***
Any awkwardness dissolved in the hotel’s restaurant, an oceanfront palace that felt fancy until I saw the maître‘d’s flip-flops at the base of his seersucker suit.
“Favorite movie?” I spun the Corona bottle cap, watching it flip off the table and onto the sandy deck.
“Shawshank Redemption.”
“Ugh.” I took a swig of beer. “That’s every man’s favorite movie. Pick another.”
“It’s every man’s favorite movie because it’s incredible.”
“Pick another. And...” I tilted my head. “It’s got to involve a main character singing.”
He scrunched his face at me. “You want my favorite movie, and it has to involve that?”
“Yep.” I dipped a carrot into crab dip and crunched half of it into my mouth. “First date rules. You have to do whatever I say.”
“This is our first date? What about—”
I wave him off. “The Bahamas didn’t count.”
“Okay… I’ll follow your first date rules if you follow my first night rules.”
“Which are?” I narrowed my eyes at him, though I couldn’t stop the hint of a smile.
“You have to do whatever I say.”
“Hmm ... sounds kinky.” I raised my eyebrows at him and took another sip of Corona. “Thought that ball was in my court?”
He shrugged. “You’re a woman. That ball is always in your court.”
“Fine. Deal.” I sat back, the waitress clearing our bread plates with quick efficiency. “Ma’am, can we get two shots of Patron please?”
“Tequila?” Brett asked, leaning back in his seat, the gap from the table a perfect depth for me to straddle his legs. I busied myself with a crab leg instead.
“You’re evading. Favorite movie with impromptu singing.”
“The Wedding Singer.”
“Nope. He was a singer, so that doesn’t count.”
“So ... Johnny Cash, Elvis, Rockstar... those don’t count?”
“Nope. Nope. Nope.”
“Jerry Maguire.”
I put down the crab leg, snapping my eyes to his. Oh my word, he just got even hotter. He grinned. “You approve?”
I laughed. “Yes. I approve. I was expecting something more manly, like Top Gun or Full Metal Jacket, but I approve.”
He winced. “How did I miss those?”
“I complete you,” I said with a wink.
The alcohol made the comeback hilarious, and we were wheezing by the time the disapproving waiter brought our entrees.
***
“I like watching you eat.” Brett wiped his mouth and leaned back, setting the white cloth napkin next to his plate. Five desserts covered the surface between us, bites missing from each. We’d done a horrible job of finishing, but a great job of sampling.
“Good. I like to eat.” I winked at him and stretched back, straightening my legs beneath the table.
“You are a very sexy eater. Has anyone ever told you that?”
I laughed. “Sexy eater … hmm. Never got that compliment before.” My exes, bless their hearts, weren’t suave enough to know how much compliments were appreciated. I had been lucky to get a ‘You’re pretty’ on a date. “Think I should add it to my Match.com profile?”
His eyes hardened, and he leaned forward, his elbows settling on the table. “Oh no. I can think of much better adjectives than that.”
“Really?” I widened my eyes dramatically and was momentarily distracted by the key lime pie. Maybe one more bite … no. My stomach was officially full. “Please share.”
“Let’s see.” He looked down, the fingers of his left hand rubbing thoughtfully over his mouth. His knuckles are scarred. I hadn’t noticed that before, the table’s candle flickering over faded thin lines, like he had punched a hundred walls. Such a contrast to the controlled man before me. “You have horrible taste in sensible footwear. Prefer high-pressure sexual advances to gentlemanly overtures. Can order a poor man into bankruptcy. Have questionable judgment when it comes to choosing travel companions.”
I twisted my mouth in an attempt not to smile. “I think those things are bad. The point is to highlight my strengths.”
“Oh no.” He shook his head, leaning back in his seat. “We can’t do that. If we tried to list your attractive qualities, we’d run out of space.”
I laughed, feeling my cheeks heat. I should be better at this. Should probably cross my legs and lean forward, putting my breasts on display. Grin knowingly, like I received swoon-worthy comments every day. Should toss my hair and look natural doing it.
“So how is your online search for true love coming?” He raised his eyebrows with interest.
“Horribly,” I groaned. “Which may be due to the fact that my town’s dating pool is only about a hundred people deep. I think I have to expand the search area.”
“Or close it entirely.”
We weren’t having the ‘exclusive’ talk right then. It was impossible. Too soon. I shrugged. Leaned forward and took another look at the deliciousness that was the key lime pie. Maybe I could have one more bite.
“Looks like a whole lotta deep thought going on over there,” Brett remarked, scribbling his signature on the bill.
“Not really. Just trying to resist temptation.” I looked up and smiled wryly.
“Me too.” The right side of his mouth pulled up, revealing the dimple in his cheek. He really was gorgeous. Heartbreakingly so. “Ready?” He stood and offered his hand.
“Ready.” I took it and stood, his hand linking through mine, our stroll back to the room a leisurely journey. Beside us, the ocean glittered in the moonlight, the crash of waves delicately quiet in the backdrop. I wondered if he’d try something once we got to my room. I was almost woozy from the food, the wine with dinner putting me in a wistful state of calm.
We came to a stop next to the elevator, and he pressed the button. Wrapped his hand around my back and pulled me into his chest. “Your hair smells so good,” he murmured, putting a soft kiss on the top of it.
“Good-smelling hair. Seductive eater … keep going Mr. Jacobs,” I whispered, lifting my chin from his chest to look up at him.
“Oh no. I’m not giving your online dating any more of a boost,” he grumbled, the chime of the elevator breaking our moment.
I laughed and let him pull me inside the lift, his hands pulling me back against him as soon as the doors closed.
“Girl, this better be worth international minutes,” Chelsea, the only one of my friends who could afford international minutes, huffed into the receiver, the drone of the treadmill running on slow in the background.
“It’s really not, but talk to me anyway.”
“What, the sex sucks?”
“Haven’t had any yet.”
“What?” Her screech was so loud I had to pull my cell away from my ear. “It’s been two days!”
“Twenty-nine hours,” I corrected mildly. “And we’re in separate rooms.”
“Why?”
I fished an earring out of my makeup bag, blowing at the front of it in an attempt to remove cotton ball fuzz. “I don’t know. I was nervous on the plane; I think he is trying to be respectful. Not push.”
“You already boned the guy. What more does he want?”
I groaned. Maybe Chelsea was the wrong person to call. “Last night we got trashed. He brought me to my room and tucked me in.”
“And today?”
I glanced at the clock. “Flowers were delivered this morning, along with a note for me to call him when I woke up.”
“So call him.”
“I just want to know what this is. What I’m getting into.”
“Holy cheese balls. Just fuck the guy. Dance on the beach. Have fun for the first time ever. It all doesn’t have to be a five-year plan with an amortization schedule.”
I blinked. Not to be offensive, but I didn’t even realize Chelsea knew what an amortization schedule was. But she had a point. I was approaching midd
le age. Single. On an island with a man whose mere touch made me shiver. I should be riding him like a prized stallion.
“You’re right. Let me run.” I hung up the phone and fell back on the bed. Rolled over different scenarios in my mind with the aggression of an eighty-year-old woman. Did I have the balls to seduce? Make a move? Or should I just wait until tonight? I stood and walked over to his flowers. A beautiful arrangement. One that would be wasted, our departure a scant twenty-four hours away. Twenty-four hours left in paradise. And I was sitting alone in the room when I could be repeating last weekend’s orgasmic glory. What was I doing? At the very least I should follow his request and call. Let him know I was awake. Or … I could follow Chelsea’s directive. Jumping into his bed seemed like a lot more fun. A lot more daring. A lot more like the woman I’d like to one day become.
I walked to the bathroom and undid my robe. Looked at my naked body in the mirror. Turned right, then left, then right. Leaned forward, checked my teeth. Brushed my teeth. Used mouthwash. Returned to the room and laid on the carpet. Did a dozen crunches before I realized the futility of trying at this point. Got dressed in my lingerie set, purchased three days earlier at Quincy’s local department store. Stood in front of the mirror again. Right, left, right. Realized how ridiculous I looked in red lace and garters. Stripped again. Pulled the robe back on and cinched it tight. Avoided the bathroom mirror and found Brett’s room number. Had a mini panic attack. Downed a tiny bottle of rum from the minibar. Decided to brush my teeth again. Grimaced at the combination of mint and rum. Called Chelsea back and regained my resolve. Rode the elevator up two more floors and knocked on Brett’s door.
When he answered the door I stepped inside. Dug my hands into the cotton of his shirt and pushed him back, against the wall, his hands fast on the tie of my robe, a groan rumbling from his mouth when he yanked it open and saw my naked body. Our mouths stole a hundred kisses in a few minutes, short frantic ones, long, deep discoveries, a blur of tongues and teeth and moremoremore. And suddenly, all was right. It was instant, hot freaking passion that didn’t leave room for nerves or awkwardness. It was the prior weekend all over again, and I dragged my fingers through his hair, twisted in it, his hands exploring the skin underneath my robe. I felt the pull of his palms on my ass as he yanked me closer, one hand sliding down ... down the crack of my ass, over the pucker of skin and to the wet slit, a place where - when he pushed inside - we both reacted, my body curving closer, wanting more, his mouth coming off me to gasp out my name.
“Pull me out,” he said, his hands occupied, one finger slowly dipping in, then out, in, then out, then ... two fingers. His other hand, on the back of my neck, curled in my hair, kept me close. When I arched against him, his eyes drank it in, eager and greedy, and if I could bottle up that moment, I would never have to wonder if he found me attractive. I could open it and sip it, a bit at a time, and be satisfied my whole life. But that devouring of me with his eyes? It was gas on my fire, and my hands shook as I ripped at his belt, jerked on his zipper, and ... finally, a day too late ... palmed and pulled out his cock.
tight (tīt)
(adj.) allowing little or no room for free motion or movement
The man who kept me had an accent, a thick coating over every word, something I might have found sexy in another life. Now, in this one, I wanted to cut out his tongue and never hear another of his affected syllables.
He sat before me, my hands again tied, this time to the lower cuffs, a more comfortable position. My bare ass sat in the wooden chair, my ankles secured to the legs of it. I tried to fall over, tried to rip the chair, but only succeeded in wrenching my opposing arm practically out of socket.
Now, my bones tired, throat sore from screaming, I sat and tried to block out the words that he spoke.
“Do you know that in the UK a sex slave ring of 1,400 victims was just discovered? It’s the fifth one of its kind, led by Muslim men, that has been found. I find it fascinating that they target white women, such as you. Do you know why, Kitten?”
I didn’t respond, my eyes avoiding his, focusing on the pad of paper he held on his lap, his pen tapping the surface with a quick rat-a-tat-tat that was driving me crazy.
“They say that if the ethnicity of the victim and abuser are different, then the crime seems less severe. It’s a mental Band-Aid, really, to the victim. That’s why I was so pleased to get you, Kitten. To see if I felt less empathy for you. Now, I’m wondering if it works in reverse. If you feel less empathy and connection to me, as your Master.”
“You’re not my Master.” The words spilled out before I could contain them, and I watched his pen as it stopped its tap and swiveled upright.
“Well then, what would you call me? The majority of sex traffickers in the United States are prostitution rings, in which the Master is called ‘Daddy.’ Would you prefer that name, Kitten?”
I looked up from his pen, into his eyes. “No. And I’m not Kitten.”
He chuckled, the corner of his mouth drawing up as if pulled by a thread, his eyes tight on mine like he found me fascinating. “I use the nickname to help you forget your old life. Also, it is a form of endearment. Most slaves embrace their new names.”
“How many have you dealt with?” I asked the question quietly, unsure of his reaction, my hate of this man one-upped by my fear of him.
“Well ... just you so far. If you don’t give me what I need, then I’ll have to get another. Which takes me to the second part of today’s training.” He set his clipboard aside and my breath stalled, my chest tightening as I prepared for the unknown.
5 months, 1 week before
The man had the art of courtship down. I wondered, as I sat at my desk and opened the box, how many times he had done this. How many women he had courted from afar, how many companions he had flown to every Caribbean island. Wondered, not for the first time, if I was a mistress and playing second fiddle to a Mrs. Jacobs.
The box was chocolate brown, with a red satin ribbon, and had arrived at the bank this morning via UPS. I’d cut open the ordinary brown box and there sat this, nestled in a sea of Styrofoam peanuts, its bow perfectly in place despite the shipping. I’d shut the box before anyone saw it and carried it into my office, kicking the door shut and bumping it with my butt until it clicked into place.
Now I pulled off the ribbon and opened the lid, with no idea of what it could contain. I laughed when I parted monogrammed tissue paper, the top item being a pair of slippers, much like the ones he had first given me, but these were embroidered with my name, in delicate script along the top. I set them aside and reached deeper, pulling out a matching robe, “Riley” also present there, on the breast pocket, a pale blue card peeking out of it. I pulled out the card, Betschart Yachts embossed in gold at the top.
You seem to be fond
of robes and slippers.
Hoping to see you
naked of both soon.
I blushed and set aside the robe, my eye catching on a gold-wrapped package at the bottom of the box. A gift inside a gift. I reached in and pulled it out, the box small and rectangular. Too big for jewelry, too small for a book. I ripped open the packaging and found a phone, a brand I’d never seen. An Iridium, black and bulky, with actual buttons instead of a touch screen. A post-it was taped to the box’s front with Call me, I’ll explain written in what I now recognized as Brett’s handwriting.
I picked up my desk phone and dialed his cell. Swiveled in the chair so that my back was to the branch and flipped the phone box over, reading its features on the back.
“Hey beautiful.” His voice was warm, the background quiet. I smiled.
“Hey. I just got a box of gifts.”
“You deserve them every day. I’ve been slacking off. Didn’t want to scare you off.” There was a smile in his words, and I laughed.
“You do know that I have a phone already.”
“And you should keep it. That one is for when you travel. It’s built for international use; it’s a sate
llite phone.”
“Meaning…?” Two weeks earlier, I’d have hidden my ignorance. Now, I felt at ease.
“Meaning that it’ll pick up a signal anywhere. I don’t want you to be out of touch with your friends and family.”
I blinked. It was, for a guy, surprisingly … thoughtful. “Thank you. That’s really nice of you.” I had actually planned to refuse the gift. I did, after all, have my own phone. A perfectly nice iPhone, which – twenty minutes earlier – had seemed overly adequate for my limited needs.
“You’re welcome. Don’t give me too much credit. I do have ulterior motives.”
“Don’t all men?” I teased.
He laughed. “The second weekend of July, there’s a fishing event I’m attending. I’d love to take you there by boat. It’ll be in the middle of nowhere; you’ll need that phone.”
The middle of nowhere … it sounded so ominous. I’d never fully gotten over a stranded-at-sea movie I’d watched in fifth grade. “We’d boat from Fort Lauderdale?”
Another chuckle. “No, you probably don’t have enough time for that. We'd fly into Puerto Rico. Take the boat from there.”
I spun to my computer. Pulled up Google Maps. Quickly realized why boating from Fort Lauderdale would be impossible. Then I moved to my desk calendar and looked with despair at my schedule. Even nine weeks out, it was full.
“I’d have to work a full day on Friday. And be back at work on Monday,” I said glumly.
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