“Then teach me, Jackson. Show me what you showed her. And the others. Let me learn what it’s like to know Sir.”
Fuck.
“No, Lay. I don’t need that any longer. Not when I have you.” She slowly dropped to her knees.
“Make me understand. I know you love me Jackson, but I also know this isn’t something you just stop. Let me do this. Teach me so I don’t have to think of Presley, or Joslyn, and all the others. Don’t make me picture them every time you make love to me.”
I scrubbed at my jaw, the thought of what she was saying unexpected. And fucking hot. Thoughts of binding her, covering her eyes and watching her submit for my pleasure hardened my cock. Yet, I wasn’t sure how this worked. Not when I was in love with her. That changed everything.
How far could I go with it?
How far could she go?
She leaned her head into my lap. “I love you, Jackson. That’s why I need this. For you. And us.”
Jesus. I could never be extreme with Layla. Especially the way I’d been with her best friend and Presley. Joslyn begged for rough treatment. Not on the level that Presley did, but she was a switch, strong as fuck. There was nothing she couldn’t withstand. Nothing she wouldn’t try. I somehow doubted Layla knew just how forceful her best friend really was.
She didn’t need to know.
“Why don’t you have a playroom?” she asked, gnawing at her lips. I went through the whole house today, thinking I’d missed a door somewhere. I know you did before.”
“I have young children that visit. I didn’t want the risk. And it’s no longer necessary, Layla.”
“Then what was that you spanked me with, Jackson? Which I liked very much by the way.” She smiled, her cheeks heating.
“I have a few things left.” I stroked the back of her soft hair that felt like the smoothest of fine silk on top of my thighs.
“How do you decide what to use? Do you just pick things out randomly? Or plan it?”
“No, baby. I usually get a feel what a woman might like by her personality and actions. Everything I do is ultimately for your pleasure. In the end, it’s always about you.” My cock was bobbing against my zipper just by having this discussion.
“I thought it was for your pleasure? Your need to control? And hold the reins?” She smiled at her last comment. I did the same.
“Hold the reins? Where did you hear that term, sweetheart?” I winked, trying to lighten the moment.
“Nowhere. I just made it up,” she answered softly.
“Yes, Lay. I’m always the one in control—or holding the infamous reins. But once I see your skin turn a pretty pink and smell the sweet aroma of your arousal, then I’ve won. Because I’ve satisfied you. And that’s what it’s all about, sweetheart.”
“Then show me, Jackson. Satisfy me.”
“I will, sweetheart. In time.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Layla
Jackson had a four-stall garage that would easily hold five normal-sized cars. He used the unit closest to his back door for his Mercedes and had the far end section filled with his vintage 1967 De Tomaso Vallelunga Berlinetta that we’d driven to the Rangers game. Supposedly only fifty ever built according to Jackson, I’d been terrified driving it somewhere so public, but Jackson didn’t seem concerned, slipping the valet a hundred-dollar bill to keep an eye on his prized jewel.
Jackson and Hartley both on my mind, when I eased my simple Chevy Equinox into the single empty unit still eyeing the Berlinetta, I didn’t even notice the black car pulling in behind me. I opened the back door of my SUV and took out two bags of groceries I’d picked up for dinner.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Richardson.” The man grinned, his teeth perfectly straight and white, while the look behind his eyes held something entirely dark and sinister. Something about him seemed familiar. Maybe I’d seen him at the bank. My insides twisted as I realized that wasn’t where I’d seen him at all.
He was the creepfest from the Chinese restaurant that paid for my and Jana’s lunch.
What the hell?
Who was this man? Why was he here?
For the first time since Hartley’s accident, I was scared, a stabbing thread of fear behind my chest. Was he following me for some strange unknown reason? Could this have something to do with my dad’s misdoings? Or Jackson’s comments about my safety? I prayed I was wrong on both accounts.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Layla.”
His eyes clouded with a look I couldn’t decipher and he reached out, rubbing a hand over my shoulder. My stomach turned sour as I backed away from his touch, a cold sweat spiking through me.
“I’m a personal acquaintance of your boyfriend. My name is Carlos. I just wanted to welcome you. I’ll be in touch. Stay safe, Layla.”
Stay safe? What a strange thing to say.
“Shit.” I swallowed back the acid coming up my throat as the creepy man turned around and got into the back seat of the fancy black car. Instantly flipping the garage door shut, I walked inside Jackson’s house with my mind all over the map, fighting the sick feeling moving up my stomach. Maybe I was overreacting and the man really was just an acquaintance.
But why didn’t he stay until Jackson got home?
I set down the groceries, shaking off the uneasy feeling. I grabbed a bottle of water, eyeing a photo on the countertop of what seemed to be a closed-down eatery of some sort. The badly worn sign read Shirley Jean’s Cakes and Pastries.
“Oh, my God,” I whispered, looking at the photo closely.
Was Jackson looking at potential places for … my bakery?
I glanced at the picture again, wondering when Jackson would be home and wishing he was here already. My eyes burned, my stomach fluttering. A bakery had been my dream since I was a little girl. Almost texting Jackson, instead, I headed to the bedroom and changed into a knee-length sundress and pulled my hair back. Tonight, he was going to come home to a homecooked meal of baked chicken, stir-fried broccolini with lemon and chopped walnuts, and a homemade loaf of Seven-Grain bread.
Not wasting time since I had to let bread rise, I quickly prepped the chicken and set it to the side. Cooking was therapeutic, but music relaxed me even more, so I flipped on the Bluetooth speaker and turned on some music from my phone. Scowling because I hadn’t already started the bread, I rushed to dissolve my yeast in warm water, adding just a touch of sugar to accelerate the leavening time. Ten minutes later, I mixed up the bread, adding poppy and sunflower seeds this time since Jackson had mentioned liking seeds in his Seven Grain. Since it was already late afternoon, I chose the quick method for rising, heating the oven to one twenty-five, then shutting off the heat altogether when I slipped the loaf inside for the next ninety minutes.
Shinedown’s version of Simple Man blaring on the speaker, I browsed Jackson’s wine selection, opting for a bottle of Pinot Noir, even though white wine was generally served with chicken. Pinots were my favorite and I knew Jackson wouldn’t care what I chose. I poured a glass, turning up the volume just a little on the speaker as I washed and trimmed the broccolini.
Straight up five-thirty found me with everything ready to slip in the oven once the bread was done rising. I started looking for serving plates. A small three-step ladder was folded against the side of the counter to reach the higher cabinets, so I slid it in front of the sink and stepped up to look through the cabinets I couldn’t reach.
“Well that’s a mighty fine sight, Ms. Richardson.” Jackson was behind me, his hands moving up the insides of my knee-length dress, his fingertips brushing the edge of my panties.
“Jackson.” I turned around and wrapped my legs around his waist as he helped me down from the small ladder. “I didn’t hear you come in.” I leaned over, kissing him, feeling the growing bulge behind his suit pants.
“Oh, but I heard you singing. My baby has many talents. Cooking and singing, among other things.” I giggled, kissing him again.
“God, I’m so embarrassed. My sing
ing…”
“Is beautiful,” he said. “Just like the rest of you.”
He thought I was beautiful, when in fact he was the one that people stopped in their tracks to stare at. His flawless face covered in a sexy stubble across his jaw. The semi-dark hair that he wore short, but still long enough on the ends to flip up just a little. The look in his jaw-dropping, beautiful brown eyes. My man was damn hot.
I reached for his neck, pulling him against me and inhaling the familiar scent of his masculine cologne and natural smell. “I love you, Jackson,” I whispered against his ear, nibbling on the delicate skin I knew turned him on. “I opened some wine. Will you have some?”
His hands lowered down over my ass, lifting my dress in the back. “I’d rather have this.” In seconds, he was tossing his suit jacket over a kitchen chair, backing me against the wall before caging me between his body and jerking my panties down, sinking his magical tongue a mile deep inside my sex.
I cried out at each thrust of his tongue, pleasure pulsing through my body.
“Candy … always candy,” he murmured against my dampened thighs.
“God, don’t stop,” I pleaded, my hands tangling through the tresses of his hair as he looked upward, our gazes locked. The rhythmic licks of his tongue impelled bliss through me in scorching waves, leaving me seconds from seeing stars.
“Jackson,” I whimpered, the familiar tingle already deep in my core.
“What, sweetheart? Tell me what you want.”
“You, Jackson. I just want you.”
“Not the answer I’m looking for, Layla. Say the words.” His voice dark and full of jurisdiction, he dropped his hands, slowly unzipping his pants and lowering them to his ankles, along with his black boxer briefs. His erection was thick and prominent, the crest beaded in thick moisture. He dropped his hand over himself, stroking, teasing me. Taunting. Trying to get me to say the words that were so difficult for me to speak and knowing just how turned on I got by watching him fondle himself.
“I see your thirst for me in those beautiful eyes every day. You turn wet,” he added, sliding his length between his palm, “by the smallest of touch. And I know damn well I can make you come by touching myself in front of you.” His eyes narrowed to slits, so dark, so perceptive to my feelings. “So why can’t you tell me what you want?” He picked me up, bending me over with my head against the dark wood of the kitchen table while my legs dangled over the side. He gripped my hips, the thick head of his erection hard against my sex.
“I smell you, sweetheart. Candy. The sweetest of candy. I think about you and that scent every damn day.” He leaned over, nibbling at my ear, pressing his thick cock against my back. “Say it, Layla.”
“Okay, Jackson.” I pushed my body against his shamelessly, his radiating heat making me desperate, as my fingertips struggled to find something to hold on to. “Take me. And don’t be gentle.”
“Why can’t you tell me you want me to fuck you, Layla? Why are those words so hard to say?” He took my hips between both hands, his wide length pushing through the slick lips of my sex in one long thrust. The strength of his body shifted the table as he angled my hips upward, stroking my tender spot again and again as he pushed inside me tirelessly in hard deep thrusts as I met him one-on-one with each penetrating drive.
In seconds, he was sending me over the edge, my core tingling with the onset of orgasm. I tightened around him, whimpering his name, only to have him slide out of me and stand back up.
“Jackson … fuck me already.” The words he’d wanted me to say finally slipped from my mouth as he fell against me, purging back through my heated sex. I burst into orgasm in only seconds as he drove harder and deeper, groaning deep down in his chest.
“Oh, baby… Layla.” He was clutching me tight, pulsing deep warm streams of ejaculate.
“What a beautiful thing to come home to,” he whispered, still holding me, both of us still trembling. “I could get used to this.”
Almost turning emotional by his words, I knew I was already used to it. I wanted something more committed. More permanent. But until he felt the same, I’d be satisfied. Non-marrying Jackson was better than no Jackson.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Jackson
Wednesday afternoon, I was sitting in Hartley and Justin’s media room watching a Disney movie about ocean characters and more specifically a clown fish caught by a diver. My two nephews slept peacefully on either side of the couch by Justin, as Hartley lay spread out on the attached chaise lounge, covered in a blanket. Quiet. Always fucking quiet now.
The sight of her so distraught felt like an arrow through my heart.
Watching the two sleeping Cheeto-covered faces I loved so damn much, if anything ever happened to either of them, I wouldn’t even attempt to take another breath. They meant everything.
Desperate to spill my guts, instead I sucked in air, feeling a cutting reaction I never wanted to experience again. “I’m so sorry, Coco.”
“I know, Jacks,” she whispered, her hand rubbing at her stomach like she’d done at least once every time I’d seen her since the miscarriage.
“Is there any news at all?” Emotion choked my throat. There wasn’t any news. And there wouldn’t be any.
“None,” she, whispered.
“Fucking sick bastards,” Justin uttered under his breath.
Deep lines of fatigue and stress cut through his face. He was taking this as hard, if not harder, than Hartley. On an extended leave of absence from his job, I knew he’d barely left the house since the attack, watching Noah and Derek every minute. I still had surveillance on the house as well as on them the few times they left, though Justin didn’t know. And wouldn’t.
“Coco, can I ask you something … about that day?” I hated saying anything at all, but I’d been wondering about something ever since I saw Agli’s sick video.
“Jacks, it’s okay to talk about it,” she said quietly. “Honestly, I think I need to.”
My sister had been through way too much. Losing a dad. Learning her biological father was abusive. A mother who’d practically disappeared from her life. But just as in every scenario, she still acted like she was strong and getting over this whole ordeal.
When I knew, in fact, she wasn’t.
“Why did you park at the side of the building that day instead of up front where most of the parents park?” Justin’s eyes shot up. He jumped from the couch, his hands fisting.
“That’s a good question,” she uttered, her eyes focusing on the two sleeping boys.
“A good fucking question?” Justin hissed. “The real question here is why? Just fucking why?” He turned toward the patio door, his eyes cutting through mine like razors.
“Outside. Now!”
“JT,” Hartley, whispered. “Please come sit down by me, baby. Can’t we all talk together? We’re family.” Justin walked toward Hartley, leaning over and kissing her for a long few seconds. “I just want to talk to your brother for a few minutes. Do you need anything, angel?”
“No. I’m fine,” she stressed, her eyes brimming with tears. “I needed the bathroom that morning. She kept kicking and I just … needed a fucking bathroom.”
“Don’t do this, angel,” Justin said. “None of this is your fault.”
It wasn’t Hartley’s fault, which ripped at my heart, knowing she’d always believe otherwise.
****
“What are you not telling me, motherfucker?” We stood outside, Justin glaring at me, his eyes dark with rage. “You had no way of knowing where Hartley parked that morning. Or did you?”
Fuck. Fuck.
“Spill, Jackson. Right fucking now,” he hissed.
“Jesus. I was trying… I just didn’t want…” Fuck, I couldn’t even speak a complete sentence. Justin hadn’t missed my slip-up. He knew I had no way of knowing that. The two of us had come a long way since he married my sister. Now the huge hurdle was bigger than ever, hatred brewing in his eyes.
I cracked
the tension in my neck. “Let’s sit down.” I motioned toward the chairs by the far end of the pool. We needed privacy for what I was about to show him. I wouldn’t risk my sister seeing or hearing this.
“I don’t need a goddamn seat, Jackson.” Face-to-face, Justin’s fisted hands were seconds from landing against my jaw again.
“Yes. We do. There’s a lot I need to tell you … and show you. Believe me, my sister does not need to see this.”
Twenty minutes later, ten involving an emotional breakdown from my brother-in-law and the rest a dead-air quietness between us, he finally lifted his cell phone, punching in someone off his contact list and leaving what appeared to be a voicemail.
“It’s Wisely. We need to talk. Tomorrow at 6:00 AM. It’s urgent.”
“I’ll get back with you tomorrow.” Justin kicked the side of the chair with his booted foot. “Now go the fuck home, Jackson. I need to kiss my wife and honestly, I don’t want to look at you anymore right now.”
His response was understandable, not unexpected. I didn’t feel comfortable leaving without making sure my sister was okay, but that’s exactly what I did. I walked out the side gate, full of rage, my heart ripping apart knowing how I’d feel if I’d just watched my sweet Layla be assaulted and lose a child created out of love.
I’d lost control of the situation with Agli. Five long years had passed and he’d won. Nothing could bring back the baby, and the reality that I could lose my close relationship with my sister and even my job at some point, was fucked up. Unacceptable. The thought nauseated me, enraging me even more.
In past times when I was this worked up, only one thing calmed me. And right now, not only was I gravely agitated, but I was gravely pissed.
Forty-five minutes driving home with an eerie silence in my car, my mood was even more cross than only minutes earlier. I walked through the kitchen door to see Layla staring into the refrigerator. She turned toward me smiling like she did every other day. Like a sweet angel. Somebody I didn’t deserve. I didn’t speak. I took her between my arms, pulverizing her lips with mine with not so much as a hello. Wound up with tension and anger, I needed her in a whole new way.
Reaching For Emeralds Page 18
