Jackson
He’d been expecting something that was a combination of dungeon and film location for The Queen of the Damned, but the townhouse Margaret directed him to was anything but. The manicured garden, cream-colored walls, and high ceilings screamed money, and ‘screamed’ was the operative word. The minute he stepped over the threshold he could hear a woman begging for mercy, clearly in the middle of getting her brains screwed out.
As a straight man, the noise might have ordinarily turned him on, but all Jackson could think was ‘not Ellie. Please, not Ellie.’
Though he knew Elle would die a grim death before she ever begged a man for mercy, he couldn’t dissuade his brain from telling him it might already be too late. The speed with which people had started engaging in sex unnerved him. The party had only been going for forty minutes and there were already naked couples humping all over everything.
He’d planned on arriving at ten on the dot, but he’d been delayed by his quest to find a mask. The party was masquerade themed, which Jackson thought a little trite, but then he wasn’t the one who’d organized it. After finding Margaret and convincing her to invite him to the party, the hour had grown late. He eventually gave up on the various department stores that were still open and stopped by Ben and Tory’s place to pick up Ben’s Zorro mask. It was a last resort, because Jackson was ninety percent sure his best friend had engaged in Zorro-related sex play with Tory, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Now he was here, at one of Blushfire’s biannual play parties, wearing his best suit and a no-doubt contaminated mask, looking for the love of his life.
The townhouse was absolutely packed. He could see at least a hundred attendees in the main room, some drinking and flirting, others openly fucking on the red velvet couches. Jackson could only assume they had been placed there for such a purpose. He hoped they were very thoroughly dry cleaned after each event.
Everyone in attendance appeared to be young and beautiful. Many of the women wore fetishwear; corsets and harnesses and body stockings. Others were done up like burlesque dancers or risqué versions of Disney princesses. The men, Jackson was relieved to see, were mostly wearing suits like himself, although some of them were shirtless, displaying broad shoulders, tattoos, and six packs.
For a moment Jackson allowed himself to imagine if he and Elle had come to this party together. If they’d arrived hand-in-hand to drink and watch other people play, to touch one another on the red velvet couches and have a hundred admiring eyes watch. The idea didn’t arouse his possessiveness in the slightest. He was no natural born submissive, but he was more than capable of meeting Elle’s sexual needs. Having her take him in front of everyone would only prove that. Besides, he was a bit of a narcissist and the idea of seeing the jealousy on other men’s faces as he fucked the most beautiful woman in the world was undeniably hot.
Still, he couldn’t enjoy those imaginings for long, not without thinking about his lover screwing another man tonight, riding him or beating him, fulfilling her needs on him. The idea hurt so much Jackson could scarcely breathe.
He could forgive Elle for sleeping with someone else, but he knew she would never forgive herself. If she fucked someone out of anger, it would be over. She would section off her heart and insist that she didn’t want him anymore, using the man she’d touched as evidence. He needed to stop her before that happened, no easy task in a crowded dimly lit room.
He squinted around at the hordes of people, looking for pale blonde hair.
A beautiful Aboriginal woman in a pink mask and matching corset stepped into his line of vision. “Hello, I’ve never seen you here before!”
“It’s my first time,” Jackson said, realizing a second too late that he’d left himself wide open for double entendre.
“A virgin!” The woman’s smile grew wider. “And what a lovely accent!”
Jackson forced himself to smile, still scanning the room for signs of Elle.
“Did you come here with someone?” the woman asked. “You must have! No single men allowed!”
Jackson had, in fact, given Margaret two hundred dollars to sign him up as her date. The tactic had made him feel a little sick. For all the sales assistant knew, he was a dangerous stalker, but like the Zorro mask, he felt it had been a necessary risk.
“Yes, I came with someone,” he said. “My partner, Ellie.”
“How lovely. Well, would the two of you like to have a drink with my husband and me?” She gestured to the tall Italian-looking man behind her. “We’re very friendly, I promise.”
Jackson blinked. He’d arrived at the party with one purpose; finding Elle and making everything right again. Ducking couples looking to swing hadn’t been on his agenda at all.
“Um, I’m sorry,” he managed. “I’m, uh…not right now.”
The woman’s smile didn’t dim an iota. “Not a problem. You take your time settling in. I’m Roslyn, by the way, and he’s Marc, if you’d like to find us later.”
They shook hands and Jackson realized he was wasting an opportunity. This woman had clearly been here before, she might have seen Elle.
“Excuse me?” he asked. “Before you go; have you seen a pale blonde woman? She’s about this high.” Jackson held a palm to his chest. “She’s got big eyes and uh…” She’s the most stunningly capable woman in the world, he wanted to say, but that wouldn’t be helpful. “She’s a Domme?”
Roslyn shook her head. “I couldn’t say I’ve seen her for sure. You might want to try upstairs. That’s where all the good stuff is.”
“Right, thank you,” Jackson said, half-relieved, half-terrified at the thought of ‘the good stuff.’ “I’ll head up there now.”
“Good luck,” Roslyn said, looking a little disappointed. “I hope your girlfriend likes her. Are you and the Domme going to top her together?”
It was a mistake, Jackson was sure, many would make, though it was funny how assumptions about gender and sexuality could find you, even in a free-for-all fuckfest like this. Ellie assumed to be submissive, him thought to be dominant, the Domme he was seeking, a kinky novelty to add to their usual BDSM play. There was a time when Jackson might have let Roslyn’s assumptions slide, if only for convenience. But not tonight. “My girlfriend is the Domme.”
Roslyn’s brown eyes widened. “Oh, so you’re a…?” She hesitated, as though it might be an insult to his masculinity to say the word aloud.
“A submissive?” Jackson said cheerfully. “Not really, at least I don’t think so, but I am for her.” He held up his wrist. “See?”
Roslyn looked gratifyingly astonished. He flashed her his best grin. “See you around.”
“I hope so,” Roslyn called after him. “I’d love to meet your girlfriend!”
Upstairs proved to be as much of a minefield as downstairs. It was not one big open space, but several large rooms, all decorated differently. Jackson walked through a chamber done up like a Middle Eastern fantasy with large four poster beds covered in sheer scarves and brightly colored pillows. He saw five men and three women moving on a large, coverless mattress, touching one another indiscriminately, but mercifully none of them were Elle. The next location resembled an old fashioned doctor’s surgery, except that any doctor who attempted to do what was happening on the antique examination tables would be sued within an inch of their life.
He couldn’t enter the third room he found, though he could determine from the floor to ceiling windows that there was nothing inside it except a redheaded woman riding a vibrating saddle.
The townhouse was larger than it seemed from outside, and after long minutes of aimless wandering in which Jackson tried to look calm and not like he was judging anyone, he found another huge living space. Aside from the outfits, it looked like nothing kinkier than a boutique bar.
It appeared to be a place where people who weren’t ready to play could drink and flirt. He drifted toward the bar, deciding he’d drink a large scotch before he resumed his quest, and then, with a jolt of excitement he saw her. His Ellie.
She looked absolutely stunning. Her slender figure was clad in a black cage of latex, displaying her pert breasts and beautiful snowy skin. Her heels were six inch spikes and her blonde hair had been teased into a bright silver cloud. Leaning against the bar, looking both lovely and bored, she resembled an evil elf queen, gazing out over her subjects. By her side was a muscular young Latino guy wearing only tight black pants and a hopeful smile. He looked younger than them, maybe twenty-one, and he was talking to her with clear-eyed infatuation, while she sipped at what he knew was a Hendricks gin martini.
Jackson’s fists balled at his sides. Her obvious disinterest in the boy did nothing to dissuade the jealousy boiling inside him. Especially when the younger man brushed a finger across his girlfriend’s wrist. He wasn’t aggressive at all, he kept his eyes downcast and his touch light. He was a submissive, Jackson realized, someone who embodied that label a hell of a lot more than he did. Who could see exactly what Elle was and wanted her for it. He watched as the kid leaned forward and whispered something in Elle’s ear.
Elle studied him flatly, not as some Domme act of detached interest, more as though she was debating whether she could screw him without throwing up. Jackson’s brain filled with images of Elle doing the things they did with this twatface, and without making the conscious decision to do so, began moving toward her. He was large enough that the crowd parted quickly around him and as he drew closer, he had the sense to wonder what he would do when he arrived in front of her. If he punched the unfortunate submissive in the face the way he wanted to, he’d be thrown out of the party, and Elle would be furious. Hardly a good introduction point. Perhaps he could just sidle up to her and—
“Jackson?” He looked up to see Elle’s gaze locked on him. Her eyelids were ringed with glittering gray and black eyeshadow, and dimly, Jackson wondered who had painted her so beautifully. Elle was, by her own admission, terrible with makeup. “Yes, um, hello. You recognized me.”
Elle raised herself up to her full height, which in her heels was impressively high. “Of course I did.”
Utterly unprepared, Jackson pointed to his mask. “H-how?”
“Because I know how tall you are, and what your hair looks like, and I was with you when you bought that suit.”
“Oh,” Jackson said dumbly. “Yes, of course. How…how is your night going?”
Elle looked at him as though he were insane, and Jackson didn’t blame her. What was wrong with him? Why at this most crucial of moments couldn’t he be suave and charming?
“Is there a problem here?” the boy-man asked, his dark eyes darting between them.
“No, Emilio,” Elle said, beating Jackson’s response of ‘fuck off, junior.’ “My ex-boyfriend was just leaving.”
Emilio shot him a threatening look. “Do you want me to help him leave?”
Jackson ignored him, stepping closer to Elle. “I’m your ex-boyfriend, am I?”
“Yes!” Elle poked him in the chest. “I can’t believe you followed me here, you dillhole.”
Jackson stared into Elle’s face. Her pale lashes were inky black, making her round eyes seem huge, but for once, Jackson wasn’t staring at her mismatched blue and hazel irises, he was staring at her inflamed red waterlines, the puffiness of her eye-sockets. Elle had been crying. Elle never cried.
Jackson felt as though his heart was being wrung out like an old dish towel.
“Ellie,” he said, taking her hand. “Beautiful girl, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I didn’t take your side. I’m sorry I left you all alone and I called you crazy. You’re not crazy, you’re the most incredible woman I’ve ever met.”
Elle shook him off with icy contempt. “Go. Away.”
“Mate, she asked you to leave,” Emilio said, but Jackson had no thoughts to spare for him, nothing mattered except Elle.
“My little love, please listen to me.” He reached for Elle’s hand again and felt her skin tremble, even as she slapped it away.
“Don’t,” she said, her voice breaking slightly. “Don’t do that.”
Jackson bowed his head, letting his hands fall back to his sides. “I love you, Ellie. More than the whole world and everything in it. I’m sorry for not defending you, I’m sorry I let my mother walk all over us both. That recording? I didn’t send it, my mother did. And I wasn’t talking about dumping you, I was talking about something else—”
“I don’t care,” Elle snapped. “We’re over. What part of that don’t you understand? We were never going to fucking work, Jackson. I told you that from the start.”
But she didn’t meet his gaze.
He touched her collarbone lightly. “Ellie, look at me. Look at me and say you don’t love me anymore. Say that and I swear I’ll go and we’ll be done.”
“I will,” Elle said, not looking at him.
“Well, come on then. You’re the bravest woman I know, don’t tell me you’re scared to look at me?”
She looked up, and it was even more evident to him that she’d been crying. His chest compressed like an old tin can. Perhaps all week she’d slept alone on Tory’s couch, wishing he’d come to her and say he’d made the smart decision. Why hadn’t he gone to get her? Why had he waited so long to propose? Why hadn’t he made her understand she was the most important thing in the world to him? He reached out and brushed the hair from her eyes. “Beautiful girl. My beautiful, brave Ellie.”
She cracked. “I-I…Jackson.”
The way she said his name was all he needed to hear. He swept her into his arms and pressed his face into her neck, needing to hold her as close as she could be held. Relief surged over him, warm and thick.
“I’ve missed you so much,” Elle whispered. “I didn’t want to leave you, I thought I would die without you.”
Her head nestled against him and the scent of her peach shampoo filled his nose. Jackson felt as though he’d come home from a long, long journey. “You’ll never be without me, Ellie.”
Someone cleared their throat behind him. “So you’re still together then?” Emilio asked.
Jackson glared at him. “Yes. Fuck off.”
Elle laughed into his shoulder. “Sorry, Em, that’s my fault.”
“No, it isn’t,” Jackson said. “It’s mine. I should have made sure you knew where we stood a long time ago.”
He stepped away from Elle and got to one knee on the hardwood floor. Several people gasped and pointed, causing even more partygoers to stare at them.
“Jackson,” Elle said in a warning voice. “What are you doing?”
“What I should have done the minute you agreed to live with me.” He took her hand, and to his relief she didn’t try to pull away.
“Eloise Sahlstrom,” he said, the words floating and surreal after so many hours of internal rehearsals. “I love you. I will never be able to say how much I love you. A year ago you told me I was the only man you could ever see yourself marrying. I come to you tonight in the hope that this is still true.”
Elle blinked down at him, her mismatched eyes overbright. “Jackson…”
“Is that still true?”
“I…yes. Of course.”
“Excellent.” He pulled back the sleeve of his shirt. “I know how you feel about engagement rings, so I decided to get one myself.”
She let out a little scream. “Are you serious? You got a tattoo of a—? Of a…?”
“A handcuff?” Jackson suggested. “Yes.”
Elle’s expression verged on wonder as her fingertips traced the ornate design. “It’s beautiful. Is it…tell me it’s not for me?”
He turned over his wrist so she could see her name embedded in his skin.
She screamed again and pressed a hand to her mouth to muffle it. Many people were watching now, he could hear them muttering, talking about what was happening but Jackson ignored them. To him it was as though he and Elle were alone.
“Babe,” she said through her fingers. “Babe, how long have you…?”
“A week and a half,” Jackson said. “I never doubted us. Now, will you give me the honor of being your husband? Will you marry me?”
Though there were still tears of joy in her eyes, she gave him a look that wouldn’t have been out of place when she still claimed to despise him. “What about your mother?”
“Gone, as of this evening,” Jackson said promptly.
“And the next time someone tells you that I’m trash?”
“I’ll defend your honour my love, I promise.” Jackson crossed a fingertip over his heart.
“What about changing your phone password to something that isn’t your birthday?”
“Already done.”
“Calling me crazy?”
“Never, ever again.”
Elle pursed her lips. “If we get married, we’ll have a wedding with no more than fifty people, no white dress, no shit flowers, no photographers, and no asparagus.”
Hope kindled in Jackson’s heart like the Olympic flame. “Whatever you like, my little love, now will you please just give me an answer? My knee hurts and people are starting to stare.”
Elle smiled, and it was like the sun emerging from behind a storm cloud. “Okay, pretty boy, I’ll marry you.”
“You mean it?”
She smiled at him, her eyes crinkling so that a single tear leaked from each one. “Yes, I mean it.”
Jackson leapt to his feet and kissed her. All the perverts around them clapped, including, and he felt kind of sorry for telling the guy to fuck off now, Emilio.
“Holy shit,” Elle whispered in his ear. “We’re engaged.”
“I know, it’s so sexy.” He kissed her again.
When they finally broke apart, a stunning number of people came up to offer congratulations and to share their own engagement stories. A few asked to see his tattoo, which Jackson showed them, gladly accepting conspiratorial winks from men and women alike. While he was sure his friends and colleagues would get the message he was trying to convey, it felt like the people here understood his commitment tattoo better than anyone else would.
As they talked and drank with the other party attendees, Jackson kept his hand tight around Elle’s. There was so much to do now. He had to call Ben and tell him and Tory everything was okay, he had to call his father and tell him he was engaged, he wanted to eat for the first time in hours, take a nice hot shower and sleep curled around Elle’s body like a bear.
But first, he wanted to explore his fiancée's tight little body beneath that latex. Have her ride him in nothing but her spike heels and black collar. Feel rope or metal wrapped around his tattooed wrist, pulling him taut for her pleasure. He needed to fuck her, cement their bond in blood and semen like the pagan worshippers of old. And, because he and Elle were a match made in heaven, she turned to him once they were done talking to curious partygoers, and pressed her mouth to his ear. “There’s a bondage room somewhere around here. Want to go and play?”
Jackson licked his lips. “I’d love to, but would you mind? I mean, people might watch. I wouldn’t want you to feel violated or scared.”
“I know,” she said, running a possessive hand over his chest. “But I think it might be fun to show off my gorgeous fiancé. Plus nothing could be scarier than the fact that I have a fucking fiancé.”
Jackson beamed down at her. “You have no idea how much I love you.”
“We’ll see.” Elle tugged him toward the back of the room, an evil grin lighting up her face. “They have real shackles in here, you know?”