Packaged Read online

  Copyright © 2014 S.E. Hall & Angela Graham

  All rights reserved

  Cover: Shauna Kruse, Kruse Images & Photography

  Cover Model: Sean Smith

  Sommer Stein of Perfect Pear Creative

  Editor: Erin Roth, Wise Owl Editing

  Formatting: Brenda Wright

  This book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part,

  without written permission from the author.

  This book is intended for mature audiences only.

  To the team that always supports us, each intricate and lending their glorious, individual talents, as well as newcomers Sean Smith and Shauna Kruse! It’s been a pleasure!

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  About SE Hall

  About Angela Graham

  “What’s vice today may be virtue, tomorrow.”

  -Henry Fielding

  I read the quote three, maybe four, times then stare back at my mail cubby where I’d found it. Just a small slip of paper, waiting enigmatically for me. Odd, yes, but something about it intrigues me. I glance around my empty office, no clue about the why or who, but does it matter?

  After a second reread, connecting with each word, I’m tempted yet unable to toss it in the trash bin. Instead, I prop the tiny scrap in the corner of a picture frame beside my keyboard, then flip the light switch off and head home.

  Amelia,

  “Fuck! Is one expected to be a gentleman when one is stiff?”

  I’m stunned, baffled, and damn near paralyzed reading the note that’d been peeking out of my mail cubby. Stiff?

  Bit crass.

  Difficult to turn my now stiffened, stressed neck, I steal a quick glance left then right, spotting three other colleagues conversing over files a few feet away. All men, all doctors. The youngest of the group, Max, still a resident, catches my stare and grins. I shudder, swiftly dropping my gaze, then shove the note under the rest of the mail in my hands.

  My steps are labored, limbs rigid as I move back to my desk and sit, shell-shocked. The last time I made anyone stiff —that I was aware of— was well over a year ago.

  I peek back up as the men finish speaking and begin to disperse. Uncomfortable, my hands trembling and feeling at a disadvantage not knowing the sender’s identity, I quickly uncover the memo and slip it into my bottom desk drawer.

  “Hey.”

  I raise my head to see Max, wearing a wicked smirk and flawless suit, blatantly staring down at me. And not at my face, rather my chest.

  I tug up the neckline of my dress, cursing myself for the hundredth time today for ever buying the damn thing. Who knew this deceptive material would stretch and droop in all the wrong places throughout the work day? Definitely meant to be worn with a cami underneath, and judging by the way Max is licking his lips, I’d happily endure a turtleneck under it right about now.

  Always the professional, I paste on a tight but friendly smile. “Afternoon. How’s everything going?” Surprisingly, I’m able to steady my frazzled nerves enough to offer a polite response, but new irritation settles in with each passing second that Max’s focus remains glued on my breasts.

  They’re barely a C, nothing special and completely unworthy of non-stop glaringly obvious gawking.

  “Great, just…great.” His voice drops an octave and finally his leer begins to rake ever so slowly from the cleavage I can’t seem to hide to my face.

  It hits me as I watch his eyes brighten. Oh God, did he send the notes?

  I swallow, nearly choking as I struggle to form a coherent sentence. “Good to hear. Well, if you don’t mind, I have some work to finish before I can leave. Don’t want to get stuck here too late.” My tone and placating smile are both pleasant yet unsteady.

  “Yeah, sure.” He steps back then stops. “You wanna go out for a drink sometime?”

  It was him! Holy shit. I can’t seem to stop my eyes from traveling down his lean body to the crotch of his slacks. Nope, not stiff now. Still, it had to be him, right? But then again…if it was, then why leave letters if you were planning to ask me on a date, you know, out loud? My head is a jumbled mess.

  I peer back up, realizing he’s still waiting for my answer. My mouth speaks before my brain can process. “Sorry, I’m seeing someone. Have a good night though.” My fingers are typing again, but what, I have no clue. If he happens to lean down and look at my screen, he’ll think I’m insane, mindlessly pressing the keys. Hoping he’ll take a hint, I temper my relieved sigh when finally, it works.

  “You got a lucky guy. Goodnight, Amelia.”

  “Thanks,” I say with a small smile, looking up only once from the screen. “Goodnight.” I watch him leave, still absently typing away until the door closes behind him. The second it does, I slump back in my chair, heart racing and temples pounding.

  I’m seeing someone? Why the hell did I tell him that? For what inconceivable reason did that complete and utter lie pop out? No doubt it’s going to get around the office and I’ll be facing an exasperating firing squad of questions in the morning. Looks like I’ll either need to create some imaginary beau, the option too pathetic for me to even consider, or own up to the truth.

  I don’t date doctors.

  No real reason, well maybe a few. Honestly, I just work too close with them, overly familiar with their busy schedules and massive egos. Dating a doctor isn’t in my future; not that I’ve ever been asked before. Max is a first, and I blame the dress. I blame it for today’s creepy letter as well.

  Damn discount racks and those in-store trick mirrors!

  I open my bottom drawer and pull the latest mystery message back out as soon as I’m alone in my office. I read it over and over again, insulted and aroused at the same time. Who the hell would send this? And why can’t I seem to throw it away?

  As I’m memorizing the few vulgar words, the frame holding the Fielding quote comes into focus out of the corner of my eye and my breath hitches. The paper is the same white stationery with the tiniest, fancy gold emblem on each corner.

  When I look back at the page in my hand, I realize for the first time that it’s not just a few nasty words, it’s a quote as well. How had I missed that? Must have been the f-bomb blowing up the greeting. “Fuck” tends to steal the thunder that way, which is why it should be reserved for only the rarest of occasions.

  A few clicks of the mouse and all the gibberish I’d typed is gone and Google is up. I enter in the quote and learn it’s written by the Marquis de Sade, the so called “grandfather of pornography,” according to Wikipedia. And then there’s a little tidbit of sadism stemming from his name. Lovely.

  Seems my stalker/suitor has digressed. The first quote was poignant and thought-provoking, compelling really. One’s virtue and/or vice leaves open a realm of possibilities, and for a woman, the option that one is attempting to eloquently romance her, “Fuck” and “stiff” not so much. And a sadist?

  That’s a hell no! In the trash it finally goes.

  Amelia,

  “When she's abandoned her moral center and teachings...when she's cast aside her facade of propriety and lady-like demeanor...when I have so corrupted this fragile thing and brought out a writhing, mewling, bucking, wanton whore for my enjoyment and pleasur
e...enticing from within this feral lioness...growling and scratching and biting...taking everything I dish out to her...at that moment she is never more beautiful to me.”

  -Yours

  It’s been a week since the “Fuck” note and I’ve remained hopeful it was just a prank that no one wanted to fess up to and had gotten bored of, yet here I sit at my desk over lunch, reading another. One not as crude, maybe… I can’t decide. Is “whore” less offensive? At least it’s not the opening word, but still full of the obvious running theme. A quick check on Google brings up the author as the Marquis de Sade.

  The paper goes in my drawer instead of the trash, finding a home on top of the Fielding note. I’m now collecting—you know, in case the cops need fingerprints later. Which they won’t…unless I’m actually found mutilated in a ditch. The gnawing little voice in my head tells me to keep them.

  Good insurance, but I refuse to cower and freak out either. He’s testing me, whoever he is. And while that thought alone grates an icy shiver down my back, it’s not enough to stop me from finally replying.

  Grabbing a piece of paper from my printer, I quickly scrawl out my own message before I have a chance to change my mind.

  You-

  This one wasn’t bad, actually. It’s a shame it’s not yours, and from a sadist. FYI, I know how to google. A real man has his own voice.

  -Amelia

  Determinedly, I fold it in half, write “You” on the outside, and march to exactly where I know he’ll soon find it—my mail cubby.

  Amelia,

  Your hair up is almost more than I can take. If I burst into that office, lock the door, and run my tongue up the column of your bared neck, will I discover a sweet, tense body in response? Will you force me to husk out words of romance and flowery bullshit in your sweet ear to relax that tight body? Or will you be the Amelia of my dreams, the naughty little vixen arching further against my tongue, begging my mouth to devour you wholly? The temptress that I envision every night when I stroke my own pulsing cock, grunting out your name as my hot seed explodes over my hands, demanding my fingers that very soon will explore the depths of you?

  I suspect inside my refined beauty lies a tawdriness the likes of which I can’t wait to unleash, drawing out of you the suppressed, unbridled passion boiling just below the surface. I will awaken the famished, giving, instinctual lover you were intricately, perfectly designed to be.

  A body like yours deserves the brunt, primal command of the man created to do it, correctly and repeatedly.

  That man is me.

  No escape, Beauty

  -Yours

  Amelia,

  Today’s red dress, clinging to every delectable inch of you...maddening. Like waving the muleta at a raging bull, ready to attack, you're calling out to me. I hear you.

  You knew as you slowly drew the slip of material down your silky body this morning that it'd please me, didn't you? Good girl. Your reward will also be mine.

  The one question remaining, driving me mad, much like I long to relentlessly drive my iron hard dick into you...is it panties underneath, or perhaps a thong, that would snap with one flick of my wrist?

  Are you teasing yourself with a thin strip of satin, perhaps lace, gliding between the luscious globes of your perfect ass, reminding you with each move you make that one day I'll be right there?

  Or are you bare?

  Bare everywhere, down to the flesh?

  No escape, Beauty

  -Yours

  Enough! While he may be well-versed, probably highly educated, and could certainly give Keats a run for his silver-tongued money, he also scarily resembles Ted Bundy, the “romantic charmer” of freak serial killers, the creep that smooth-talked his way into the panties of college girls by the droves—right before he decapitated them.

  If he thinks I find this amusing, I don’t. And it’s time I let him know. No more games. So again, precisely where I know he’ll soon be lurking—my assigned office mailbox—I stick up a bright, impossible not to notice, pink Post-it note.

  Dear You Know Who You Are,

  STOP NOW!

  I do not converse with crude assholes who confuse romanticism with lewd, ungentlemanly...well, stalking! Must I ask the Board to install cameras? Take the letters to the police? Or can you call upon the man your mother raised, deep inside you, and STOP??

  I apologize for the one response, I admit it was worded much like a challenge. That was my mistake and it will not happen again.

  But now I’m done, I'm not kidding, and you're failing miserably at impressing me, which is not another challenge. I am far from asking you to try harder.

  Amelia

  “You okay?”

  I jolt, barely catching the pile of mail in my hands at the question. Ashley Chastain, my boss, stands beside me, concern etching her face.

  “Sure, fine.” I smile with false bravado, hands clammy and a trickle of sweat sliding annoyingly over my thrumming heart, down between my breasts. “You startled me is all. Good morning.”

  “Probably not¸” she laughs, “it is Monday after all. You need help?” She points to the many envelopes and folders, now askew in my trembling hands.

  “No, I’ve got it, but thanks. Meeting this morning?”

  “Yep.” She checks her watch. “In thirty. See you in the conference room!”

  I give a weak nod and gulp down the lump in my throat, letting my forehead fall forward to rest on the wall when she departs.

  Mondays don’t scare me, neither do mountains of work in my mail cubby. As the Assistant of Administration here at Mercy Medical Center, I’m used to gracefully handling both. What has my hackles up and on high-alert is the letter I’d spotted right before Ashley walked up on me.

  Another one.

  Not an invoice, no postage stamp or pre-paid mark, just a plain white envelope with “Amelia” written in bold black print across the front.

  I thought my final, outraged and fluorescent response would end this worrisome misadventure.

  Apparently not.

  Why I continue to open them I’m not sure—curiosity is probably the foremost reason—but now it truly is more about self-preservation. I read them to make sure he hasn’t upped the ante on getting even weirder or stalkeresque. And responding, even once…stupid, Amelia!

  Wobbly legs carry me to my desk, where I drop the entire pile, less the one, and head to my in-office lavatory. Behind the locked door, I lean against the sink and open it, assaulted at once by the faint scent of his cologne.

  Amelia,

  Monday, the start of a new week. Perhaps this is one where written correspondence will no longer be needed, putting into physical motion what we mentally began weeks ago.

  Is today finally when I’m able to touch you, feel that smooth, alabaster skin writhing beneath my hands, mouth, tongue, and body?

  Do you like the thought of that, Amelia? Is your heart racing as you think of it? Are your panties wet for me at the mere words? The things I long to do to you, for you, over and again. One day it will be my name you scream until your throat burns and your voice goes hoarse.

  No escape, Beauty

  -Yours

  My heart is in fact racing, and like the masochistic degenerate I feel, my panties are drenched. Does he want to hurt me? Am I an unhealthy obsession for a crazed, still-lives-with-his-mother lunatic, or a sexy, shy, and obviously linguistically advanced professional?

  His many correspondences…some his own words, others not. Many vulgar and not all that persuasive, but again, others somewhat…charming? No, amiable at best. I simply don’t know what to think with any lasting finality.

  It’s the most enticingly, alarming rollercoaster ride to find myself on and at times, I scare myself at how lost in the overwhelming mystery I delve.

  Since I get the letters in my box, un-mailed, he must work in the building. Any man I see in the office, halls, cafeteria, elevator, even the parking lot could be him. My body stiffens each time I’m alone with someone, ner
ves wracked, wondering if this is the time he nabs me…or produces a rose from behind his back— hopefully along with a clean background check and healthy psych evaluation.

  My feelings on the matter, the possibilities, interchange between intrigued and frightened with every letter and time I think of it, and often I feel depraved for even the slightest spike in my heart rate, the curious flicker of my eyes around the building seeking him out. How sick am I?

  How sick is he?

  With a deep, confused intake of lonely breath, I slip out of the bathroom to hide the letter in my bottom, lockable desk drawer with all the others and gather my things for morning meeting. I stick my head out my office door and tentatively glance both ways, sighing in relief at finding it empty before I scurry to the conference room.

  The rest of the administrative staff have already arrived, milling about in different small groups. The animated people are in the corner, no doubt comparing details of their sex and excitement-filled weekends. The few others congregate around the coffee and danish station, most likely drowning out mundane weekends such as my own with caffeine and carbs. I opt for neither crowd, getting settled in my seat to the immediate right of Ashley’s, impatiently waiting for the meeting to start.

  “Good morning!” Not five minutes later, Ashley breezes in and chirps her greeting, bright-eyed and blissfully poised. She’s the boss, highly compensated and deliriously ensconced in love—how else would she act?

  The chatter stops and everyone hurries to their seats. Mabry, my closest female friend, pathetically my only friend outside of work, whom I met inside of work, sits down beside me. “Any new, thrilling developments over the weekend?” she leans in and whispers, wagging her eyebrows.

  “Hmmm…” I tap my finger to my chin. “I finished two really good books and took Lucy to the vet.” I stand corrected, I have two friends if you count (which I do) my delightful cat. “What about you?”