Since I love presents, I eagerly comply. The lid lifts off the box, and inside I find a small velvet bag, like the kind that holds jewelry. Sure enough, there is a necklace in the bag, gold with a long, thin pendant that looks a bit like the pen that Joan, the character from Mad Men, wears around her neck.
“A pen?” I don’t see a nib, though, and I look more closely, figuring there must be a cap that pulls off or unscrews.
“Not exactly,” Jackson says at the same moment that I discover the tiny button on the side.
I press it, expecting a retractable ballpoint to appear. Instead, the pendant starts to vibrate.
Oh. My. God.
I whip my head around to look at him, not sure if I’m aghast or excited or just completely befuddled.
“You didn’t—I mean, it’s not—”
“Oh, yes,” he says. “It is. High end and very classy. But, yes, a sex toy.”
“Wow.” I cycle through the speeds and vibes, and I have to admit it’s pretty darn cool. And definitely one of the most unique gifts I’ve ever received. “Um, thank you.”
He laughs. “Don’t sound so unsure. I promise you’ll enjoy it. In fact, I’m thinking we should take it for a test run very, very soon. But until then,” he says, taking it from my hand and looping the long chain over my head, “I want you to wear it. In fact, sweetheart, I want you to wear it all day, every day. For at least one entire week.”
“I—what?”
“You heard me.”
“But—”
“No buts.” He reaches over and follows the chain down to my cleavage, his fingers stroking my skin. “You can tuck it under your shirt,” he says, “but you will wear it—except when you’re not wearing it at my command. Are we clear?”
“Yes, sir,” I say. Then I draw in a breath, a little bit nervous, a little bit more aroused. And very, very curious about where this week will lead.
eleven
Leather cuffs surround my wrists, my ankles. Each has a small metal loop through which Jackson has threaded nautical rope. My arms are spread wide across the mattress, lashed into place by the rope, which is knotted firmly somewhere near the ground, outside my range of vision.
My legs are spread wide, too, and bound similarly.
But for the small vibrator that I still wear on a chain, I am naked. And I am alone.
We’re on Jackson’s boat in Marina del Rey, the Veronica, a small yacht that serves as both home and office.
We’d come here straight from the parking garage, and Jackson had wordlessly led me to his bedroom below deck. He’d gestured for me to sit on the edge of the bed while he opened a small trunk that he keeps in the bottom of his closet. I’ve seen it before, though I have never gotten a look at the contents. Only what he’s removed.
This time, he removed the cuffs and the rope.
I wanted to slide off the bed and peek over his shoulder. Even more, I wanted to ask with whom he has shared those toys. But I kept quiet; that is a conversation for another time.
And now I am alone, naked and wanting. “Anticipation,” he’d said. “And imagination. And, yes, something with a little bit of a tease.”
The tease is the vibrator, which he turned on before brushing a soft kiss over my lips and then pulling back. When he left, I had moaned in protest, but he had only looked back at me from the doorway, his heated gaze sweeping over me and affecting me as potently as a caress.
He’d put his finger to his lips for silence. And I, who have agreed to submit to his demands, pressed my lips together.
“Soon,” he said, and then he was gone.
According to the clock mounted on the opposite wall, it has been thirteen minutes since he left.
Thirteen minutes I have been alone, aware of the gentle rocking of the boat. Aroused by the sensation of the vibrator buzzing between my breasts.
At first, the pulses had been localized. A slight tickle over my breastbone that seemed odd, but not uncomfortable. Intriguing, but not arousing.