Page 25 of Tricked By Jack
“The only way you’re allowed to play with this,” he says, voice distorted and intimate through the mask, “is if you fuck yourself with it while I watch.” Heat floods my cheeks, and my legs threaten to buckle when he tosses it to the side.
“In your dreams,” I spit, needing to say something.
Through the mask, the courier’s breathing deepens, the rhythm slightly faster than before. Is he affected by this too? The thought sends a jolt through me.
The mask hovers inches from my face, those round, emotionless lenses studying me with insect-like detachment. I should be terrified. I should be screaming, clawing, fighting. Instead, my body tightens with want, responding to the danger with a primitive excitement that my mind can’t quite reject.
He pushes the box harder against my sternum, a silent command for me to take it as he said. I swallow hard, my throat clicking audibly in the silence between us.
If I don’t take what he’s offering, he’ll take me. That’s what he said. A choice that should be simple is suddenly anything but. The devil on my shoulder whispers for me to push the stranger and see what happens.
But, even though there’s no angel to give me better advice, my fingers close around the cardboard. Instead of immediately releasing the box, he holds on to it. Creating a moment where we’re both holding it, connected by this strange offering between us.
Then his fingers slide away, leaving the box in my possession. The weight of it is nothing compared to the weight of his presence.
I begin to work at the orange ribbon that’s tied in an elaborate bow, the satin slippery and resistant to my unsteady hands. I refuse to rush, to show how eager I am to discover what’s inside.
So, I take my time, each tug of the fabric a small act of reclaimed control. The ribbon loosens under my methodical attention, slithering against the matte black surface of the box with a whisper that seems obscene in its softness.
I feel his gaze on my hands, on my face, tracking every minute reaction. My cheeks burn under the scrutiny, but I don’t look up, don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how affected I am.
The ribbon finally comes free, dangling from my fingers. Only then do I raise my eyes to the mask, a silent question in my gaze. What now?
His breathing changes—just slightly, just enough for me to notice—and I realize with a jolt of something like triumph that he’s not as unmoved as he pretends to be. Whatever game he’s playing, he’s invested in the outcome.
With a steadiness I don’t feel, I lift the lid off the box, preparing myself for whatever awaits inside. It’s another black rose. The desiccated bloom rests on a bed of black tissue paper, its stem twisted into a brittle spiral, the petals curled inward as if protecting a secret.
Like the first, this one is speckled with colored spots that look disturbingly like dried blood. It’s beautiful in the way that decay can be beautiful—a reminder that even in death, something can maintain its essential nature.
I stare at it, unable to ignore the unnerving symmetry with the previous gift. Two dead flowers delivered at midnight by a man who has only spoken very few words.
The pattern forms a narrative in my mind—one black rose, an invitation, another rose. And then… what? What comes after the repetition establishes itself? What waits beyond this strange ritual that’s inserted itself into my life?
I look up at him again, the box still cradled in my hands. “Am I supposed to thank you?” My voice comes out sharper than intended, the sarcasm a thin shield against the confusion churning beneath. “For another dead flower?” Mockery tastes bitter on my tongue. I want to hurt him. But I also want him to hurt me back.
He tilts his head slightly, the gesture unnervingly birdlike. Then comes the sound—low and resonant, a chuckle that filters through the mask, transformed into something not quite human.
The sound vibrates through me, igniting something primitive in my core. My nipples tighten beneath my tank top, and I have to resist the urge to cross my arms to hide the evidence of my body’s betrayal.
His hands reach for the box, his gloved fingers brushing against mine as he takes it. Even through the leather, the brief contact is electric, sending a current up my arms that settles somewhere behind my sternum.
After placing the box on the side table next to us, he produces another envelope. It’s identical to the one he delivered yesterday. God, was that only twenty-four hours ago? It feels so much longer.
I open my mouth, intending to tell him I already opened the one from yesterday. Maybe even ask about it. Just as the words shape themselves, ready to be spoken, an almost childish stubbornness rears its head inside me, stopping me from speaking. So, I just close my mouth again and shake my head. I shouldn’t be the only one to speak.
Without warning, he steps closer, heat radiating off him like a damn furnace. Instinctively, I press myself harder against the wall, searching for coolness, for stability, for anything that might anchor me as the room seems to tilt on its axis.
He raises the envelope, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. He brings it to my throat, just below my jawline. For a suspended moment, it hovers there, a promise or a threat. Maybe both. Then he drags it down, the sharp paper edge scraping against my skin with precise pressure—not enough to break the skin, but enough to burn, to mark.
I gasp, the sound embarrassingly loud in the silence between us. My eyes widen as he slides the paper down my throat, and over my collarbone. Instead of stopping when it reaches the neckline of my tank top, he continues sliding the edge downward.
Theedge catches slightly on the thin fabric, but he doesn’t stop until the edge rests between my breasts. My heart hammers against my ribs, so violent I’m certain he can see it pulsing beneath my skin. The envelope burns like ice against my flesh, the contrast between the cool paper and my heated skin almost painful in its intensity.
His other hand moves suddenly, lightning fast. He pinches my nipple through the thin fabric of my tank top, sharp and unforgiving. My gasp is louder this time, raw with heat and something far worse; need. My back arches into it before I can stop myself.
When he lets go and withdraws the envelope, I look down to see a thin red line forming where the edge has traveled—not a cut, but an irritation that brands me temporarily with the path of his attention. My skin rises in a welt that traces from throat to sternum, a visible record of this encounter that will fade but not immediately.
The sight of it—this mark on my body that I didn’t consent to but didn’t stop—sends a confusing surge of anger and arousal through me. I want to slap him. I want to pull him closer. I do neither.
