There’s a tiny note on top, and as I reach for it, my hands freeze.
Just because the delivery driver was some random kid doesn’t mean that whatever is in this box is innocent. There could be a bomb, or amotion-detected dart mechanism that’ll trigger the moment I open the lid. Hell, there could even be a slow-burning chemical release that’ll kill me the second I breathe it in.
Yet it’s still a gift-wrapped box that looks pretty.
Damn it. Why do I have to be so curious about this shit?
Sparing a glance at Spikezilla on my hallway table, I let out a nervous laugh as I reach for the note and pluck it off the box. “Prepare yourself, Spikezilla. This could get ugly.”
Then, with the note in my hand, I glance down and read over the words.
Dearest Firecracker in 304,
How’s that friction burn healing up? Blistering yet?
Wanted to applaud you on your thorough railing this morning. . .or lack thereof.
It was very entertaining. Especially the part where you threw yourself against the wall over and over again just to convince me that you actually had someone in there with you.
Your enthusiasm for the cause is commendable. Love the commitment and that stamina! However, next time, for authenticity, consider variation in your faked orgasms. Maybe a mattress squeak here or there. Gotta consider those acoustics.
Be sure to eat a big breakfast. I bet you burned a lot of calories with that performance. Imagine how many you would have burned if you actually got to come.
In the meantime, I think this box should help pass the time until you can actually find another human being who’s willing to fuck you despite your attitude.
Yours sincerely,
Someone actually capable of getting laid.
P.S. - Drink some tea for your throat. Faking it at that volume is bound to put a strain on your voice. Hydration is key!
P.P.S. - Perhaps a chat with my new sex psychologist could help you work through why you feel the need to have fake screaming orgasms up against your bedroom wall.
I fucking hate him.
Tossing the note aside, I tear the lid off the pretty box and let it fly across my modest kitchen. Inside, the box is filled to the brim with every sex toy under the sun. Dildos of every shape, color, and size. There are vibrators galore. Small ones, and something that can only be described as a medieval torture device. Butt plugs. Nipple clamps. Chains and whips, along with a lifetime supply of edible lube.
Anything Raiden could have possibly thought up in that little pea-sized brain of his has been packed into this box, including a mega dildo that looks as though it was sliced directly off some kind of dragon. I gotta be honest, I’m not entirely disappointed about it.
Frustration burns through me. Not only at having this box on my kitchen counter, but at the fact that once again, Raiden Kane has won.
There’s no breaking this man. He’s impossible, and no matter how low I sink or how much glitter I shove in his car, he just keeps asking for more. Hell, the fact that he knew I was faking it this morning and took it upon himself to send me a gift basket simply for the purpose of laughing at me . . . fuck.
He is, without a single doubt in my mind, the most aggressively annoying man on the planet. He’s the human equivalent of a recurring notification you can’t mute. If the world could chew him up and regurgitate him, it would.
Why’d he have to pick my apartment to move next door to? I’m sure there’s a halfway house somewhere that would take him. Perhaps I could offer him to a tribe of cannibals. Though he’d piss them off before they even got the chance to turn him into a tasty snack. And tasty he would be; there’s no denying that.
Despite my irritation, I pick through the box, looking over the array of toys that I will never be able to use, simply because the knowledge that Raiden was the one who got these for me means that every screaming orgasm they could potentially produce would be nothing more than a gift from the devil next door. He would inadvertently claim ownership of every orgasm I ever had, and I could never allow that to happen. My orgasms are sacred.
My phone ringing breaks the silence in my apartment, and I bail on the box of sex toys, stride into my room, and quickly find my phone under the sheets of my unmade bed.
“Speak to me,” I announce, answering the call.
“Girl, what the fuck are you doing?” Milan demands. “You’re about to skip out on a five-million-dollar contract. Why haven’t you accepted the job yet? If you don’t take it, somebody else will.”
“Huh?” I pull my phone away from my ear and glance at the notifications. The job she’s referring to stares right back at me, the zeros in the proposed pay making my stomach swoop. It’s a massive job in Europe that came through almost two hours ago. “Oh shit.”
My fingers move like lightning, opening the notification and glancing over the job to make sure it’s within my realm of capabilities before I hastily accept, not wanting to miss out on a payday like that. Not to mention another trip to Europe. They don’t come up all that often, but to have two so close together is a gift from the heavens above. The majority of my jobs are in the US, so it’s always nice when I get to travel—even if it’s only for a few hours.
