Net Worth by Amelia Wilde

9

Mason

Charlotte’s scared now.

She should be.

I’m so tired of waiting. I’ve been extraordinarily patient. I’ve dedicated the last fourteen years of my life to my siblings. To my business. Every day. Nights and weekends. Clawing business deals from the jaws of assholes. Clawing what little normalcy I could from the smoking remains of our lives. My knee is killing me.

So casual about it at the Cornerstone site.

What’s wrong with your leg?

Of course she’d noticed. She spends all her time staring at me. But there was no judgment in her voice. No morbid curiosity. She doesn’t know the story, then. A true innocent.

And for a heartbeat, I’d considered it. Telling her. She would be kind, because Charlotte Van Kempt is kind, and sweet, and innocent. Amid all those steel beams she was soft and beautiful and I wanted it. The unburdening. The admission. It was the most tempted I’ve ever been.

I cannot be tempted by her.

Not like that.

This isn’t about emotions or giving up the weight of my secrets. This is about retribution. Full stop.

Charlotte shivers next to me in the elevator, but she doesn’t cower. She doesn’t ask nervous questions. She waits, silent and stoic, all the way to the penthouse.

When the elevator doors open, I stride out into the foyer and through it. A moment of hesitation, and then she’s hurrying to catch up with me.

Down the hall. Take a left. She sucks in a little breath as we go into the great room. It looks out over the Manhattan skyline, but I don’t care about the floor-to-ceiling windows. I don’t care about the orange glow of the sunset sinking into the city. I want her face to burn red. I want tears. I want her to feel as hollowed out and scorched as I do on days like this.

A large, rounded sofa faces the fireplace on the left side of the room. The formal dining table on the right side. But I take her to the center, where four chairs surround a low, white table.

I put the box there earlier. Slim. Black.

She’s shaking in her shoes and doing her best to ignore it. I take off my jacket first and drop it into the chair, then reach for the box.

Charlotte’s tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip. No questions, though. She stands up tall when I come back with the necklace.

Not the same one as before. That one’s in my closet, tossed onto a dresser with its broken clasp. Charlotte watches my eyes as long as she can, but she can’t help herself.

She looks.

Her eyes fly open.

Unlike the other necklace, this one has no chain. It’s stiff platinum. A collar necklace, glittering with diamonds. Charlotte’s chin goes up as I bring it close to her throat, like it might scratch her. It doesn’t. There’s a breath of space between the metal and her neck. I let it go and the metal falls against her collarbone.

She shivers.

I put my hand around her throat, the diamonds scraping the side of my hand, and look into her huge, blue eyes. My knee seizes and I have to consciously relax for it to let up.

“Kiss me.”

Another small breath. This one ignites something at the base of my spine. A thirst for control. A thirst for revenge. It’s like fire. Fire everywhere.

She doesn’t know what to do, and I give her nothing but impatience.

It doesn’t take long for her to find her bravery. Charlotte takes a half-step forward and her hands come up and up and up. Carefully. Slowly. Like I might react to her. Like I might explode. Who knows? Maybe I will. But then her delicate hands are on the back of my neck and she tugs me toward her. Just far enough to reach me on tiptoe.

The kiss is soft. Sweet. I keep my hand around her airway. I try to hold myself back.

Not today. It’s not happening today. I turn it on her, turn it into a bite. Too hard for her. She lets out a whimper, and before it’s finished, I’ve taken myself out of her hands.

I take the nearest seat, ignoring the painful throb of my cock, and sigh. She’s beet red at my boredom. If only she knew. But Charlotte’s never been fucked before. Not in her mouth. Not in her cunt. Not in her ass. She doesn’t know what she’s doing to me. She won’t know until I show her. Once I do, she’ll never forget it.

“Put your purse on the table.”

She does, then goes back to her spot next to the chair across from me. I’ve left the lights off. I want her to feel the sun dying around her. I want her to feel time running out.

“Your face is red,” I comment. “You’re either terrified or extremely aroused.”

Charlotte’s eyelashes flutter. She whispers something I can’t hear.

“Charlotte.” Her name—the warning in it, no doubt—brings her eyes back to mine. “I can’t hear you.”

“I—” She makes a soft noise. “I feel dirty.”

“You liked it better in the foyer.”

A shake of her head. “I like it when—”

“I don’t care.”

Her shock is a jerk of her hand.

Straight to the necklace.

It’s not what she expects to find there, and she drops it right away. The red splotches on her cheeks spread down to her chest. Her surprise, her sadness—it makes me want to admit that I lied. I do care what she likes. Those are the best things to use against her.

“Undress. Everything but the necklace.”

Her lips part like she’s going to ask a question. Charlotte thinks better of it. There’s no question she can ask that will change what I’m going to do to her. How hard I’m going to push her. I’ve had enough of teasing. Of taunting. Of the suggestions that make her blush. Tonight she’ll get an introduction to reality.

Charlotte slips the halter of the dress over her head and tugs it off over her hips.

“Stop.”

She freezes with it down around her calves, her legs tensed to step out of it.

“Try again, you sweet little thing.” A flinch at the mocking tone. “Make it sexy. I’m fucking bored.”

I’m not bored. I’m the least bored I’ve ever been. Her naked body in the last light of the day has my mouth dry and my cock throbbing. Charlotte Van Kempt is clean. Soft. Unmarked.

It will hurt so much more that way.

She takes a deep breath, then pulls the fabric back up. Puts the halter back into place. Drops her hands down to her sides again. Starting over, just the way I wanted. Holy fuck. She has no idea.

Her hands shake, but this time, when she lifts the halter over her head, she tips her head back like it feels good to take it off. A quick, searching glance at me. I clench my jaw to keep from praising her. That’s not what this is about. Charlotte’s trying her best, and it is magnificent, and I want to ruin her for it.

It’s a difficult project with a dress like that. It’s astonishing how much she makes of it. Showing me one pink nipple, then the next, peeking at me from beneath her lashes. She makes a little sound when she gets it down to her waist. All tentative surprise, like she didn’t quite mean to show me her tits, but she doesn’t hate it now that it’s happening.

A slow slide over her hips.

I hold my breath.

Fuck. I just watched her strip it off not five minutes ago. It doesn’t matter. The anticipation makes my skin tight and my cock tighter. It’s never been so hard. I’ve never wanted anything like this.

Charlotte lowers the dress and her pussy comes into view.

Not enough. Not enough. She’s bare, but it’s not enough. I want her legs bound to the corners of my bed. I want all of her on display for me. I want to see every perfect inch of her.

I meet her eyes again in time to see a flare of hope there. Charlotte circles her hips, tiny motions meant to make the dress fall, and lets go.

It puddles around the heels I bought for her.

One step out of them.

Then another.

She’s naked now. Breathing hard. Chin up.

“Come here.”

Three trembling steps over to my chair. I take my time looking at her. That’s all it takes to make her blush harder. Lingering glances at the tight peaks of her nipples.

She can’t take her eyes off me. I’m not a fool. I know what I look like. What I’m doing. I know that the fading light is making me seem more threatening by the moment.

“Ms. Van Kempt.”

Charlotte bites her lip, and I know what I’ve done with those words. I’ve put her back into my office on the first day we met. I’m not on my knees. Not yet. I hold her gaze until I’m sure she’s remembering. Until I’m sure the pink in her cheeks is from the realization that the moment has arrived.

“Yes?” she whispers.

“Get on your knees.”

She starts to lower herself to the rug. Get it over quickly. I won’t have that. It won’t be easy for her. I put a hand on her hip and pull her forward at the last minute so she falls between my knees and has to push herself back up. No hiding the quiver in her chin now. No hiding the dimpling skin there. I’ll get tears soon. It’ll be fucking delicious.

Except…

There’s no except.

I let her wait for as long as I can stand it. “Unbuckle my belt.”

“Oh, god.” So low. So sweet. So mortified. Charlotte says it almost to herself. She’s already reaching for the buckle. I don’t do a damn thing to help her. Don’t angle my body toward her. Nothing. I just watch her like an asshole. My heartbeat is the timer on a bomb. Nothing seems as essential as knowing when she’ll go off. When Charlotte Van Kempt will break.

No fumbling with the buckle. She knows her way around clothes. Charlotte works the buckle open and pulls out the loop. Her eyes meet mine in a silent question. Ah—there’s the begging. Wordless. The way I like it.

“Take it out.”

Nothing but a hushed breath this time. The tremble in her hands comes back full force. It’s intriguing, the way she is with the button and zipper. She’s familiar with the pressure and give of fastening and unfastening garments, even when they’re on other people.

It’s the part where she has to push my pants open, tug them around my hips to get access—that’s when she struggles. Her movements become tentative. Each breath comes faster. Tears well in her eyes.

I give her nothing.

Nothing when the pants are out of her way enough to reach my boxer briefs. Nothing when she hesitates for one single, painful heartbeat. Nothing when she slips her hand through my fly and tugs me out.

It’s a process, because her hands are small and I’m so hard that I barely manage to hold in a groan. I can feel her preparing to let go, to stop touching me as soon as she can, but I wrap my hand over hers. Take her chin in my other hand. Look through the silvery sheen of her tears.

“Suck me.”

“No,” she gasps. “Not like this.”

Then she’s up, so fast it reminds me of a terrified hummingbird. Charlotte slips her hand out from underneath mine. She’s light on her feet now, humiliation giving her an adrenaline rush, and it takes her no time to lunge for her purse. Her dress. She flees the darkening great room at top speed.

A single sob trails after her.

I don’t.

The elevator doors open, and just before they slide closed again, a metallic thud echoes from the foyer.

My god. She left the necklace.

I take out my phone to text the doormen and tell them to stop her, but I can’t bring myself to type the words.

In the empty living room I put myself back together over the screaming protest of my knee and the insistent demands of my frustrated cock. My fist in the shower will make it tolerable until morning.

For a heartbeat, I almost regret this. Regret her fear. Regret pursuing reprisal to this point.

Almost.

And then not at all.

I expected her to break. I went looking for the limit of her humiliation, and I found it.

Now we can have some real fun.