Reaching For Emeralds

by Lacee Hightower

  The five-star restaurant one of my favorites, fresh halibut from Alaska was flown in once a month and I had them notify me when they had a new shipment of the delicate fish. After responding to the few emails that I deemed important, I fired off a quick text to Layla and made the reservation.

  Dress up. We’re going to dinner tonight.

  Her comeback was instant.

  Looking forward to it.

  My dick sprang to life. Thoughts of taking Layla for a nice meal sounded nice.

  There’s that fucking word again.

  Battling a foreign place my mind was headed to, I erased the thought and did exactly what I dreaded—I clicked on the encrypted message from Carlos Agli before taking a troublesome phone call from Justin.

  Some of my suspicions were cleared. Though not nearly enough.

  ****

  Layla slid inside the door to my Mercedes smiling up at me, the faint trace of her perfume filling my lungs with floral and vanilla as her fascinating green eyes latched onto mine. Fuck, she was beautiful. In one of the dresses I’d bought for her, the deep blue fabric hugged her amazing physique absolutely perfectly, her nipples popping through just enough to harden my dick. Only a short time ago since I’d been reeling in the delicious nectar between her legs, I’d been hard ever since. The repressed moans she fought through when I pushed my tongue a mile deep inside her warmth were some of the sexiest sounds I’d ever heard from a woman, along with watching her get herself off in front of me. Another wave of nerves shot down my dick, deep into my balls as I eyed the nude-colored, mile-high sandals that accentuated her toned legs. Tonight, she’d get to know my cock up close and personal. This time tomorrow, she’d be well acquainted with bruised knees, sore jaws, and possibly nipple clamps. Soon, I’d be getting what I paid for.

  “Thanks,” she whispered in her shy tone as I shut her door.

  The bastard inside me was demanding I turn around and take her home. Fuck the living daylights out of her once, twice, and then again. The other very small side of me that still had any compassion left wanted to treat her to a nice dinner before inviting her into my bedroom for the night. I wanted to feel her smooth skin against me as I struggled sleeping. Listen to the sound of her soft voice whispering in my ear as she calmed me. Wake up with her warm body tangled in mine so I could slip back inside her heat.

  Such senseless thoughts, I pulled onto the Tollway and glanced at a wide-eyed Layla, her hands daintily resting on top of her thighs.

  “Hungry?” I asked, my hand settling on her knee.

  “Maybe a little. Where are you taking me?” A soft calm etched her tone, returning that same bastard inside my head that wanted to pull over, ease her dress up, and forget dinner altogether and simply feast on her.

  “The Oar House. I hope you like seafood.” She reached for my hand on her knee, sweeping her delicate fingers across my hardened skin, an odd smile on her face.

  “I thought maybe you were taking me to Venture.”

  I cringed at the thought. Was she trying to make me jealous? Horny? Or simply making an assumption? Thoughts of her restrained and anxious was tempting, but I no longer chose to put a sub or myself on display. Privacy was my preference. Mainly, in my own home. Despite the fact I no longer had a playroom.

  “No, Layla. Tonight is about dinner. And getting to know you just a little better.”

  “Oh,” she whispered. “Though, I should probably be treating you to dinner.”

  Another odd thing to say, I replied teasingly, “I thought you were.”

  Still trailing her fingers across mine, “You feel so nice, Jackson. And I love seafood … unless it’s uncooked between nasty-ass sticky rice.” Her whole body shivered. “Ugh, I hate anything coated in slime.”

  There were those words again.

  And more struggling on my part to keep a smile hidden. Another halt to an unspoken comment about the way her nose shriveled up when she described her version of slime. My body tensed. Why in fuck’s sake did she keep saying I felt nice? Why did she keep flashing that heart-stopping smile? Pronouncing my name in her feminine southern accent? What was she trying to do?

  Jesus, I didn’t need this diversion. Maybe it was best to let this one go so I could get my head screwed back on straight and be myself again. Get her portion of auction money and encourage her to open up her pastry shop so I could move on to the type of woman I needed. Strong. Submissive. One who enjoyed pain and thrived on every single thing that this woman didn’t. Someone a little less sweet.

  Why was this all becoming so hard? I had enough difficulty to deal with. A submissive was meant to ease my frustrations. Not add to them.

  We’d get through this evening and tomorrow … I’d end this travesty.

  ****

  At last, we were seated in our reserved table, the bottle of Duckhorn Napa Valley Merlot already open and breathing. The server immediately poured a taste and I nodded in approval, watching him fill both our glasses. Wondering how I could ease the tautness of the evening, her sudden question ended the thick air between us.

  “What number, Jackson?” Her smile lit up her eyes, the anxiety behind my chest easing as the past minutes of discomfort faded.

  “What number?” Puzzled by her question, was she asking my age? “Much too old for you, Layla. I’m thirty-five.”

  Lifting her head to give me another tease of her smooth delicate neckline, in the sweetest, most sensual, angelic-sounding voice, she rubbed her lips together, choking back a laugh. Jesus Christ, her voice was like a serenade. Thoughts of falling asleep at night hearing her against my ear shot straight through my dick.

  “No, dork! Not your age. I was asking what number I am. Submissive-wise.”

  Dork?

  Before I could comprehend what she just asked, I couldn’t help but break into a very rare laugh. Women were generally nervous around me. They barely made eye contact. On the contrary, this one just stared me straight in the eye.

  “A dork,” I repeated, my voice still somewhat choked with a laugh. “I honestly don’t believe anyone has ever called me that.” She gave me a soft smile, shrugging as I cleared my throat. “However, I don’t really feel your question is something up for discussion, Layla.”

  “Oh. Okay, then,” she said without a smile this time. The air around us thickened once again as the brightness in her emerald greens dimmed. She sampled a small bite of grilled halibut the server had brought minutes ago and dabbed at her lips with her napkin while I felt like complete shit.

  “No slime factor on the halibut, I hope.” I smiled, trying to break the tension.

  “No. It’s delicious.” Her voice appeared shaken, upset.

  “Five,” I snapped.

  Is that sufficient, Layla? Five that actually stayed with me.

  Her eyes shot up in surprise. She didn’t blink, only stared.

  “Five,” she repeated,” her gaze distant.

  “You’re the first in my new house, Layla.” Holy Christ. I returned her cutting stare for long seconds, wondering where the sudden need for an explanation came from. Another strange first.

  “Are you ready?” I threw down a wad of cash over taking the extra time to use my credit card. “Would you like dessert to go?” Not wanting to come across a complete shithead, I hoped she wasn’t interested in dessert. I wanted out of here. I couldn’t fucking breathe.

  Almost as if she could read my mind, she refused what I knew to be the most incredible Crème Brulee known to mankind with a quick nod. Certifiably upset, she had something else she wanted to say, but instead of giving her time to speak her mind, I rose from my seat and took her hand in mine. In a few short strides, we were outside, waiting for the valet to return my car.

  “Don’t you ever want anything more, Jackson?” she asked without making eye contact.

  Well, that came out of the fucking blue, again making me uncomfortable as hell. I didn’t allow myself to think about more. Maybe when I was younger I’d thought of a normal life. But then
again, what defined normal?

  “Layla.” Her eyes were shiny underneath a full moon as she looked up at me. “You knew what this was when you stepped on that auction stage.” My voice was firm, maybe a bit more than I’d meant. Her lips rubbed together nervously, her grip falling from my hand.

  “Maybe one day.” The words slipped from my lips unexpectedly.

  Fucking hell.

  Where was the valet?

  “You’re the first that’s ever made me laugh. And definitely the only one to call me a dork … and get away with it.” I stared down at her, watching her lips part into that beautiful smile. I reached for her hand, squeezing just the smallest bit, wanting nothing more than to kiss her sweet lips endlessly. My dick hardened to an ache in three seconds flat. The pressure to give in to this desire boiled through me.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  I didn’t laugh … or kiss endlessly.

  And I damn sure didn’t hold hands.

  As soon as we got back home, I’d fake exhaustion.

  There would be no acquainting her with my dick, after all.

  I needed more time to figure this shit out.

  Jesus. What the hell, Shipman?

  Chapter Twelve

  Jackson

  Thankful to see the sun finally beginning to rise, as usual, I hadn’t slept worth a shit. The clock read 5:03. I was guaranteed to be an exhausted, cranky fuck come noon.

  Dinner last night was absurd, leaving me with a case of fighting my pillow all night.

  But then, I was being absurd.

  I’d paid for this woman. She came to me. Not the opposite. This was meant to be about indelicate balls-to-the-wall sex. Besides denying what was, or wasn’t going on, I couldn’t think of one single reason why I wasn’t with her right this minute, already clear about boundaries and consent, balls deep in the delicious pussy that literally tasted like a sweet rich candy. Indulging on her delicate neck and those beautiful succulent lips. Yet, I was here. Alone. Desperation and need slamming inside me as I fought the urge to get closer emotionally and deal with what that might mean.

  Dressed and ready for a long day working toward convicting an innocent, forty-seven-year-old, no-good drug abuser for a crime I knew damn well he hadn’t committed, I sat at the kitchen table, the dark path this man was about to travel, heavy on my mind. An egg-white asparagus omelet in front of me, compliments of Mrs. Bailey, I was thankful she’d shown up early this morning. My body needed the protein. Fuck, I needed straight-up gasoline to get me through the upcoming day.

  I owed this case entirely to Seth. He’d carried the load completely on his own. A thorough profile and background of the unmarried man, he’d proved a long criminal history loaded with everything from possession of marijuana, to manufacturing and selling controlled substances. A man like that wasn’t worth the air he consumed and would probably be right back where he belonged when he landed in a prison cell. Yet, there was also the small chance he’d turned his life around or was attempting. Some actually did. But now, he wouldn’t get the chance for the next ten years at least. I hated ruining a man’s chances of straightening up his life.

  My family mattered more.

  “Well, good morning, Layla.” Her bright eyes flashed with sweetness as she tip-toed toward the coffee machine, barefoot with no makeup, her hair on top of her head in some sort of clip concoction. Cute as fuck, once again it was out of my norm to expect anything but perfectly dressed and groomed submissives that I’d paid top dollar for. And odd, just like everything else about this entire fiasco, just the site of her caused my dick to swell.

  All sweet smiles and completely kissable, when she responded with “Sleep well, Jackson?” that damn strong accent absolutely sent my dick up to dance. Obviously, she hadn’t had a good night either by the looks of the freshly baked blueberry muffins she’d noticeably worked on since before the sun rose.

  The one kind of muffin that unfortunately, I couldn’t get down.

  “I did,” I answered, lying through my teeth, looking back down at my newspaper in hopes she’d miss the inflated bags my lower eyelids were now sporting. She reached for a plate with a glass cover that I had no inkling I even owned, carefully placing each muffin on top like they were glazed in gold. Damned amusing to watch her handle baked goods with such precise care, as my mind diverted to wondering if she’d handle my cock with such forethought, she began placing two of the dreaded muffins on top of a small saucer and walked my direction.

  Fuck.

  “Taste,” she said quietly. “I know you’re a health food freakazoid, but these are worth the extra calories. I promise.”

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  “Freakazoid?” I lifted a muffin, biting off the corner, trying like hell to chew it just enough that I could swallow without actually getting any berry juice on my tongue. She was making every effort to stifle a smile, while I was battling my own affair to ward off hurling.

  “You don’t like them. They taste like shit, don’t they?” With a shrug, she lowered her hair from the big clip and nervously twisted it right back up into the same messy rounded blob. She lifted the platter of muffins and opened the lid to the trash container, staring down at the small cakes like she was deep in thought.

  “I’ve made these same muffins a hundred times. I don’t know what I did wrong. Jesus, did I forget the sugar? Nobody’s ever actually gagged on them before.”

  “Wait,” I said. “Don’t throw them away, Layla. Come back over here.”

  Swallowing a laugh, I reached for a small strand of hair, stroking it from her face. She shivered as I felt myself being lost in the brilliant green of her eyes. “I highly doubt they taste like shit, Layla. I have issues with blueberries. Sit down with me. Please.” I motioned to the chair across from mine.

  “On the weekend of my eighth-grade baseball championship playoffs, my mother went to the Farmers Market. She bought, I don’t know, maybe ten or twelve crates of blueberries and said she was going to make jam after the games. I ate so many of the damn things before she ever got a chance to make her jam that they made me sick as hell.” I looked at Layla, her hand covering a smile.

  “So the muffins aren’t crap? You just hate blueberries?”

  “More than anything in the fucking world. I puked blue chunks for two long days, on top of missing the championship games. And on top of that, my mother was mad as hell because she had to make a second trip to the Farmers Market. She could have given a shit that my body was in a constant state of hurling blue nuggets.”

  “Eww, Jackson. That’s so nasty,” she said, that same cute humor making yet another appearance as I became more intrigued with her by the minute. “That’s plain gross.”

  She grinned and raised her hand back to her lips as my gaze strayed down to her stiffening nipples. Then she burst into laughter, snorting as she giggled. She immediately covered her mouth with the back of her palm. Embarrassed, her cheeks were a deep pink. Never seeing anything so cute in my life, I cocked my brows before letting go and barreling out my own expression of amusement. This girl was shocking me in the strangest of ways and I was opening up, giving her a small look at the relaxed me. Something was just different about her. Obviously, I’d had pleasant and interesting conversations with subs. Indulged in dozens of nice meals talking about my career, their careers, and just general exchange between two adults. But with Layla, there was a distinct characteristic I’d never shared. In some strange sense, I was enjoying this. And something about that scared the living shit out of me.

  This girl was fun. She brought out the rare humor in me.

  She fucking snorted when she laughed.

  And as stunning as I found her without a trace of makeup on her face or dressed in beautiful clothing with perfectly-styled hair, right now I couldn’t imagine much else besides getting to know every single thought buried in her mind. I wanted, and needed, to know more and everything.

  “Nasty and gross doesn’t even begin to define what came up my windpipe for a long
, brutal forty-eight hours.” A look of revolt on her face, I decided I’d gone into far more description than I’d needed about blowing chunks.

  “The berries belonged to Mrs. Bailey, by the way.” I narrowed my eyes, giving my best shot at looking genuinely worried, even though I wasn’t in the least. “I hope she’s not too pissed. She’s got a hell of a temper.”

  “Oh … shit,” she whispered. “I didn’t know. Can we replace them?” She lifted a hand and started messing with her hair again and I suddenly felt another streak of tenderness, all words ending as I leaned over and closed my mouth over hers, stroking and licking at her tongue, this connection between us building. Too close. Too personal. She returned the kiss, opening wide and dredging her tongue against mine, her fingers bending into the collar of my shirt as my hands reached for her cheeks. A deep needy groan eased up my throat as she teased the hell out of my cock with her sweetness.

  “I’ll take care of the berries,” I uttered against her lips, her smile worth every bit of the forceful agony of tasting the revolting blueberries. I leaned my head against hers, my pulse hammering. An attorney to fire this morning before another long day, I needed to get out of here before I spread her legs over the kitchen table and missed the 9:00 AM meeting. One day soon, I would have her right here.

  “Can you please not stop?” she asked in nearly a whimper, her eyes full of desire and need, this beautiful complicated thing between us something I still didn’t grasp.

  Christ.

  I sucked in a deep breath. How could I walk away now when she was staring up at me with the most remarkable green eyes that I’d ever looked into as her hand dropped my collar and settled against my chest.

  Fuck 9:00 AM. I wasn’t going anywhere, even though all kinds of huge, very cautious red flags were jumping up and down in my head.

  Scaring the complete shit out of me.

  Then again, red was nothing but a color, and right now, I didn’t give three shits.