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I grab a shirt from the bar, holding it to my nose for the briefest of seconds before tugging the t-shirt from it. Using the corner of the hanger, I attempt to move the blanket, and luckily after about eleven-billion tries, I budge it just the slightest amount. I’m near breaking out into a sweat before I make any real progress, but after the corner of the blanket is clear of the shelf, I’m able to hook the folded area and pull.
The blankets come down, but so does a box. I cover my head for protection, but a slow grin spreads my face when I see what has fallen at my feet. Among the layers of blankets is a variety of sex toys. The ball gag makes me grin, my body coming alive with just the thought of Wren holding it out in front of him with a questioning look, but then my eyes land on the feather tickler, then the fur-lined cuffs.
Each item is so familiar, the sweat I worked up getting the blanket down cools on my skin making me shiver. Each one of the items on the floor at my feet are eerily similar to the box of things Sarah sent me months ago. The first delivery was somehow lost even though it showed delivered, but Sarah sent the items again, a gag gift of sorts because honestly, how can anyone handle a twelve-inch cock? Certainly not a girl who hadn’t done the deed in longer than I’m comfortable talking about with anyone.
The first box showed delivered…
“Please, no,” I whisper, the closet swallowing my plea.
My mind races, my hands refusing to reach down and confirm what I know I’m going to find.
There were always mix ups at the front desk. Wren and I even joked about me getting his packages and the care I had to take each time I picked something up to make sure it was mine and not his.
My hand trembles against my mouth. If I find what I know I’m going to find, what does it mean for us? What could possibly make this okay?
A whimper escapes, and I barely hold in a sob when I see the name on the shipping label.
W. Nelson.
But it’s the Apt. 913 that breaks me.
Tears streak down my face, forcing me to question every single interaction.
The game? The meeting in the elevator?
Was any of it real?
He’s the best hacker that I’ve ever heard of. There’s no way he didn’t know who I was before our “coincidental” meetings. It was all arranged. I’m not here because of fate or kismet. I’m here because he orchestrated it all.
Every second has been a lie.
Every kiss planned.
Every touch just another chess piece moved on his part.
Did he send Jones after me to put me in a position to rely on him?
Did he fuck me last night knowing everything about me while telling me he can’t wait to get to know more?
Did he—
“Oh God,” I mutter, dropping the box and making a hasty retreat to the bathroom in the guest bedroom.
I heave into the toilet, the devastation too much to keep down the food we shared earlier.
All of it lies even though I told him from the jump that I value honesty.
Our sexual compatibility feels like betrayal now because there’s no way he didn’t find that shit out online. He created himself into the image of a man I’ve always wanted. He forged ahead, making sure my needs were met because he knew which steps to take. He knew me long before I ever laid eyes on him—what I needed from him—and I don’t think I’ve ever been so manipulated in my life.
My hands tremble as I stand to look at myself in the mirror. I hate the redness in my eyes, the angry flush in my cheeks, and most importantly, I hate the way I still ache from the things he took from my body, the things I willingly gave to him last night because I was working under the illusion that Wren Nelson was put on this earth just for me.
Is this what betrayal feels like? Does it always come with this emptiness?
I’ve been duped, conned in the most sadistic way.
I swallow my hurt and begin to pack, knowing I can’t leave until the text comes through that Jones is out of the picture. The logical part of me registers that Jones contacted me three days before the delivery date stamped on that box, and that’s the only relief I feel. The only thing keeping my sanity intact right now is the math that says Jones reached out before Wren got his hands on that box.
I hold on to that as I drag my suitcases toward the door, praying the entire time that he doesn’t arrive back home before texting. If he forgets that part, I don’t know what I’ll do. I’d like to believe the man that held me all night last night wouldn’t hurt me, but I would’ve bet he was honest before my discovery as well. It just shows that you can’t ever trust anyone.
