Page 49 of Meet Mason, the Billionaire

I did my best to unwrap the chicken. It should have taken a few seconds, a minute at most. Instead, Mason kept playing with the settings on the plug in my rear. Sometimes it would hammer in a series of hard, intermittent pulses. Sometimes it would throb continuously with the occasional heavier beat at random.

Mason kept me guessing. I somehow managed to rinse the chicken and washed my hands in the other side of the sink.

At that point, Mason had chopped onions, garlic, and green tarragon. A pan with hot oil awaited the chicken.

“Pick the stems out of the tarragon,” he said. “If you miss any, you’ll be punished.”

“Yes, Chef,” I said, suppressing a giggle.

“Is something funny?”

“Only your face.”

“What?” Mason burst with laughter. “You’re asking for it.”

“Oh, baby,” I said, putting my hand on my out-thrust hip. “I’m BEGGING for it. Are you going to give it to me?”

In response, he hit the remote and the plug vibed harder than ever.

I’m in for a looong night, I thought happily.

Chapter Twenty

Mason

The chicken had a perfect sear. The butter-sauteed green beans featured just the right amount of crispness. The side of cranberry compote was sweet, but not cloyingly so.

“This is fucking delicious,” Megan said, cutting into her chicken. “I cant’ believe I’ve never had this before.”

“The rue is a bit tricky, and it takes a while to prepare, but I love this dish. When it’s done right.”

“Well, you did it right.”

She glanced over at me from her seat at the counter. Her eyes darted to the silver remote on the center of the table, within easy reach of my hand.

I’d turned off her plug so she could eat, but I hadn’t taken it out. Other than her earrings, the tail was all she wore. I’d reclaimed her ‘uniform’ when dinner was served.

“So,” I said as she made the last bite disappear. “Are you satisfied?”

“I’ve had enough to eat, if that’s what you mean.”

I took her meaning. I stood up—at that point I wasn’t wearing anything either, except a grin. My cock was at half-mast already. “Then it’s time to move this party up to the bathroom.”

She didn’t move. Megan arched her brow. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

I frowned, looking at the dishes on the table. “Don’t worry, I’ll clean up later.”

Megan rolled her eyes. “Somebody forgot that I didn’t take the stems out of the tarragon properly.”

I laughed. The tarragon had been perfectly de-stemmed, laid in a neat little pile—and then one massive, plucked stem laid atop it.

“I feel like I’m being manipulated,” I said.

“That’s my line.”

“Bold of you to assume your punishment would be administered down here, in the kitchen.”

I was bluffing. I’d actually forgotten about it.

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