Mason's Secret Agreement Pt. 02

I get jealous and come out on the dance floor, beer in hand, and demand that Alonzo let me cut in.

"Be my guest," he says, laughing, and backs his way off the dance floor. I take his place, not really salsa dancing as much as gyrating my body and making fun of myself.

Jaqueline starts cracking up. "What's that, the chicken dance?"

"You got it," I tell her. "Chicken with a side of salsa."

The music stops, and we both get a standing ovation from the crowd. We take a few mock bows, and head up to the bar to get drinks. I order another beer, and Jaqueline gets a bottle of water. She chugs it, sweat literally dripping off her. Alonzo tosses us both a towel.

"It gets pretty hot in this place," I tell her, shouting over the music, which has started playing again.

"I can see that."

"If you want," I say, "we can head back to my place and wash up. When you're ready to go, that is."

"Where do you live again?"

"The Upper East Side. On E 62nd St."

She chugs more of her water. "I'm ready to go."

"Great. I'll call a cab. Let's boogie-woogie out of here."

***

I've owned my Manhattan townhouse for six years now, so I sometimes forget how big it is. It's five floors, with six bedrooms and seven baths, and is a total of 9,200 square feet.

"Oh my God," Jaqueline says as we go inside the entry hall, which opens to my living room and a grand staircase. "You live here?"

"Of course," I tell her.

"By yourself?"

"Yes, believe it or not. Why? You want to take a tour?"

She nods. "Ah, yes."

"Fine. Follow me."

I've toured my house at least 50 times in the past six years, mostly with business clients or associates, and occasionally with the women I'm dating. I've done it so many times it's become routine, even boring; anymore, it's like I'm a real estate agent hosting an open house.

But I really like Jaqueline, so I give her the dime tour for the 51st time. I show her the basement with the wine cellar and fitness center, complete with free weights, a stationary bike, and treadmill; the first floor with the oak bar, 70-inch flat screen TV, and pool table; the second floor with the formal dining room and butler's pantry; the third and fourth floors with the six guest bedrooms and full-sized laundry room; the fifth floor where the master bedroom suite is located, which has an 11 foot ceiling, two walk-in closets, two master bathrooms and a hot tub; and finally, the 1,400 square foot roof deck, with a second whirlpool and the most spectacular view of the Manhattan skyline.

"Jesus," Jaqueline says. "This place is amazing. Huge, but amazing. Do you think you really need all this space?"

I shake my head. "Hell no. Not at all. I don't even need a third of it."

"Then why'd you buy it?"

"It's an investment," I say. "I got it at a pretty decent price in 2011. Relatively speaking. It's already gone up in value by almost 4 percent. But enough sales talk for now. How about a glass of wine? I have an opened bottle of some really tasty riesling ice wine in the fridge right here in the kitchen, so we don't have to go all the way back down to the wine cellar. Would you like a glass of that?"

"Sure. Can I take a shower first?"

"Absolutely. Or, you can do both at the same time. Here. Let me get you the wine. I'll just use this flute glass right here." I uncork the bottle, pour her a nice glass. "Ah, there it is. Hmm. Smell that."

She takes the glass, runs it under her nose, then drinks. "Wow. That is good. Are you going to have one?"

"Does the pope shit in the woods?" I pour myself a glass. "Here. Let's make a toast: to putting Paris Hightower on the cover of Chantel, and to the best editor in chief in New York City. Oh, and to raising the magazine's quarterly revenue by at least 10 percent."

"Ten percent? Where did that number come from?"

I shrug. "I don't know... I just made it up."

We clink glasses, and sip our ice wine. I grab the bottle and we relocate to the master bathroom, where the walk-in shower and hot tub are. Jaqueline gets in the shower first, brushing her teeth with my toothbrush not even 30 seconds after I've used it. For some reason this gets me aroused, as does watching her under the steaming shower jet, washing her long brown hair and squirting liquid soap all over her body. For the first time I get a good look at her breasts, unlike that night in the dim playroom at Constantine's. They're teardrop--round at the bottom and less full at the top--probably a C-cup, with pretty pink nipples that are the size of quarters.

Jaqueline sees me watching her.

"Well?" she says. "Are you going to come in, or just stare at me like a pervert?"

I wink and open the shower door. We giggle and have a tickle fight for about a minute, and then the polite bullshitting is over and we get down to what we know we both want, what we've both been waiting for since all that hot salsa dancing at the Five-Spot. I lean forward and French kiss her under the showerhead, tasting water and ice wine, tasting her. I start to get an erection, and when she reaches a soapy hand down between my legs and starts stroking me--breathing heavily and running her tongue in my ear--I'm firing on all cylinders.

"You're so hard," she tells me, panting. I'm throbbing in her hand. I push her up against the glass of the shower stall, kissing her sloppily, my tongue hungry to taste every inch of her. I unhook the showerhead, and still kissing her, shove it between her legs.

"Ooo," she says, making her slut face. I work the showerhead on her, rubbing the vibrating jet right on her clit. Moaning, she grabs my hand and pushes the jet up herself harder. "Uh-huh," she groans, and starts coming. Her face gets red and she opens her mouth and her eyes roll back, her body trembling, her hands locked on the jet between her legs.

She drops the showerhead on the floor of the stall, grabs my arm. "Come on, Mason. I want you to fuck me now."

"Here? In the shower?"

"No. In your bed. I want you to fuck me good and hard. Make me come all over your sheets."

My erection is raging. I turn off the shower and replace the jet on the wall. We dry each other off, using the same bath towel, and end up necking again. We drop the towel on the rug, and hurry into the master bedroom--panting and groping like teenagers--and fall into my bed. She rolls me on my back, gets between my legs. I glance down at myself, naked in the bright lamplight, pleased with my toned body, my rippled abs, my muscular legs. I run my hand through my thick wavy hair, trying to fix it.

"Your hair's fine," Jaqueline tells me. "I love it messy. It's totally sexy. Makes me want to eat you alive." She leans forward, lowering her breasts into my mouth. I suck on them, circling my tongue around the stem of her nipples.

"That feels amazing," she says, and slowly starts kissing me, first on the neck, then down my chest to my stomach, where she pauses, hovering over my erection, teasing me. My cock's ready to explode.

She glances up at me from between my legs, a nasty little expression on her face. "Do you like it when girls look at you while they suck your cock?"

Before I can answer, she takes me in her mouth. I moan, and stretch my arms behind my head. I'm ridiculously close to coming in her mouth, but stop myself.

"I love sucking you," she says, glancing up at me. "You taste sooo good." She takes me all the way down her throat, bobbing her head, then comes up for air. It's a sloppy blowjob, and my cock is slick and wet; strands of spittle hang off her chin as she sucks me.

"Wait," I tell her. "Time out. I don't want to come yet."

She smiles, licking her lips. "Oh no?"

"No. I want to hold off. How about if I eat your pussy?"

"How about if we sixty-nine?"

"Okay."

She spins around, gets on all-fours, and pushes her ass into my face. I grab her hips and spread her ass, licking out her little brown hole and then putting my mouth on her soaking snatch. She moans as I suck the folds of her cunt, running my tongue deep inside her, in-and-out, licking her clit, while she sucks me off.

I push her off of me, roll her on her back and get on top of her. She moans as I slide my cock deep inside her. I start fucking her then, pounding her just the way she asked for it, taking her legs and bending them back so her ankles are at her ears. She grabs at my back as I fuck her, as I thrust myself deep, deep inside her. After a few minutes she's pressed up against the headboard, but I keep pounding her, holding out as long as I can, leaning forward and kissing her passionately on the mouth.

"Keep fucking me," she says, moaning, staring at me with her crystal blue eyes. "Yeah, keep going..."

Amazingly, we come at the same time. She moans and goes into a spasm, her breath coming in quick gasps. I explode inside her, totally unloading, until I realize it's not the best decision, and pull out midstream. I'm still coming so Jacqueline quickly sits up, grabs my cock and starts jerking me off.

"Holy shit," I say, catching my breath.

Jaqueline smiles. "You okay there? I didn't break you, did I?" My seed is leaking out from between her legs.

I nod, still out of breath. "No, I'm good. Wow. That was hardcore."

"Yes it was." She stands up and kisses me, goes into the bathroom, starts wiping herself off. I follow her and do the same. I give her a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt to wear to bed, and go to the kitchen and bring up a bottle of water. We share the water and head back to my bedroom. We turn off the lights and get under the covers. Jaqueline kisses me, and I brush her hair back from her pretty face. She snuggles up next to me, resting her head on my chest.

For a while we don't speak, just lie there, warm and glowing in our private space, her and I, tranquil and totally complete.

"Tell me about yourself," Jaqueline says finally. "Where are you from? How did you get so rich?"

I gently stroke her hair. "I'm from the suburbs of Philadelphia," I tell her. "A place called Lower Merion. I went to college for three years and majored in information technology, but never graduated. I started Fashion Space around that time. It blew-up a few years later, like most social media did at the time, and the rest is history. What about you? What's your story?"

"Me? I don't really have a story. I haven't done anything important. I'm boring."

I laugh. "You're definitely not boring, I can promise you that. A wild woman? Yes. A sex machine? Absolutely." I check my alarm to see if it's set for the next morning's meeting with Gerald Styer, the general manager of the Quebec Red Raiders, the Canadian football team I own. It is. "What about Stefan," I ask, "since we're sharing our past? The guy you used to hang with at Constantine's? What's your deal with him, anyway?"

"What's my deal with him? What do you mean?"

"I don't know, how long were you together? What ever happened to him?"

"I was with him for seven years. I was his BDSM slave. It was all professional. Strictly business."

"And that's all over now?"

"Of course it is."

"Why did you guys part ways?"

"We just did," Jaqueline tells me. "He wasn't a very nice guy. He had issues. I think we both did." Jaqueline rolls over and checks the clock. "Can we not talk about Stefan now? I'm really tired. I just want to go to sleep."

"Of course," I say. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get too personal."

"It's okay, don't worry about it." She kisses me on the cheek. "Good night, Mason. Thanks for an awesome time tonight."

"Good night, Jacqueline," I say. "And thank you. I had a great time, too."

***

JAQUELINE

I'm on the phone waiting to speak with Marco Moretti, Paris Hightower's agent. Faisal, my sexy 25-year-old Arab-American secretary, just buzzed me from his desk outside my office to let me know Marco's people are on the line, and that Marco himself wants to talk to me. It's him, Faisal tells me, sounding like he's going to cream in his tweed slacks. It's Marco Moretti. He wants to speak with you alone, just you and him. He specifically said he didn't want a conference call. Oh my God!

I'm flattered, but also suspicious. My gut tells me Mason has something to do with it, that he probably did some finagling behind the scenes to get Marco to personally make the call. Why else would Marco Moretti, the Italian-born God of fashion and all things chic and sophisticated, want to talk with me, a chick from Bay Ridge Brooklyn with limited editorial experience and zero contacts in the international world of fashion design? Why not get one of his many assistants to do it?

I wait patiently on hold for Moretti. Getting Paris Hightower on the cover is an absolute must. She's the key to my whole vision for the inaugural online-only issue being launched on December 28th, which is less than two months away. The cuts to the print magazine staff have been finalized, and 81 people are set to lose their jobs. Harold Burns and I went over the numbers, and we've come to the conclusion that there's just no other way. Chantel is failing, and if something isn't done soon to right the ship, there won't be any magazine at all--not an online edition, nothing.

"Ms. Singletary?" a voice says on the phone.

"Yes? This is Jaqueline?"

"Mr. Moretti is ready to speak with you now. I'm putting him through."

I swallow hard. "Okay, put him on."

There's a clicking sound, and then I hear a voice with just the faintest Italian accent: "Hello? Jaqueline Singletary?"

"Yes?" I say. "This is her. Is this Mr. Moretti?"

"Yes," he says. "This is Marco. I'm so glad to speak with you directly. I know how busy you must be, getting yourself established at Chantel as the new editor in chief. Amanda Bassett was a pillar of the fashion community, and a very talented magazine editor, to say the least. I can only imagine filling her shoes must be somewhat anxiety provoking."

"I'm managing," I tell him. "I'm taking things as they come, one day at a time. So I'm assuming you've heard my proposal about putting Paris Hightower on the cover of Chantel?"

"Yes, I've been informed of your project. There are some details that concern me, however."

"Like?" I ask, although I obviously know exactly what he's talking about. The sticking point probably revolves around the theme of Chantel's New Year's issue--Manhattan sex clubs and BDSM. Such subjects tend to send up red flags for agents; they can dominate headlines and sell magazines, but they can also be nasty career killers.

"Well," Marco says, "I'm not sure how risqué Ms. Hightower will be willing to get on the cover. The same goes for the feature story on her: I'm not sure how much of her... how shall I put this... confidential lifestyle she'll be willing to share with the public." He says something to his secretary, then continues: "Did you think Ms. Hightower, an up-and-coming supermodel who's graced the catwalk in the industry's 'Big Four' fashion capitals--Paris, Milan, London, and New York--and who's been featured in the world's top fashion magazines, would just throw all caution to the wind and admit to the public, to her fans, that she's into whips and chains?"

But she's never been on a cover before, I think to myself, and realize how dumb this suddenly sounds. Christ, this was a stupid idea. The whole fucking thing was half-baked from the damn start.

"Well..." I say, not sure how to continue.

There's silence on the line, and I start to tense up. My plan for the magazine is totally unraveling before my eyes. I can't believe Harold Burns went along with it for as long as he did, that he allowed me to make a complete fool of myself with Marco Moretti, who is pretty much the male God of the fashion world. But then again, what could Harold have said? The truth? Of course not. I would have complained to Mason, and Mason would have fired him immediately. Jesus, I am royally fucking this up.

"First of all," Marco says, finally breaking that God awful silence, "this whole matter isn't something that can be negotiated over the phone. I suggest we get together and talk about this in person, perhaps over lunch. It doesn't have to be anything too formal, just a place where we can discuss the specifics of your proposal, face to face. I've been doing this a long time, and making a deal where there's good food and perhaps a little alcohol always helps cut through the bullshit and get things done. That's just my experience, anyway."

Lunch? Perhaps my vision isn't dead after all.

"Wait," I say, "you're still considering letting Paris do the cover?"

"Letting her?" he says. "Paris is a grown woman, and can do whatever she pleases. Now as her agent, it's my job to negotiate the best possible deal for her, to help her make the most money, and get the most exposure--positive exposure. And that's what I'm going to do. I work for her, not the other way around. But to answer your question--yes, doing the cover of Chantel is still an option for us."

"Okay," I say. "Great. So when would you like to set-up our meeting?"

"Hmm, let me see." There's a pause. "How's Thursday around one o'clock? I'm looking at my calendar right now, and that's my soonest availability."

I have a meeting with Harold at 1:00 pm Thursday to address reader complaints--the hundreds of letters we've been receiving concerning the firing of Amanda Bassett--but decide that can wait; meeting with Marco Moretti about the Paris Hightower cover takes precedence over everything.

"Thursday at 1:00?" I say. "Sure. That works for me. Where do you want to meet?"

"You're near Times Square, right? The Applegarth Media Building? Hmm... how about Pizzacato? It's a great Italian place, about five minutes from Chantel's offices. Ever been there?"

I haven't, but don't admit as much. "Pizzacato? Yeah, know that place."

"Great. I'll see you there on Thursday afternoon. It was a pleasure talking with you, and I look forward to our meeting. Ciao."

"Ciao," I say, ridiculously self-conscious, and hang up.

***

Marco Moretti loves to talk, that's the first thing I realize about him. He's eating a piece of bruschetta with prosciutto, drinking a glass of red wine, telling me all about how growing up in Italy is so much different than America, especially when it comes to booze; according to Marco, the United States is too puritanical, which is why so many American teenagers binge drink, and why there's such a major problem with alcoholism. I have to admit, there's something appealing about Marco, something charming about him. Not that I find him overly attractive--there's a certain effeminate quality about him that just doesn't do it for me, especially the ridiculous fur coat he's wearing--but I can sense by his energy that he's one of those people with a magic touch, that everything he gets involved in somehow turns to gold.

Still, it's going on 2:00 pm, and we've gotten almost nothing accomplished. I'm starting to get impatient, not only because I have things I need to do back at the office, but because I'm totally stressed out about my vision for the magazine. If I can't land Paris Hightower on the cover in some kind of provocative outfit, I'm not sure what I'm going to do; I have no backup plan whatsoever. Putting the same old boring girls on the cover, in the same vanilla outfits, isn't going to generate the kind of buzz needed to give Chantel the bump in readership it needs to stay in business.

I smile, and politely try to steer the conversation back to the business at hand. "I'm not a big drinker," I tell him, "although in college I did overdo it a few times. But I see your point." I glance at my watch. "Anyway, it's getting pretty late, and some of us actually have to work for a living."

Marco laughs. "Work? What's that?" He eats another piece of bruschetta.

"Ha-ha," I say. "But seriously. I think we should figure out the details about the Paris Hightower cover. I'm going to be honest: I'm willing to pay top dollar to get her to do the shoot, and to agree to a tell-all interview. I honestly think this will be good for her career. It just might give her the attention she needs to break into the top tier of the industry."