What the hell? Is that it? I asked myself, pressing my lips together in silence as I held back the shooting comeback on the tip of my tongue. One of the strangest experiences I’d had here, I was exhausted anyway. I got dressed and eased out the back door before I ran into clingy Sam again.
Chapter Three
Layla
“Oh baby, you’re absolutely beautiful.” He whispered the sweet words in my neck as he fell into his release, filling my body with stream after stream of his warmth. Easing his softening erection from me, his lips still in the crook of my neck, the sound of his tone changed. “I’ll still never fall in love with you, Layla. You’ll never earn my heart.”
My eyes sprang open.
Waking to the dream I’d had over and over again since the first time I laid eyes on Jackson, this time was no different. My thin, silky nightgown was laced with sweat, my breath accelerated, while my hand was in the place that desperately needed a man—between my legs. Finishing what my dream had begun, the tone of his deep voice was still wildly alive in my head as I cried out, bringing myself to the edge.
I had tons more questions for Joslyn. A million more scenarios in my head.
But the time for that had passed. Tonight was the auction. Six weeks of learning the basics of Joslyn’s lifestyle, my training had come to an end. In a few short hours, I’d be on a stage in front of a dozen or more strangers, praying the man I wanted would desire me enough to bid … and win. I knew I had a slight pull, my looks similar to Joslyn and the majority of subs she’d seen Jackson with. But still, would I be attractive enough?
My hair dark enough?
Skin flawless enough?
Would my eye color be adequate?
Dreams of the famous David Beckham look-alike attorney had awakened me many times, along with an unwelcome lingering I couldn’t understand. I detested him. He demolished my only family. Wrecked my universe.
And yet, my body still ached for him.
The ruthless manipulator in the courtroom was famous for being hard-hearted and pitiless. Joslyn swore he was no different behind the walls of his own home, and certainly not in his bedroom. She’d know. She’d shared his bed many times.
Never argue and never laugh at him.
Could he be all that horrible?
Did he ever feel the least bit compassionate toward the families he destroyed? Wasn’t there a shred of kindness somewhere beneath those clear brown eyes? Just the smallest bit of empathy and warmth? A hidden weakness I could use for bait? To sweeten him up? Seduce him into my heart?
But then, if he picked me, could I withstand his treatment? If he realized I was a virgin, would he kick me to the curb? Would he be rough and purposely hurt me?
All irrelevant concerns, even if I failed, I had to try. The flogging. Spanking. Sucking the nine inches between his legs until he filled my throat with his release. Orgasm denial. The list went on and on.
Could I do those things?
Be aware, Layla. He gets off on tormenting, teasing and then walking away, leaving you with a bitter ache between your legs.
For me, that wouldn’t be an issue. Nothing but a game, there would be no leading me to climax. I’d only be faking.
Another panic attack seconds from happening, I dropped my head between my legs, blowing out three quick shaky breaths at a time to try and expel the air lodged in my lungs. Losing my confidence wasn’t an option. I had to remember exactly why I was doing this.
First, to simply earn his love.
Then second, to succeed with my plan and break his heart. Shred his spirit.
Just as he had my dad’s.
****
My dad was a newly certified public accountant when my mother died of cancer. Good with money, he’d made smart investments over the years, saving every spare cent he could. His work hours were long. Most evenings after a quick dinner, he returned to his home office, working until late hours of the night. Not much time to spend with a young daughter, the bulk of my childhood was spent alone. At age nine I discovered my mother’s old cookbooks and quickly decided I wanted to learn to bake. Over the next year, I mastered half a dozen types of bread and even more pastries, my love of baking becoming a dream for the future.
On the day of my twenty-third birthday, coming home to what I thought was going to be a nice dinner, instead, I’d driven up to a police car in front of our modest house and watched my dad being cuffed and ushered into the back seat by the sullen-faced cop.
It’s all a mistake, Layla. I’ll be home before dinner, sweetheart.
All the investments. All the money set aside for the future.
All dust in the wind, along with my dream of opening a bakery.
Tossed out the window like yesterday’s stale bread.
****
Heat still pounding down, the sun minutes from setting, the Texas humidity was crippling. Yet, I felt chilled as I hesitated at the back entrance to Venture. Joslyn had dropped me off at the rear entry where employees, VIP members, and auction prospects entered. Now, on a Thursday evening, I was seconds from being prepped to stand on a brightly lit stage in front of a multitude of strange men while they made bids on my body.
My God, what was I doing? This wasn’t me. I knew nothing about submissive behavior. Not really. Joslyn showed me what she could and I’d done a lot of reading and watched the famous movie, along with a couple of oldies. It all sounded lovely on the screen and in writing.
But this wasn’t fiction. This was real.
My hand quivering, I reached for the small door bell and pushed.
Josh, or Bull as I’d heard him called, looked at me with a warm-hearted gaze as he held the door open. “Thank you,” I whispered with a forced smile. The large man was dressed in slacks and a long-sleeved dress shirt, his bulging muscles popping out like he took great amounts of steroids or pumped massive pounds of iron, or maybe both.
“This way, Ms. Richardson.” My stomach rolled as he ushered me to a closed door.
“You can go in. Bianca’s cool. She’ll help you get ready. Good luck.”
Three other women in the room, one was entirely naked as she lifted a sheer red dress, her bareness not appearing to bother her even the slightest bit while an attractive redhead watched. A second woman appeared completely ready and relaxed, staring down at something on her cell phone.
“You must be Layla,” the attractive ginger said, easing up the zipper of the red dress. I lifted my eyebrows wondering how she and Josh knew who I was.
“It’s the eyes, sweetheart. I heard about those rare green peepers of yours. Or cum deflectors as I like to call them.”
Cum deflectors?
She winked. “You’re absolutely stunning. These gentlemen are going to go ape-shit gaga over you. They’ll be getting their wank on and their wallets out when they get a look at you. This is exactly what men like this look for—contrast and variance. They love unconventional qualities in a woman. Come on. Let’s get your makeup done first and then we’ll decide on a dress. Although, I think I know just the one.”
Her smile eased my thumping stomach. Owning few formal dresses, it was a small miracle I’d decided on wearing one of Venture’s instead of anything I had. By what I’d seen so far, I would have resembled a frumpy librarian in anything in my wardrobe. The other two women in the room were both beautiful. Both had vibrant blue eyes, immediately setting off another stream of panic. Jackson Shipman favored the eye color. Suddenly, not only was I losing the small bit of confidence I had seconds ago, I was downright scared. My breath was turning rapid again.
Please don’t have a panic attack. Not now. Jesus.
“Hey. Are you okay? Do you need water? Or something stronger? I have a stash of caramel vodka. One shot and I promise that fear rumbling through your insides will ease up at least a notch or two.” She grinned in a way that implied she knew all about the effects of vodka.
“Maybe just a sip.”
She shifted toward the small mini-fridge and grabbed a sh
ot glass to pour my much-needed liquid courage. “I like to keep it cold. It tastes even better that way.”
Three shots and two hours later, I rubbed my perfectly pink painted lips together, staring at the stranger in the floor-length mirror. Porcelain skin with makeup applied so perfectly, even the swollen dark areas below my eyes were concealed. Beautifully applied shadow on my lids in hushed golden tones with hints of light brown and brownish black emphasized my eye color, while the glamorous cat-eye eyeliner look that I could never quite accomplish myself was exemplary. Coat after coat of deep black mascara finished my already thick lashes and my hair was perfectly waved with a far-left part, a slender rhinestone-covered hair clip pinning it back, while the other side fell in light waves over the top of my shoulder, resting above my breast.
I looked flawless. Voluptuous. Everything I didn’t feel I was.
“You’re stunning,” Bianca said, giving my hair a final mist of hairspray.
Even I knew I looked beautiful and provocative in the skin-hugging, white sequined dress, the four-inch silver stilettos making my legs appear even longer on my already five-foot seven stature.
He likes tall.
“Thirty minutes until show time, ladies.” Bianca turned back toward me. “The bids are going to be high on you, sweetheart. Give them your best and remember to flash those lovely green cum deflectors.”
I suspected someone would bid, but would it be the right someone? What if Jackson didn’t show up? There was certainly no guarantee. He could be delayed in another slaughtering court session. Sneering at another devastated family while a victim was being led out of the courtroom. Or … he could be right outside the dressing room waiting, wondering.
Bianca handed me the three-bar pin to attach to my dress as I scanned the room that had become full of stunning women I hadn’t noticed before now.
“Fuck, I’m scared,” I whispered, wishing I had one final shot of vodka.
Nothing but a lie, three bars meant I was an experienced submissive, when I was anything but. I’d never even seen a damn man’s penis, other than on television or on my phone. Now my entire destiny was only a few feet away. Fucking hell. Fucking hell.
Stay strong. Hold that head up high. Let him see your beautiful neck. Stick those perky tits out.
My heart pounded as I re-read the text from Joslyn, praying I could keep from crying, or worse. Maybe she’d been right all along. This was all ridiculous. I couldn’t hold a candle against these other women. Confident and sure of themselves, they were experienced while I knew little less than shit. No idea what I was doing, now I didn’t even know why. My dad was gone. He wasn’t coming back no matter what. And he’d be appalled by my behavior.
This was all a huge mistake.
Probably the biggest of my life.
Chances at ending up with someone like Jackson Shipman were next to zero. Way over my head, I may as well have clicked my stilettos together, hoping to open my eyes to Jamie Dornan on one knee asking my hand in marriage.
Chapter Four
Layla
My worst fears were here.
Screwed—that’s what I was.
He wasn’t going to bid on me.
Fucking hell!
For what seemed like a hundred hours, I tried staying still under the scorching hot lights, overly conscious of my body, my stance, the angle I was standing at. Sam, the young beauty running the auction, instantly zoomed in on the rarity of my eye color with the soothing sound of her voice, before describing everything from the texture of my obvious dark hair, to the shape and length of my legs.
My heart pounded with utter mortification. Only a cretin would attempt something so outrageously stupid. What could have made me think he’d choose me? Tall, dark hair, light eyes, lover of sadomasochism, completely uninterested in a permanent relationship. Four of the five described me perfectly. Yet, it didn’t seem to be enough.
Jackson Shipman was a world-class, egotistical prick. Everything I detested in a man. I was a nobody in his world. With all the women he fucked, he probably didn’t even remember me. And if he did, he was probably laughing on the inside.
In any case, today was going to end up one of those days I couldn’t dig myself out of the mess I’d put myself in.
Transfixed by his icy glare, he sat perfectly still, his amber-colored eyes glued on me like a magnet that could read behind my thoughts. Like two perfect spheres glowing with mysterious promises, he watched me with locked eyes while I returned his stare. Long minutes passing, his expression stayed the same. So beautifully perfect, I studied him closely, sending forth every bit of sexual implication I could manage, his powerful glare sucking the air from my throat. He stared up at me with suspicion and incredulity and what looked like a touch of warning. I licked my lips, leaning my head back just the smallest bit to give him a look at my neck, his forceful stare beaming with a raw, deep-gutted power so intense, that it felt like he was looking through my eyes into my mind, my thoughts.
Paying no mind to my pleading glance, I longed for him to end this battle between the two gentlemen going back and forth before I ended up with a man I couldn’t possibly stomach. So scared that my palms were sweating and my belly twisting with blood-curdling nerves, he remained silent, while fear poured through my chest like a burning acid. His expression laced with caution, a thin-lipped smirk crawled across his face. When combined with the familiar deadpan eyes that made my stomach churn with nausea, he was still nothing but strikingly beautiful.
“Look at those unusual green eyes one last time, gentlemen. Do any of you realize just how rare this color is in our country?” Shame washed over me as Sam went on and on about my eye color while the two gentlemen continued their back and forth bids. Why would a man be meticulous about the thickness of my hair? Or care all that much what color my eyes were?
He apparently doesn’t.
I didn’t want the other men, barely taking note of them. The only thing I could bear was gazing into the motionless, unsympathetic brown eyes I’d stared into before, not understanding how I had the strength to even consider touching him, knowing who he was. Yet, thoughts of giving up my most valuable asset to anyone else was suddenly an impossible reality.
My heart was pounding. The temperature on the stage seemed to boil, making me dizzy and panicky. Why was I was offering my body up like a refurbished car? Utterly desperate for a man who sickened me? When I had no clue what to do if in fact he did.
Or even worse if he didn’t.
Long fingers thread tightly in front of him, his gaze against my eyes hard and bitter, the few flickers of his tensing jaw only made my pulse hammer that much harder. Why did he have to be so attractive?
Why did his lips have to be thick and full?
His jaw so squarely shaped?
His body so obviously toned underneath his tailored suit?
I wanted the hell off this stage. Every brain cell in my head urged me to walk away, though the fuzzy swirling deep in the pit of my core demanded I stay right where I was. But no. I had to do something. Anything. Feign sickness. Bi-Polar disorder. Mental illness. Jesus, anything to put an end to this.
My knees started to buckle, my eyes blurring as the room began to spin. The sound of chairs and tables shifting resembled scratchy nails on a chalkboard. Anything but acting, this was a panic attack. The last thing I remembered before silence … darkness … loneliness, was a lone, deep, familiar voice barking orders.
“Get her some fucking help. Now.”
Chapter Five
Jackson
“Bye, Unca Jacks.”
“I’ll see you and your brother soon, Half-Pint.”
I disconnected the call from my sister, glancing at the newly hung photo of my two nephews. Cute as hell, Hartley and Justin’s twin boys were one of the few things that got a genuine laugh out of me. Whether it was begging for a water gun fight, or when I was already down having the living shit pelted out of me by two three-year-olds with Super Soaker Arctic Shock Water B
lasters in hand, my whole family, sister included, loved me being the victim. More specifically, my brother-in-law. Justin, taught the twins to add ice to the godforsaken drum so the water was shockingly cold, upping the misery factor a couple of hundred notches more.
All was right with the world when I had those two boys laughing.
Having a longstanding aversion for Justin, after three years I’d learned to tolerate him. He’d proven me wrong. As close now as two men with strong personalities would allow, he was quite the opposite of the bad guy I’d labeled him in the past, no longer the cocky fuck that he once was. He’d made some mistakes, but who the hell hadn’t. Considering his childhood hardships, it was a wonder he hadn’t ended up a hardened criminal as an adult. And considering what I did every day, I was the last person to judge him or anyone else. What was most important—what really changed my thinking—was the fact that he loved the hell out of my sister, and those two boys were the apple of his eye. He may have had a cruel childhood and made some dark mistakes, but when it came to fatherhood, the man was a fucking saint.
Being the cold bastard of the family, not interested in family of my own, being around them gave me a sense of stability. Most importantly, it reminded me what mattered. It made my lonely life a little more pleasant.
Recollections of incoherent mumbling from a beautiful woman last night was another reminder of what awaited me at home if she hadn’t wised up and run like hell. Rambling about some kind of pastries and shit that made no sense as I undressed her and tucked her into my bed, she’d opened her hypnotizing eyes for a few short seconds, only to close them right back and slip into slumber.
Nothing left to accomplish this late in the day, I logged off my laptop and swallowed three Advil, trying to chase an ass-kicking headache. The department had just wrapped up a long-time case on a well-known city council member this morning and I still felt the effects of the scotch-induced celebration lunch. Soft tapping against my door startled me from thoughts of the day. Namely, who I’d left sleeping in my bed.
Reaching For Emeralds Page 2
