Killer Christmas Tips (13 page)

However, it doesn’t stop her from stroking Jack’s hand gently as she hands over our room keys. “But seeing that you’re the only ‘X. Smiths,’ that makes life a bit easier. In fact, everyone on the ship goes by an alphabetical alias. You’re the last couple to board, so we’ll make yours ‘Mrs. X and 
Mr
…
X.
’” 

She purrs the word “Mr.” as if it’s the most tantalizing morsel she’s ever put in her mouth.

My guess is that a lot has passed through those lips.

“You can call me Candy,” she offers. “Now, if you’ll please follow me to your suite.” As she slinks down the hall in her stiletto heels, she looks like a cat out on the prowl. Her skirt cups the curves of her bum like a second skin.

I’d slap Jack’s face out if its stupor, but I don’t want to attract an army of men begging me for more of the same. In this crowd, telling the tops from the bottoms is a cinch. Call me old-fashioned, but when a man puts on a tuxedo, it should be paired with a bowtie, not a spiked collar with a jeweled leash being yanked by his Plus-One.

Which begs the question, when it comes to the pain game, does Lardner prefer to give or receive?

If I’m his chosen one, I guess I’ll find out.

Finally, Candy stops at a double door numbered “69x”.

I glance up and down the hallway, taking in the door numbers. “Um…all the doors are numbered 69, with one additional letter behind them.”

“That’s because it’s Miles’ favorite number.” Candy giggles knowingly.

If it’s any indication as to how the next twenty-four hours will go, I guess I have my work cut out for me.

“The Lollipop’s staff serves at your pleasure, so if you need anything at all, just ask.” To make sure Jack catches her meaning, Candy licks her upper lip.

I don’t know what Jack has in mind for Candy’s tip, but before he pulls anything out—
of his pocket
—I hand her a fiver and close the door firmly in her face.

“Hey, why’d you do that? We might have gotten more out of her.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was afraid of. Like, say, Chlamydia.” Nonchalance is hard to pull off when it dawns on you that your boyfriend is a prime cut of beefsteak on a floating ship of over-sexed ho tarts. “Listen, Jack, don’t you think it’s time we talked things through?”

“We’ve covered all the bases. You’ll hook up with Lardner. And because you’ll have on your surveillance contacts, I’ll be able to see and hear everything. If you’re lucky—and my guess is that’s a big if—you’ll get him to take a swig from your precious Golem ring. If not, your safety phrase is ‘big girls don’t cry.’ Either way, we leap off the balcony from the bottom deck, onto the mini-sub Abu’s got anchored just below the surface.”

“Quit pegging me for a bottom!... But just in case, I’ll need a safety phrase. I got it. ‘big 
boys
 don’t cry’—”

Jack is laughing so hard he plops down into a chair. “Sorry, doll, but I wouldn’t bet on that, if I were you. The dude is one of Silicon Valley’s hardest driving power rangers. He’s a master of the universe. ‘Domination’ is this guy’s middle name, so be prepared. 
You are going to be his sub
.”

“Yeah, okay.” Although his declaration causes me to flinch, I take his hands so that he’s forced to look into my eyes. “When I said we should talk things through, I wasn’t talking about this mission. I’m talking about us, over the long run. I want you to know that you have no reason to doubt my love for you. And… I want assurances, once and for all, that I shouldn’t doubt your love for me, either.”

His smile disappears. “I think you know the answer to that.”

“Jack, if I did, I wouldn’t be asking you now.”

“Then you don’t really know me as well as you think.”

“You’re right. Finding out you had a wife—
from Carl
, no less—threw me for a loop. Then for Valentina to send you a note—and leave it with Trisha, of all people—I think that sends a pretty clear message. She wants back in your life. Even at the expense of mine. I think she made that clear 
when she tried to kill me
.”

Jack doesn’t say a word.

Is it because I’m right?

Enough with this crap. “You can blame Carl all you want for being the world’s most toxic ex, but let’s face it. Valentina comes in a close second—Oh, never mind.”

As I walk past him, he grabs my arm. “The only way Carl and Valentina can come between us is if we don’t trust each other. Remember that. Always.”

I don’t like the sound of his voice. It’s filled with anger, pain, and resignation.

Whatever he’s given up on, I pray it isn’t me.

The most desirable woman in the room isn’t the one with the perkiest breasts or the most revealing décolleté.

She isn’t the one with the firmest peach-cleaved ass or the longest legs.

She’s not the youngest in the room, either. Nor is she the most experienced at sex.

She is never desperate or needy.

Neither is she too adorable, or too cruel.

She doesn’t have to try too hard to get the attention of the man she wants.

In fact, the most desirable woman in the room doesn’t even look in his direction to get him to notice her.

All she has to do is get 
every other man
 to want her, and he will, too.

I am the most desirable woman in the room.

In Miles Lardner’s eyes, anyway.

And Miles is the only one in the room who counts.

It helps that every man in the ballroom of the Good Ship Lollipop is looking my way. I’m sure part of it has to do with the fact that Jack and I waited to make a grand entrance.

Neither of us is on a leash.

Instead we’re holding hands.

Even now, as we make our way down the broad, curving staircase, Jack keeps one hand on the small of my bare back, where my floor-length gown comes to a V. The dress is sleeveless, strapless, and it is white. Does this imply I’m pure as driven snow?

Illusion is everything.

It also drapes around my body, like a sheet. With my hair, tousled and clasped casually, I’m sure I look as if I’ve just climbed out of bed.

Again, illusion is everything. Do you see a pattern here?

Miles does. When he walks over to me, he doesn’t say a word.

He doesn’t have to. All parties understand what is expected of them. 

Jack bows slightly, but before stepping away, he takes my hand to his lips and kisses it gently.

If I am the most desirable woman in the room, rest assured Jack is the most desirable man. Slowly, the other women make their way to his side, like bees drawn to the most irresistible flower in the garden.

Because women, too, always want what they can’t have.

In Jack’s case, I hope their presumptions are correct, but I’m not so sure. The one woman who stands back is the only one his gaze falls upon, again and again. She is petite, with long, blond curls and ice-gray eyes. Her skintight blood red gown hugs every curve.

Only after Miles tucks his hand on the small of my back and guides me up the wide, curving staircase that leads to his private suite does Jack give her the slightest nod.

By the time Miles and I reach the top, she’s at Jack’s side.

The last thing I see before we turn the corner is Jack, taking her hand in his.

He’s made his choice.

Despite her blood red half mask, I recognize her.

Valentina.

Chapter 11

Naughty, or Nice?

Let’s face it. Santa pulls one hell of a one-nighter.

Is this really fair?

What if he didn’t have to service all the bad kids, too? Forget the token lump of coal. He uses up a lot more energy just getting up and down the chimneys of the same brats who make you wince whenever you’re stuck behind them in a fast food line.

You know the ones. They’re always begging their moms for something she doesn’t feel they deserve (and she’s probably right). And then, when she breaks down and gives it to them, they whine that it’s not really what they wanted.

Makes you want to slap their pictures on a carton of condoms under the headline, “Think Before You Procreate!” 

But I digress.

There needs to be a new definition for naughty. It shouldn’t include a trip to Toys’R’Us for at least a year: between December 26th of this year, and December 27th of the following one.

It means following through on parental threats.

It means no more Santa.

There. I’ve gotten it out of my system. Go back to being the overwrought, overly proud, and certainly over-indulgent enabler of the fruits of your loins.

And when they put you in that nursing home with explicit instructions that say “Do Not Resuscitate, Let Alone Allow her to Drive” you’ll hear me cackling, “Told you so!” from the next room.

At least one of us will have something to look forward to.

I wouldn’t exactly call Miles’ room a suite.

More like a dungeon.

No, not the kind with stone walls and floors. The floors are bleached white pine, and the walls are laminate with a high black finish, allowing the strategically-placed platinum restraint hoops to double as an art statement.

Besides a steel framed bed with shackles hanging from chains, the room boasts a man-sized bird cage, a sex swing, a three-by-four-foot puppy cage.

But the 
piece de resistance
 is a stockade, which puts the sub on his or her knees via adjustable spreader bars connected to a holding collar, wrist and ankle shackles, and a fourteen-inch dildo rod.

Ouch
.

“Like it?” Miles asks.

I nod slightly.

He looks relieved. “I got the idea for it when I toured the Tower of London. It’s custom made, of course. You see, a Vac-U-Lok holds any size dildo, and the settings take it from zero to a hundred-and-forty strokes. Cool, huh? Wham, bam, thank you… 
whomever
.” He smiles knowingly.

I shrug. His smile quivers slightly.

I turn to a wall with floor-to-ceiling backlit glass shelves holding rows and rows of sex toys. The number of cock rings is staggering. Hoods, bit gags, and muzzles cover mannequin heads. Leather cuffs and metal restraints adorn mannequin arms and ankles.

Mannequin torsos are covered with harnesses or restraints. However, I’m happy to report that while Miles’ collection of cock rings is vast, they are not displayed on mannequin cocks. Neither are the nipple rings. 
Hmmm
…

There is also a full row of dildos of all shapes, sizes and textures.

And for spanking, there are the crops, canes, floggers, whips, and paddles. A rose by any other name, am I right?

It’s quite a Wall of Shame.

I pick up a paddle made of solid oak on one side and hard rubber on the other with the same indentation of a woodsman’s jackboot. The thought of even one slap would kick some sense into me, that’s for sure.

“I can tell you like that one.” I haven’t realized how close he’s gotten until I feel his breath on my neck.

I turn to face him. “I like them all.” We are eye to eye.

He blinks first.

“Which is your favorite?” My tone is cool, noncommittal. At first, he stares at me. Finally, he walks over to the middle of the row and picks up a paddle: black lacquer, around eighteen inches long, with tiny holes in the shape of hearts drilled through its inch thickness.

Without a word, he walks over with it.

I take it without even a nod. “Do you prefer a mask, gag, or a muzzle?”

“My favorite? Is that what you’re asking?”

I give the slightest of nods.

He walks over to the wall and pulls off a black leather full-head slave mask.

“I see.” 
Scary
. “Now, how about a harness?”

Slowly he walks back to the wall. He stops to pick something up, but then he hesitates, as if concerned.

Is he worried I’ll freak out?

Hell, 
I’m
 worried I’ll freak out.

Calm down… 
Calm down.

Finally, he picks it up. I mean, he picks 
them
 up: a leather thong, waist cincher, and a black patent leather collar, leg irons, and full-length arm binders.