Reaching For Emeralds

by Lacee Hightower

  “I understand perfectly… Sir.”

  Against my ear, his voice deep, he uttered, “Don’t get cocky, Ms. Richardson. I detest a presumptuous woman.”

  This jackass wasn’t going to subdue me with his intimidating demeanor.

  As. Fucking. If!

  He’s just a man. I can do this.

  No matter what, I could do this. I would. Nothing more than a game, it was a dangerous process and had to be handled just exactly the right way if I wanted success. But I would succeed.

  I’d be in his bed before the night ended.

  He’d be in love with me this time next week.

  Then the real game would begin.

  “Okay, Sir. And I apologize for my weaknesses last night. Is there something I can do to make up for that?” I reached for his belt, the bottom of my hand brushing the tight bulge underneath his zipper. Stone hard, his hand latched onto my wrist, squeezing it between the strength of his fingers.

  “First of all, you haven’t showered. Your hair is a mess. I didn’t spend this kind of money to come home to this. You can always return to your receptionist job early, tell them your leave of absence is no longer necessary.”

  “Leave of absence? I didn’t take a leave.”

  His grin was smug and pompous. “Oh, but you did Layla. You just didn’t know you needed more time to mourn the death of your father. You’ll be staying right here … with me.”

  Fucking heartless prick!

  “Again, I’m sorry. I wasn’t aware. And forgive my appearance. It won’t happen again.” He opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of water, handing it to me before grabbing a second.

  “You need water. You’re dehydrated. It’s unhealthy for your hair and skin. I have an important case to prepare for. I’ll be in my study for the next two to three hours. Please feel free to eat whatever you want or use the kitchen. There’s prepared healthy meals in the freezer. And Layla, I expect you in my bed tonight, showered and ready for me. Everything you need should be in your bathroom drawers and underneath the counter. If not, make a list and I’ll make sure you have it tomorrow.”

  He turned and left the kitchen.

  Such an arrogant bastard, every single thing about this man oozed greed and darkness.

  And sex.

  Nevertheless, just being around him for a few minutes turned my body to a furnace, heating me in every spot. Mainly the one that mattered most.

  Tonight was going to be it—the end of my innocence.

  I’d be a changed woman in a matter of hours.

  Even though my morals screamed this was wrong and unscrupulous, my body felt entirely different.

  Chapter Seven

  Layla

  Are you kidding me?

  Unhealthy skin and hair? Was this man for real? Who the hell says something like that?

  Jackson Shipman was a true, cold-hearted, sexist bastard.

  A light spattering of rain tapped against the windows. I nestled deeper into the plush warm bedding listening to Jackson in the attached bathroom. He never came for me last night. At precisely midnight, he’d come in the bedroom smelling strong of alcohol after I’d showered, straightened my hair and perfected my makeup. He didn’t touch me. Seconds after his head hit the pillow, he was asleep on his side facing the wall. Up at the early hour of 5:00 AM, I listened to every move he made in the bathroom as he prepared for work. Water turning on and off in the shower, running in the sink, the buzzing of his electric razor, his shoes tapping the tile.

  Feigning sleep when he exited the bathroom, I opened my eyes just enough to see him dressed in a perfectly slim-cut, tailored, dark gray suit with a crisp white shirt underneath and matching gray tie, his shoes a rusty brown pair of expensive-looking oxfords. With his hair perfectly styled and his jaw immaculately trimmed to show off just the right amount of stubble to look sexy, he looked every bit the professional District Attorney. The sight of him woke up the familiar, unwanted, twisting and turning inside my belly that warmed my blood with need. My hand slowly crept down my leg, stopping at my mound. Underneath the black silken sheets, I stayed perfectly still except for the small movement of my finger, my eyes sealed to avoid any conversation. He reached for his wallet and phone, pushing them into the pocket of his pants, his brow lifting with an expression of amusement.

  “Enjoy your day, Layla. And carry on with whatever you’re doing underneath my sheets. I should be home by 6:00 PM. Be wearing the lingerie I set aside for you in your closet, on your knees in front of this bed. And you may want to consider getting up before mid-afternoon. My housekeeper, Mrs. Bailey, will be here no later than 8:00 AM. Expect her in the bedroom to strip the sheets.” Mortified, my hand flew from the damp area between my legs.

  “One last thing. Check the pantry. I think you’ll be pleased with what you find.”

  “Thank you,” I whispered, my cheeks stinging. “Have a great day at work.” The air crackling between us, I propped a pillow behind my back and dropped the sheet as Jackson stared down at my breasts. I took a long breath before speaking in my sweetest southern voice. “I truly look forward to spending the evening with you, Jackson.”

  Unreadable, his facial expression almost seemed anguished, yet a small flicker of passion sparkled in his eyes. My gaze slid over him as he watched me concentrating on his body, his tongue licking his lips in such a lewd sexual way, I could almost sense him doing that same thing to my body.

  ****

  Dressed in my favorite comfy attire of leggings and a tank top, I needed food. My stomach was full-on grumbling. Jackson hinted he had some good things in his pantry, but I knew better. Being a health food junkie, his idea of good munchies were probably lackluster protein bars and tasteless rice cakes. Maybe, if I was lucky, he had a Kind bar. At least they resembled real food and had actual taste.

  Nervous and enthusiastic all at once, by the time I reached the kitchen I felt relieved to see Jackson’s housekeeper was nowhere to be seen. I just wasn’t ready to meet this Mrs. Bailey character just yet. Inside the stainless-steel refrigerator, large containers of orange and grapefruit juice sat on the top shelf. I reached for a glass. “Shit. This is delicious,” I mumbled, swallowing a long drink of cold, pulp-filled luscious orange juice. The label read Whole Foods. No wonder it tasted so good. It was freshly-squeezed and not pumped full of artificial flavorings and preservatives. His refrigerator was full of healthy nutritional foods. Dozens of eggs.

  God, who eats that many?

  Assorted smoothies and every flavor of Greek yogurt, which I couldn’t stomach, lined the shelves. My God, did the man ingest anything besides pure protein? Pretty confident at this point that I wouldn’t be eating any of my favorite junk foods for the next eight weeks, life without Oreos and Jalapeno Cheetos seemed depressing. And just the thought of Greek yogurt was freaking yuck.

  “From the likes of this fridge, there’s only gonna be gluten-free shit in the pantry,” I uttered.

  “Oh, you might be surprised, Ms. Richardson.” The orange juice glass slipped from my hand, spilling and shattering pulpy liquid and glass all over the shiny kitchen tile.

  “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry. You scared me.” I reached for the larger pieces of glass and picked them up.

  “No worries, dear. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I’m Mrs. Bailey, by the way. Not sure if Jacks told you about me or not.”

  Jacks? Not Mr. Shipman? Sir? His Fucking Majesty?

  “He did, actually. Sorry again for the mess. It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Bailey. Where would I find a broom and mop so I can get this cleaned up?”

  “Oh heavens, sweetheart. Don’t worry about it. Now take a look in the pantry and see if you have everything you want.” What I wanted? How could she know what I liked to eat?

  The pantry was huge. Double doors opened to shelf after shelf of all kinds of whole wheat pastas, Kashi cereals, nuts, and the dreaded protein bars that all tasted like straw. Not a damn Kind bar in site. To the right was every kind of Oreo ever m
ade.

  “Holy shit,” I whispered. Regular, Double Stuf, Golden Chocolate and my very favorite Peanut Butter, were stacked in a neat pile. Next to all the cookies were three bags of Jalapeno Cheetos and even a large bag of White Cheddar popcorn. He knew what I liked to eat. But how? Then it dawned on me. Venture required page after page of paperwork, which asked absolutely every personal question imaginable. At the time, it seemed nothing but annoying and all I could think of was when there was going to be a line asking for my favorite brand of tampon and if I preferred with or without an applicator. Now it all made perfect sense. Doms always made sure to have the things around that their subs enjoy. I guess food was included.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Bailey.” The fifty-something year-old attractive brunette winked as I grabbed the bag of popcorn and headed back upstairs.

  Chapter Eight

  Jackson

  So breathtaking. I couldn’t get her face out of my head. Long silky raven hair. Skin so soft and unblemished. Not a trace of blood spotted her. Her light blue eyes still open, she looked like she could snap out of it and speak at any minute.

  She didn’t.

  Each time I think of her and that day, the memory of her widely open eyes still haunts me.

  The second we collided.

  The front-end of her candy apple red Aston Martin Vanquish colliding with the back of my Mercedes.

  The impact snapping her neck and instantly killing her. Abruptly stripping the breath from the rare young beauty.

  In the prime of her life, the crime lord’s only daughter was dead.

  I’d live with the blame until my last breath.

  Goddamn cyclists thought they owned the fucking roads. The cocky motherfucker, clad in skin-hugging cycle pants and matching jersey, crossed over, never looking back, my foot slamming the brakes of my Mercedes to keep from running over the idiot as he casually stared down at his phone.

  Written up as an accident, the young girl’s father disagreed. One of the most well-known crime lords in the city, two years later, I was still paying for that one life-altering mistake. Tireless hours spent on overthrowing cases to get his despicable wrongdoers back on the streets, against my will, I continued risking everything I’d worked so hard to gain because my family came first. Until Carlos Agli drew his final breath, that would never change. Unless I drew the final breath first.

  I’d killed his only child. His daughter.

  You take from me. I profit from you.

  I’d been covering up and getting convictions overturned for his crime family ever since. He was generous. I was paid very well. In blood money.

  I always pay for services rendered Mr. Shipman. As long as I get what I pay for.

  I slammed my glass down, pushing the empty drink out of reach. I returned the bottle of Laphroaig Lore to my bottom desk drawer, one thing lingering in my mind—Layla Richardson.

  Sex flowed from every pore of her like a delicious, succulent aroma from a bakery first thing in the morning. Everything regarding this woman would be a temptation to any sane man still drawing breath. My loins ached for her. Her breathtaking eyes had manifested in my mind way too many times today.

  The lingerie I set aside for tonight was made for a woman like Layla. Curvy, long-legged, with perfect medium-sized breasts, the all-black top had a high-neck made of lace that hooked behind her neck, while the bra itself was satiny and fitting, lifting her cleavage up nice and high so I had easy access to those beautiful tits of hers. The matching panty had lace panels at each side with a simple thong in-between giving easy access to the slick bonus between her legs.

  Anxious to get in this woman’s thoughts, I had a lot to disentangle about the rare beauty. She was trying to play dangerous games with me and Jackson Shipman was anything but a contender. Before too long, she’d learn just exactly what I expected from a woman I spent over a million dollars on.

  She was scared of me. Ordinarily, I might find that gratifying, but today it only added to the lengthy list of unanswered questions that lingered. Mainly, why she was offering her pussy up to me. And why the thought of another man unloading inside her caused my hands to ball up into tight fists. What exactly did she have planned in that pretty little head of hers? Could a few pops of a flogger against her bare ass get her to open up? A few minutes without circulation to her nipples with a tight clamp? Either way, I’d unfold her secrets. She’d be purring like a fuzzy white kitten before the week ended.

  Just try me, Layla Michelle. I’ll show you games, sweetheart. My kind of games.

  I hardened at the thought. Tonight, I’d learn her true colors. Soon enough, I’d know if her cursory attempt at opening up her legs to me was something she’d continue, or something I’d have to fight for.

  Seth was calling. I’d make it quick, but I needed to take the call.

  “Seth, what have you got for me?” I glanced at my watch. Six forty-five. Layla expected me home by six. I wondered if she’d been waiting all this time … dressed and on her knees.

  “Jackson, I’m not coming up with enough evidence for an arrest. We need more time.” I picked up the empty shot glass, slamming it against the wall.

  “Fuck! We have no more time,” I growled. “Do whatever you need to do. Get the evidence we need and get it now, Seth.”

  “I’m on it.”

  A familiar faint panic building in my chest, I prayed like hell we could get this case taken care of—before we couldn’t.

  ****

  Nearly 7:00 PM, I’d purposely waited to go to my bedroom, giving up on a quick shower first after another unexpected phone call from my mother of all people. Making a new sub wait was a test I always carried out, patience being an important virtue. But three weeks without sex, my cock was starving and impatient. Tired of my dry hand.

  Through the door, the bedside lamp gave a trace of light to the primarily dark room. She sat on the foot of the bed in the black bra and panty set, gazing outside the window. This was a far move from being on her knees as I’d clearly ordered.

  “Get up, Layla.”

  “I did what you said, Jackson, but after a while I was uncomfortable,” she uttered, rising from the bed. “I didn’t know what to do. My knees were aching and my back throbbed. It didn’t seem like you were coming, so I got off the floor.” I pushed her slouching shoulders back, falling on top of her and taking her arms out to her sides, using just the right amount of strength to hold her firmly enough to get a point across.

  “Uncomfortable? Is that what you were?” Her eyes darted to the side. “Look at me when I speak, Layla.” I pinned her down a little harder, careful not to hurt her. If she found being on her knees hard to bear, she had a lot of unpleasant surprises coming her way. She deserved her ass spanked. She needed to know right here and now who she was dealing with. Not some dimwit idiot.

  “What did I miss here? Since when does a three-bar submissive crave comfort, Layla? Were you longing for a cool cloth? A warm quilt or perhaps a massage on your achy back?” I added more pressure to her arms, cautious to avoid bruising the delicate skin. “Maybe you were thinking romantic dinners and candlelight?” I gave her a second, long nasty sneer.

  “You belong to me for the next eight weeks. This is all about pleasuring me. What makes me comfortable.” Inhaling her aromatic, all-female scent, my cock was hard and impatient against my zipper, needing the satisfying pleasure from being balls deep between the legs of a beautiful female. I knew damn well she was wet against me and every bit as eager, but I couldn’t do anything now. Something was fucked up and even though I’d spent more money on this woman than ever in the past, I couldn’t force myself on her. I wasn’t a goddamn rapist and I only enjoyed rough play if it was mutual.

  She sniffed back tears, and dammit, I released her, rolling over and getting off the bed. She sat straight up, wincing, raising an arm to swipe at the smeared mascara underneath her eyes. She was shivering. And I was fucking pissed. I didn’t know whether to demand my money back from Josh and send this craz
y, beautiful bitch back to her apartment, or maybe call my brother-in-law and run this by him, even though he’d sold Venture some time ago. The whole situation suddenly seemed pointless.

  “Have you ever heard of a Sally Lunn?” she whispered.

  What the complete fuck?

  I turned back to look at her. Who the hell was Sally Lunn? Who the hell gave a goddamn? My patience was gone. All I could think of at the moment was ripping the head from someone.

  “No, Layla. I haven’t. And you can sleep in your room to…”

  She interrupted me before I could finish, my teeth gritting as she brought out the rage in me just a little more by cutting me off mid-sentence. Any trained sub knew better, knowing a move like this justified punishment in a strong enough sense that they would avoid the mistake a second time. Was she absolutely begging for a reddened ass? Fuck, maybe she was. The thought amused me, my dick twitching with its own bit of curiosity. Too soon in our relationship to really have a feel for what type of punishment was best, her comments about being uncomfortable kneeling was something I’d keep in mind for future instances. Maybe sprinkling a light layer of granulated rice or frozen peas underneath her knees next time might teach her a good lesson.

  “It’s a type of teacake. Generally served warm with butter, they were first recorded in 1780 in Southwest England.”

  I bit my tongue not to tell this obviously deranged woman to get her shit together so I could get her the fuck out of my house. Why would I give two shits about a cake?

  Her voice was soft, nearly a whisper, her eyes absolutely stunning. “The origin is a myth, yet it’s thought that the recipe was brought to Bath, England in the 1680s by a Huguenot refugee who later became known as Sally Lunn.”

  “Well, that’s certainly interesting, Layla.” Shaking off the thought of baked goods, my voice was clearly cold and uncaring as I tried containing myself from taking her across my knee. Or figging her ass with a nice hand of ginger without the addition of lubrication. Perhaps even gingering her up and making her ride my cock. I slammed the door shut, heading to my study for the bottle of scotch I knew I’d be finishing off before the night ended, and to call my brother-in-law. What the hell was going on with this crazy bitch?