Madison:It’s decorative. We called a truce. I’m being neighborly. It’s an accent piece that’ll look great on your nightstand. Welcome to the neighborhood.
A laugh escapes me.
Me:Decorative? Madison, you’ve never even been in my apartment.
While I wait for her to figure out her next lie, I notice a small card tucked into the bottom of the box. I pull it free.
“The Rose: For Your Ultimate Pleasure. 10 Vibration Modes.”
That settles it.
There’s a small button on the underside.
I’m a man of science, after all. I need data, so I press it.
The rose hums violently in my palm.
“Jesus Christ!” I nearly drop it. My entire arm is vibrating. It’s not a hum; it’s a jet engine. If I set this on the floor, it would probably drill a hole straight through to her living room.
Me:It vibrates. Is this a massager?
Madison:Yes. Exactly. A massager. For neck tension.
I look down at it again. My grip tightens, and my pulse decides to join the rhythm of the rose.
Me:I think this would be significantly more useful to you than me.
The reply is immediate.
Madison:You have no idea.
My pulse jumps.
So does my traitorous cock.
I straighten, rein it in, and reset.
Me:I can’t use this.
Madison:No? Why not? Too sophisticated for you?
Me:Because it’s a sex toy, Madison, and it is not designed for my anatomy.
Nineteen
Madison
I’m pacing my living room in a towel when the realization hits me like a freight train.
“Oh no,” I cry out, not caring whether the walls are thin enough for Beckett to hear my soul leave my body.
I drop onto the edge of my bed and grab my phone. My fingers are already flying to pull up the order history.
Next-day delivery.Address: Apartment 4B.
I live in 3B.
I close my eyes, praying to a god I haven’t spoken to in years that I’m misreading the screen.
