fingers dig into the leather cushions. I take small, calming breaths, but a bead of sweat still trickles down between my shoulder blades.

“I gather you haven’t flown much,” Mason says.

My skin goose pimples under his scrutiny. “My mom didn’t like to travel.”

“And you?” Mason levels me with an intense stare.

The plane lifts off the ground and I press the back of my head into the couch. “I prefer to have travelled,” I say, breathing out a sigh of relief when the plane starts to level out. “In other words, I’m nervous to fly.”

Mason nods. “You will soon get used to that among other things.”

I swallow, wondering what he means.

But soon enough, he clears it up.