I watch as Mason tries to cover his tracks with my uber bitch of a mother.

"I was talking about this steak," he says casually. "Becca asked how I could possibly eat my steak this rare, and I just said it wasn't my choice."

Mason looks at me, his eyes pleading with me to play along.

I agree to smooth the situation over with him and jump in with the lie. "Yeah, I half expect it to start mooing again at any moment."

"Grow up, Becca," Lorna says.

If that's the harshest thing she's got for me, I can live with that, so I let it go. What I can't live with is the fact that Mason consented to marry my mother. This feels like one big joke, where a camera crew is going to jump out from the kitchen and say, "Surprise! You've just been a part of one giant prank!"

But of course, I know it's far more serious than that. Still, how could he have agreed to the marriage after what we went through—rescuing me from Robert at the bar, the obnoxious banker who thought he was God's gift to women, and then of course what later happened in the bathroom stall… even he has to remember that.

I watch as Mason turns on the charm for my mother. He's completely ignoring me at this point. H's smiling a little wider, and his body is turned in her direction.

"Beautiful spread," he says to her, motioning at the table, and my mother smiles.

"I can show you a different kind of spread," she purrs, and I want to gag. I mean, literally fucking gag. But this feeling of disgust is mixed with something more … is it jealousy?

Yes, I admit that Mason can be a cocky asshole at times, but he's confident, successful, driven, powerful … and it helps that he's hot. Scorching hot. The good outweighs the bad. Believe me.

Yes, he's technically old enough to be my father … and I guess he is my father now … well, stepfather, but that doesn't make it any less strange, and I mean, if I'm honest, the moment I placed my hands on his chest and my fingers traced the hard edges of his rippling muscles, I knew he was truly a god among men.

He's ripped. Just thinking about those eight, perfect squares of muscles in his abdomen makes me wet. And I can't even think about his faultless 12-inches of manhood … unless I want to be instantly soaking wet during dinner.

If Mason is feeling the same as I am, it's impossible to know because he's completely playing along at this point. He smiles and places his hand on hers.

I watch as the two of them engage in friendly, albeit slightly flirty banter, and I decide to take the evening into my own hands.

"You two are perfect for each other," I say, taking another sip of wine. Carl's been doing a good job of keeping our glasses full all evening.

They both turn and look at me, caught off guard by my remark.

"I thought it was too premature to suggest congratulations," mother says.

"Oh, it is," I continue, smiling, "but who knows? Maybe two wrongs will make a right?"

Now I have Mason's attention. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asks.

"I just mean that I could never seriously date a man who publicly blows his load on one of the biggest financial news networks."

I figure I should use reverse psychology. If I talk about what he can't have, he'll want it even more.

"That's not my proudest moment with the MarketWatch anchor, Stacy Sawyer," he says. "It wasn't planned; it just happened."

"Just happened?" I ask. Give me a break. Things like that don't just 'happen.'

"Well thankfully you've got me, dear," Lorna purrs devilishly. "That'll never happen again."

I can almost detect a grimace on Mason's face, but he does a good job of hiding it. It goes undetected by my mother.

"You should really think about settling down, Becca," my mother says. "You aren't getting any younger."

I've heard this spiel before. Settle down. Get married. Have kids. As unconventionally career-minded as my mother is, she's also annoying conventional in terms of the advice she insists on dishing out to me.

"I'd settle down if I ever found a man worth settling down for," I reply.

I can feel Mason's eyes on me. He has a look that says he's mentally undressing me. Good. That just means my approach is working.

"You can understand that, right Mason?" I ask. "A woman needs a strong, powerful, driven man. A man who is equally powerful in his career and personal life, and who can keep up with me and … what's the correct word here? Keep me satisfied?"

"Satisfied?" he asks. He's shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

"Yes, I need a man who has his fingers on the pulse of my life, if you know what I mean," I smile. "Would you know anything about that, Mr. Kane?"

I can see him take a nervous gulp. His large Adam's apple bobs up and down his throat. I have him in my grasp, and I'm loving it. It's not every day that a woman can say she's made Mason Kane, the Wolf of Wall Street, nervous.

I sit up straight, purposely pushing my breasts out and I give him a deeper view of my cleavage. My mother doesn't notice. She's a few glasses of wine deep at this point in the evening, and is in her own world. I decide to take advantage of that.

Carl brings us a plate of figs, sliced lengthwise and drizzled with honey.

"Do you like figs?" I ask Mason.

"Sometimes."

"You have to know how to eat them," I say, and I decide to demonstrate.

I pick one up and hold it delicately in between my fingers. I make sure Mason is watching and I slowly bring it to my mouth, parting my red lips and then dragging my tongue across the flesh. I lick the sweet honey off of it by dragging the tip of my tongue across its glistening, soft, split ripeness.

Mason's visibly uncomfortable. There's a hunger growing in his eyes that can't be sated by the food on this table. He's shifting his weight from one side to the next in his chair, and not knowing what to do with his hands, he leans back and rubs the back of his neck. I wonder how hard his cock is right now.

There's only one way to find out.

We are sitting across from each other and I push one of my legs forward until it meets his. I slip my feet out of my heels. I'm wearing silk stockings, and I drag one smooth foot up his leg.

He coughs in surprise.

"Are you okay?" my mother asks him.

He waves her off. "I'm fine. I think a bite of food went down wrong, that's all. Nothing to worry about."

I decide to drag my silky foot up further until it's pressed against his soft inner thigh. He's shifting in his seat again until I bring my foot to the secret center of his crotch and I feel him—his 12-inch cock is as hard and thick as a cucumber, and I stifle a smile. I bring my second foot up until both feet are cradling his manhood. I stroke him with both silky feet, slowly at first, and then at a faster tempo.

He's trying not to look at me. He's trying to suppress the desire pulsing through his veins. He tilts his head back, tugging at the Windsor knot of his tie.

"It's hot in here," he says, loosening his tie some more.

"Carl!" mother shouts. "Please adjust the thermostat. Mr. Kane appears to be uncomfortably warm."

"Yes, ma'm," Carl replies, and walks off to adjust the temperature.

Little do they know, the thermostat can't help Mason. Things are about to get a lot hotter. I stroke his cock with increased pressure and speed, until I feel him twitch. His entire body is tense and I know I'm bringing him dangerously close to the edge of an explosive orgasm.

But not tonight. Not now.

I'm not going to give it to him that easy.

I remove my feet and slip them back into their heels as if nothing happened. "Well, it's getting late," I say to no one in particular.

Then I turn and look at Mason. "Perhaps I'll see you at work tomorrow?"

His words catch in his throat and he doesn't respond. He merely nods.

I've never seen Mason as speechless as I'm seeing him right now.

Who has the upper hand now, huh?

Bet he’s never gone up against a brat like me.