by Shayne Ford
JADEN
A DARK HEART NOVEL
Shayne Ford
Copyright © 2017 by Shayne Ford
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, organizations and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features mentioned in this book are the property of their respective owners and have been used without permission and in an editorial fashion only, with no implied endorsement.
The publication/use of these trademarks is not associated with, approved of or sponsored by the trademarks owners.
This book is for entertainment purposes only. The author and publisher disclaim any and all responsibility for any liability, loss, or risk, personal or otherwise, incurred as a consequence, directly or indirectly in relation to this book.
This book is intended for mature audiences only.
Written by Shayne Ford
www.shayneford.com
Twitter:@ShayneFordBooks
Cover design by Shayne Ford
The image on the cover is a licensed stock photo, and it is used for illustrative purposes, any person who may be depicted on, is a model.
Created with Vellum
Contents
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
Also by Shayne Ford
About the Author
1
SENNA
“Enjoy your evening, Ms. Lloyd.”
Stretching a perfect smile, the hotel clerk hands me the key card.
“I hope you’ll find your stay as pleasant as ever,” he says.
For a moment, I study him suspiciously. The man looks at me, a grin beaming in his eyes.
I detect nothing.
Chill Senna, for fuck’s sake.
“I will,” I say dryly as I snatch the key card and pull away from the reception desk.
Pacing myself, I stroll across the lobby, my four-inch heels click-clacking against the polished floors all the way to the elevator.
The doors pull open with a quiet hiss.
I step in and press the floor number. As the doors slide shut, I start examining my reflection in the wall mirror.
“Not bad,” I murmur to myself as I run my eyes down on me.
The tailored black dress sets off my hourglass silhouette, the push-up bra exposing my cleavage. A black wool jacket drapes over my shoulders, adding a touch of subtle elegance.
I should dress like that more often. A mischievous smile glints in my eyes while a chuckle falls from my lips.
I cut my eyes up and inspect the ceiling. I can’t believe I’m giggling by myself. I bet hidden cameras are beneath those panels, and here I am talking to myself and laughing.
Looking like an idiot.
Dressed like a femme fatale, snickers like a girl.
That’s a catchy headline.
I look up again. I bet some nerd choked on his peanut butter sandwich, ogling me on the live feed. Lowering my eyes, I try to keep my mug under control.
What is wrong with me?
To distract myself, I go back at studying my reflection.
A long curtain of shiny, chocolate hair frames my oval face, setting off my full lips and whiskey-colored eyes.
A face made for sin, my grandma used to say, way before I had the slightest idea what she meant by that. I hadn’t even been kissed when she uttered that pearl of wisdom.
Frances Lloyd was a smart woman, way ahead of her time. She knew what was lying dormant in me despite me being only a kid at the time. She saw it before anyone else could, and she sure had known it before I did.
Ironically, she ended up being blamed by my family for all my wrongdoings. Not that she gave a flying crap. Besides, no one dared to say it to her face.
Frances Lloyd was a tough cookie, and they knew better than to question her or argue with her.
In that regard, the woman deserved some credit.
It took her a lot of guts to live the way she did when not many people, especially women, had that kind of courage.
A nostalgic smile curls my lips.
She knew a thing or two about faces made for sin. She had one herself, and she used it to find lovers and husbands.
She cherry-picked her men and never cheated on them, yet she never stuck around much either if things didn’t work out.
She was the kind of woman who never settled or compromised. As much as she could, that’s what she taught me as well.
She got married three times. To her, a man had to be a man, or else.
'There aren’t that many good men, sweetie,' she used to say. ‘You either learn how to pick them, or you don’t, and you end up with an insecure, wishy-washy, wilted flower. Don’t wait for them to slobber over you, ‘cause real men never do. And never fall for their pocketbooks either. ‘Cause it’s not worth it in the end. Make your own damn money. There’s no such a thing as being taken care of. Their money comes with interest you have to pay your entire life.’
Yeah... She taught me well.
‘And one more thing, my dear...’ she said to me one week shy of my seventeen birthday as we were lounging in her backyard, sipping lemonade. ‘Don’t cut him slack when it comes to the bedroom either. He has one tool to work with, and it’s not so damn hard to learn how to use it. Make sure you don’t compromise on that one either.’
What can I say?
She was quite the pioneer. Not many people would agree with her, not even in today’s world, let alone decades ago.
‘We are very much alike, Senna,’ Frances used to say, but I was too young to understand what she meant by that.
But now I know.
Carol, her third husband, and my grandpa, the man whom I owe my looks to, was a man of her taste. The kind you’d go to the end of the world for. And she did, without having the slightest regret.
Hot blooded, wild, and stubborn–– impossible to tame, he loved Frances, and he was loyal to her. Their life together was great as long as it lasted. Frances and Carol Lloyd were different than other grandparents, and I was lucky to be their favorite granddaughter.
Whenever I could get away from school and my parents, I’d run to them. Summer or winter, it didn’t matter. I loved the time I spent with them all the same.
Tilting my head back, I narrow my eyes and shift my focus back to the mirror.
The makeup looks flawless, a plus considering I rarely go out and I almost never have the patience to paint my whole face.
The black eyeliner adds depth to my eyes. The nude lipstick and gloss make my pout stand out.
A smirk crawls up my face.
I stray so far off from the flock even my looks disagree with the long line of blue-eyed, blonde-haired women in my family.
I look nothing like my sisters, Evelyne, and Isabel, or my mom, or anyone else on her side of the family.
I shift the small voyage bag from one hand to the other and glance at the expensive, designer watch.
It’s ten past nine.
I’m late. Good.
The el
evator doors glide open with a soft whisper. A large hallway decorated with abstract art, monochromatic rugs and futuristic furniture, comes into view.
I strut down the corridor and pull to a smooth stop in front of the last door. I swipe my key card and push in. The room is dark, only a faint light sneaking through the velvet curtains, not enough to illuminate the place.
I step in, blinking while trying to adjust my eyes, when the hard frame of a man stops me feet away from the door.
There’s not enough time to react before he cuffs my wrist and spins me around to face the wall. My bag drops from the other hand as he twists my arm and presses it against my back.
He grabs both wrists, wraps them in his fist, and pulls them up, above my head. My jacket slides off my shoulders.
Jerking back as hard as I can, I smack him in his chest.
“Don’t move,” he growls, pressing my face against the wall.
His thick, low voice courses through me, followed by a shudder.
A scent of fresh paint lifts off the wall. It fills my nostrils and brings bile to my mouth. As if it’s not bad enough, strands of hair get stuck to my lip gloss, tickling my nose.
I try to blow it away without success.
He winds his arm around my chest and clamps his hand over my mouth, his fingers smearing all my lipstick. More hair slips into my mouth.
Fuck.
His fresh scent obliterates the smell of paint, and all I feel right now is heat coming from his body and the aroma of his aftershave. He lets go of my wrists, locks one arm around my waist, and slides the other onto my chest, his forearm resting between my breasts.
His callous thumb rubs my lips, the scent of his cologne exploding in my mouth. I writhe against him, my back hitting his chest a couple of times.
He laughs quietly and hardens his grip, thick ropes of muscles wrapping around my neck.
I warm up and get wet between my legs.
“Keep your hands on the wall,” he rumbles with a guttural voice.
I listen and do exactly what I’m told.
His body presses against mine, his bulge rubbing against me.
He lowers his head, his hot breath fanning over my neck. Slowly, his lips graze my jawline, his hands moving over my body, rough, and without finesse.
Covering my breasts with his hands, he squeezes them and kneads them harshly before he starts pinching the puckered nipples.
Sparks fly between my legs.
Rushed, he slips his hands inside my cleavage, yanks the fabric to the sides, and in one sharp motion, tears my dress open.
A tremor sweeps my body.
I tense and grunt.
“Chill, baby. Chill. We’ll get to that...” he says. “You’re fucking late,” he groans in my ear.
My curse gets lost in the thickness of his palm.
“This is not the time to talk, babe,” he mutters as his knee wedges between my legs.
His hand slides up, parting my thighs. Cold fingers pull the panties to the side, touching my warm flesh. The pleasure rises quickly as his fingers press and rub.
He keeps tracing my slit from behind, stroking the flesh between my folds while using his thumb to probe my entrance. He easily slides it between my warm walls.
A grunt falls in my ears as his full, hard cock starts grinding against me.
Pushing back a moan, I try to pivot so that I can face him.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he growls in my ear.
He shifts his position and tightens his arm around my waist, roughly grabbing my mound while forcing me to arch my body.
He pushes more hard meat against me, rubbing and teasing.
I whip my head to the side.
“Is this better...?” he asks.
No word falls from my lips.
“I guess it is...” he says rather to himself, his voice rolling hoarse and deep.
He keeps grinding into me.
The more he moves, the more he fuels my pleasure, and the need to have him buried deep between my legs. Smoothly, he grabs the back of my dress and rips it off me completely.
I swivel.
“Don’t move!” he barks, and I freeze. “Open your legs,” he demands.
I spread my legs, struggling to keep my balance on my heels.
The air licks my heated skin before a cold, metallic blade sides up onto my inner thigh. My pulse spikes, my skin covered with goosebumps. I’m hot and throbbing, grappling with the need to close my legs.
The blade traces the swell of my ass and slips under my panties. Holding my thong away from my crotch, he presses the cold, metal edge against my flesh. The throbbing quickens, my chest rising and falling rapidly.
I turn to stone and close my eyes, relishing the tingles swirling in my core. Feeding on that sensation, I begin to forget. And then I relive everything.
He breathes heavily behind my back.
He’s almost there, edging, and for a moment, I envision his hard cock, wet and glistening, dripping with pre-cum, and him eager to enter me and hammer me so that he can release the tension that’s been building inside him.
The pleasure snowballs through me. I’m right there with him, a moment away from coming.
He knows it. He senses it. It’s ancient wisdom that hasn’t changed since the first male crashed into a female.
“Still, baby. Stay still...” he mutters, his voice heavy with lust.
The panties stretch some more, and then he rips them off me. A cold metallic sound reverberates around the room as the blade hits the floor. He grabs my mound again, his rough fingers pinching my clit.
“You better enter me. Now,” I say with a demanding voice.
He laughs.
“Nah.”
My curse fades away quickly, turning into a moan as he pulls away slightly, curls his fingers and slides them into me from behind. One, and two and then three, stretching me.
“You’re so fucking wet...” he says, drops coming down my thighs.
His free hand kneads my breasts, one at the time, his mouth drawing wet paths down my neck.
“Moan for me, darling.”
He presses his weight on me, and I groan with pleasure.
“Mmm... I love when you do that,” he says, weaving his fingers in my hair.
He pulls my locks, making me turn my face to him. His teeth sparkle in the dimness, gleaming between lush, curled lips. His mouth comes closer, his tongue sweeping my lips.
“Moan, if you want me to fuck you,” he says.
I breathe out a moan.
“That’s fucking good,” he says and releases my hair.
I hear the sound of his zipper going down, and then the whisper of ripped foil.
He pushes his knee between my legs, kicks them open and drives his cock into me, the long upward motion filling me to the brim.
I groan and jerk, crushed against the wall. He pushes his fingers between my lips, the scent and taste of my arousal rolling on my tongue.
The pleasurable sensation rises in me again, shutting down my mind, making me feel so good. The surge comes strong. He thrusts his fingers into my mouth, and I start sucking on them, craving the real thing.
He slams harder, his breaths coming fast, burning my face.
“You fucking love it,” he mumbles as I start clenching on his cock.
His fingers fuck my mouth as his hand locks around my neck, holding me against his body.
I almost gag as he tips me over the edge, the orgasm racing through me, breaking me into a million pieces.
Without waiting a moment longer, he clasps his hands on my hips and pounds me relentlessly, a wild roar spinning in his chest.
“Fucking hell, Senna.”
2
SENNA
A blasting sound drills my ears.
“Damned thing,” I mumble, and then I curse under my breath again. “Give me a second,” I bark in my headset.
I grab my laptop, sweep the coffee mug off the kitchen counter and head outside.
<
br /> “What is that?”
Harper’s voice chimes in my ear, a sweet hum, nothing like the bellowing machine.
“Wait... I can’t hear you,” I shout.
The noise becomes a muffled buzz as I close the door behind me. Clad in a robe that barely covers my bikini, I stroll to the oval-shaped pool.
A soft wind blows through the leaves, making them rustle while the sound of chirping birds rolls in my ears.
This is so much better.
“It’s the housekeeper,” I finally say as I peel off the robe and stretch on a lounge chair, briefly inspecting my bikini.
Laughter comes from the other end.
“It’s not funny, Harper.”
“Isn’t she supposed to clean your place when you’re not home?”
“Yes, she is, but she travels this week. I changed the cleaning day so she can leave tomorrow.”
“You have such a good heart,” she says, irony hovering over her words.
“Don’t push it, Harper,” I say, only half-jokingly.
I’m notoriously picky and demanding, and I don’t make it a secret, especially to people who work for me.
I’m the first one to admit I’m set in my ways. Silence, for instance, is one of the things I fundamentally need to function properly. Random, drilling noises mess up my brain, scramble my focus and turn me into a nutcase.
The door opens briefly, the offensive noise wafting through the air as a young man, slips outside. The noise dies out behind him the moment he shuts the doors closed.
“Now, we’re talking,” I mumble to myself as I set my laptop on my knees, and steal glances at him.
Oblivious to me, he saunters to the pool and starts to clean it, his bare arms flexing into a delicious tease.
“What’s that?”
“You’re a bit nosy, Harper.”
“Aha... There is something.”
“Yeah, there is... You’re bored out of your mind and stick your nose in my business. That’s what it is,” I say, secretly smiling.
