Chapter 6
KIARA
Pride swells through my chest as I collapse against my couch. Did I need to tell the whole street that he has a small dick and likes to be pegged by mega dildos? Absolutely not, but was it some of the best fun I’ve ever had? Damn straight.
It’s barely eight in the morning, but already, today has been a day of wins for me.
Not only did I get to publicly humiliate Raiden on the street and fill his car with a ton of bright pink glitter that he will never get rid of, but I also gave him a taste of his own medicine.
Being woken to the sound of your neighbor getting off is never a treat for anybody, and I made sure to put on one hell of a show. Is a portion of my back already starting to bruise from how thoroughly I was throwing myself against the wall? Sure, but was it worth it? Damn straight it was.
He’ll never know that it was just me alone in here.
I’m too good at my own game, and now he’s going to spend his day wondering what this other mystery guy has that he doesn’t.
Ahhhhh, it’s only too easy to get inside his head and mess with him.
But hell, when he’s losing his mind and being driven insane with someone else’s late-night sexcapades, he’ll have to remember that he asked for this.
Sure, I have much better things to do with my morning.
I should have headed out for a run and then spent a few hours training, but when you give someone a tranquilizer and also have morals—despite those morals being somewhat questionable—it’s important to make sure the moron you knocked out doesn’t accidentally swallow his own tongue and suffocate.
He was fine, though, just lying there for almost two days with his soft dick flopped out onto his thigh and the used condom struggling to hold on. It was impressive. Most guys, it would have popped right off, but not Raiden. Even unconscious, he still managed to hold on to his dignity. Mostly.
The thought has a laugh rumbling through my chest as I reach for my laptop and get comfortable.
I’ve been neglecting my blog too much over the past few days.
Comments have gone ignored, and that’s not me.
I’m not the post-and-ghost type. I like my followers to feel my presence with them.
My blog isn’t just where I post my travel pics to brag about where I’ve been in the world; I’m a real person wanting to share the beautiful hidden gems across the globe.
I spend an hour working and am just about to hit accept on another post about my beautiful, picturesque beach vacation to the South of France when the buzzer for the main door sounds through my apartment.
My brows furrow, and I get up off the couch, cutting to my front door and pressing the button on my intercom as I glance at the little screen, showing me who stands on the stoop of the apartment complex. “Hello?”
“Delivery for Kiara St. James,” a dude in a delivery uniform says while holding a large box, his hat pulled down just enough to conceal his face and send a wave of unease pounding through my veins.
I’m not expecting anything, and as far as I’m aware, I haven’t bought any random weapons off the black market recently.
Besides, when I do, I have them delivered to my warehouse, not directly to my front door.
But the curiosity eats at me, and I buzz the delivery driver in, needing to know what’s in that package and if my cover has been blown.
This could be someone’s attempt to eliminate me.
As the driver makes his way through the main door of the apartment complex, I prepare myself, pulling on a pair of sneakers in case I need to make a break for it and grabbing the gun I keep stashed under the hallway entry table.
Then, striding into my bedroom, I grab Spikezilla, who sits happily in her new pot, and hurry right back out.
With Spikezilla in one hand and my gun in the other, I prepare for the worst, having everything I could possibly need to start a new life right here in the palm of my hands.
A wave of calm washes over me just as it does every time I’m on a job, only this time, I’m potentially the target. Sure, roles might be reversed, but there’s nothing I love more than a little roleplay. Who doesn’t?
Counting down the seconds until the delivery driver appears, I settle myself just to the left of my door until I hear footsteps pacing down the hallway toward my apartment.
I listen intently, figuring out exactly who I’m dealing with by the sound of his footfalls on the old carpeted floor.
He’s got to be just under two hundred pounds, has a slight limp on his left, and from what I could tell from the security feed at the main door, he has to be just shy of six feet.
Not exactly a hard target. So either this guy really is a delivery driver, or whoever sent him has disgustingly underestimated me.
The driver moves in front of my door and knocks three times, but instead of peeking through the peephole and risking a bullet to the chest, I watch the shadows beneath the door.
There’s too much movement. He’s not a trained killer.
An assassin would be motionless, standing with exact precision, not positioned directly in front of the door, shifting around like he’s about to shit himself.
Reaching for the door, I unlatch the chain before turning the handle and slowly pulling it open.
A seventeen-year-old kid with a massive gift-wrapped box in his hand steps forward awkwardly.
“Kiara St. James?” he questions with a monotone voice, clearly wishing he could be doing anything else but this.
“Yep,” I say, discreetly putting my gun into the waistband of my pants as I place Spikezilla down on the hallway table.
Clearly this isn’t about to turn into a wild shoot-out, and Spikezilla and I get to live another day.
Hell, I can almost imagine what Raiden would have thought coming home after work to find me dead in my apartment.
He probably would have continued his nightly Fuck-lympics and assumed I broke down and got a hotel room.
I don’t want to think about how long it would have taken him to notice my rotting corpse next door.
“Sign here,” the kid says, indicating with his chin to the device balanced on top of the massive box.
Grabbing the device, I quickly sign for the package, and he awkwardly tries to hand me the box while I juggle the device. After what feels like way too long, I finally have the package in my hands.
The delivery driver skulks away, dragging his feet back down the hallway without another word, and I kick the door closed before dropping the massive box on my kitchen counter.
Not loving the feeling of having a gun stashed in the back of my pajama shorts, I put it down beside the box and look over the baby purple gift wrapping.
There are streamers and mini balloons sticking out the top in every shade of purple, and it’s clear that whoever put this together put a lot of effort into it.
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 a motion-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.
“You got it?” Milan asks, her voice almost inaudible as I hold the phone away from my ear.
Hitting the speakerphone button, I hurry around my apartment, getting everything I need. “Got it,” I tell her as I grab my laptop and log in to my secure system before doing a search on my target. “Oh, looks like I’m heading to Barcelona.”
“Oooh, nice,” Milan says. “I haven’t been there in a minute.”
“Same,” I say, remembering just how much I love it there. “Alright, I better scram and let my pilot know I’m on my way.”
“Mmkay,” she mutters. “Love your bitch ass.”
“Right back at ya.”
And with that, I end the call and grab my bag, and before flying out the door, I blow a quick kiss to Spikezilla, promising that I’ll be back in a few days to give her all the love and attention she could possibly need.