by Roya Carmen
LOVING JADE
ROYA CARMEN
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
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
Afterword
Also by Roya Carmen
Excerpt: The Ground Rules Book 1
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Loving Jade © Roya Carmen, 2017
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. Copyright property of the author. No part of this content may be reproduced or distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes without prior written permission from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and locations are either the product of the author’s imagination, or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales, is purely coincidental.
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“The empowered woman is powerful beyond measure and beautiful beyond description.” – Steve Maraboli
Jade
The water is just perfect.
I stare at my pink tipped toes pressed against the edge of the soaker tub, and wish I could stay in here forever. My toes look pretty, but I don’t particularly enjoy the mani-pedis. Most women love that kind of stuff, but I’d rather be at home reading a good book. However, Michael loves it when I get my nails done. Most husbands don’t notice these little details, but Michael takes in everything. He might be the most observant man I’ve ever known.
The ladies at my book club always complain that their hubbies don’t notice when they get a new dress, or a new haircut. Jackie says her husband would probably not notice if she came home with pink hair. I certainly don’t have that problem. If anything, Michael is too attentive. If I’ve bought a new top, he notices, if my nails aren’t done, he notices, and if I’ve gained a pound or two, he notices that too.
He drew me this bath five minutes ago, and I know I don’t have much time. The warm water feels so good against my skin. I wish I could really sink into it and enjoy it, but he specifically told me he wants my hair dry. I’m wearing it up in a clip and buried under a flowery shower cap – I’m sure I’m quite the sight.
I run my hands along my body, and down over my sex, teasing myself, working myself up, anticipating what he’ll want to do to me, and what he’ll expect of me. Jackie also says she never gets laid anymore, and I think that’s such a shame – she’s only seven years older than me. I certainly don’t have that problem. My issues are something else entirely. But I’m not going to worry about that now. I need to keep reminding myself that no one is perfect.
Michael is in a good mood tonight. He’s quite the mercurial man and I never know what to expect when he comes home at night. In anticipation of a possible foul mood, I always keep the house spotless, as he expects it, and I always have a nice home-cooked meal waiting for him. I know I’m a throwback. Jocelyne, one of my book club friends, is appalled by my behaviour. Just last week, she sent me this stupid meme about 50s housewives. It was meant to be ironic and funny I’m sure, but I was not amused. I haven’t spoken to her in a week. I’m not sure if she even knows I’m mad at her.
Fuck her.
Michael hates it when I curse. He says it only brings forth the less then desirable circumstances I grew up in. But I can curse all I want in my head. Fuck. Fuck. Fucker.
It annoys me to no end when he says things like this. He hasn’t had a privileged childhood either. He wasn’t born with a silver spoon in his mouth, but you’d never know it by the way he carries on. It’s as if he wants people to think he’s always had money. The less than impressive childhood he had is swept under the rug as he talks about his cars, his business and the charities he’s involved with. Most people are aware of his background but he deludes himself into thinking they’re not.
Most of the time, I like my life. It’s not perfect but whose life is? Tons of women would kill to have my life. I actually enjoy cooking and baking, and my kitchen is the envy of every woman who has ever stepped foot in it. And a few men too. I don’t clean my house – I have a cleaning service for that. Yoga, spa, book club, reading, my husband and my house – that’s all I need. And hopefully, a baby soon.
I’m happy, dammit. Screw you, Jocelyne.
Well… most of the time. My life is almost perfect…
“Jade,” Michael calls out through the open door. “Are you almost done? I’ve got something sexy laid out for you on the bed.”
My breath hitches at the sound of his voice, low and booming… commanding. Even when he’s being sweet, it is a bit imposing. And when he’s angry…
It’s terrifying.
I scurry out of the bath and wrap myself in the luxury bathrobe Michael bought me for my last birthday. I walk cautiously into the bedroom, not knowing what to expect. I never know what awaits me when it comes to Michael. I spot the teddy laid out on the bed; black brassiere and sheer cover, matching g-string, and five inch kitten heels. “I’ll leave you for a minute or two, princess.”
That’s code for ‘get that stuff on, so I can swoop back in and rip it off you’. The sight of it arouses me – it always does. The teddy is hard to get on, it sticks on my still wet skin, and it’s a size too small. I’ve gained a few pounds recently, five pounds perhaps, but I really don’t want him to know that so I squeeze myself into the teddy. I stuff my uncooperating feet into the stilettos. I hate tall heels but for sex, they’re bearable. There’s no walking and I know they’ll come off soon. It’s the endless hours at fundraisers and social events in tall heels that I can’t stand.
He always buys me the best shoes; Louboutins, Christian Dior, Jimmy Choos. Yet still, my feet are fussy. Perhaps a woman’s feet were just not meant to be crammed into such fabrications of modern torture. Still, I wear them because they make me look amazing. And since I’m only five foot one to Michael’s six foot three, we don’t look absolutely ridiculous next to each other. And I also wear them because Michael loves them.
“I’m ready,” I call out, stretching out on the bed. I lean back and tilt my hips up, one leg propped against the other seductively – I have mastered the pose.
He smiles at me. He’s gorgeous, standing there at the doorway. All dark and handsome, so large and powerful a presence. His smile lingers as he scratches his thick dark beard. “You forgot something,” he says and points to his perfectly slicked black hair.
I reach for my head, flustered. I realize I’m still wearing my shower cap.
“Oh crap.” I pull off the cap and clip in a hurry and let my long straight hair fall over my shoulders.
“Now that’s more like it,” he says as he inches closer to me. “Beautiful,” he whispers, his gaze running along my body, t
aking in every single inch. As he inches closer, I breathe in his musky aftershave.
That, right there, is why I fell for him. He exudes pure sexuality. It’s the way he looks at me, the way his eyes take me in, the manner in which they take ownership and command me. He owns me. He always has. I know he’s far from perfect but when he looks at me that way, I just don’t care.
He peels off his suit jacket, and stands over me in nothing but perfectly pressed black pants, and a crisp white shirt. “On your knees, princess.”
I kneel in front of him. I look up at him, vulnerable. We’ve been together for ten years, yet every time feels like I’m sleeping with a stranger. I still never know what to expect. I tell myself this is the reason the sex is still so good. I hear Jackie and Jocelyne complain about their awful sex lives, and I’m thankful I still have excitement in mine. I reach for him because I know it’s what he expects. I fiddle for a second or two and manage to free him from his pants. I pull myself to my feet and bend down to take him in my mouth. I enjoy this because it’s all part of the game and I know my time will come. He will pleasure me – he always does.
I smile as I pull away and stand again – I’m teasing him. A wicked grin stretches across his face. Then he drops to his knees. “My turn,” he says, and grabs my rear, his long fingers digging hard into my flesh. He presses them under my thighs and pulls my legs apart. I can barely stand straight. I steady myself against his large shoulders. He pulls the flimsy string of fabric aside and runs his tongue along my sex.
I close my eyes, enjoying the sensation – I’m in heaven. In the moment, I don’t care if it’s hard between us sometimes, if he’s tough and controlling occasionally, if he screams, if he makes my heart pound, if he scares me…
Because right then, he sends me to heaven. And I know he loves me. He loves me intensely. And how many women are truly loved like this… so passionately?
He cruelly pulls away just as he’s about to bring me to the edge. He knows me. He can read me like a book. He knows all my sounds; the whimpers of pleasure, the hurried breathless breathing of arousal, and the moans of pain. He’s heard them all, and he can tell when I’m about to get off. He likes to bring me to the cusp and then yanks me back abruptly – he likes to play.
“Turn around,” he commands.
As always, I do as I’m told, turn my back slowly to him and face the bed. It’s neatly made like it always is – a monstrosity Michael bought at an estate sale; dark walnut, four large posts accentuated with brass details. Apparently, it cost twenty grand.
He runs his hand slowly down my back to my ass. “Spread your feet apart,” he whispers against my ear. “I want one leg on either side of me.”
Again I obey him. I hear the scuffle of my heels as I slide them along the hardwood flooring. My feet don’t hurt yet, and despite the fact that I’m taking orders, I feel empowered. I love the feeling of being desired.
“Spread your hands on the bed. I want your delicious ass right in front of me.” This is where he takes control. I’m not to move. He likes me to remain still. And if I move an inch, he slaps me. Hard. I don’t like the slapping, so I remain motionless, and just enjoy his touch.
He drags a slow finger along my spine. He hooks the string of my thong and peels it off slowly. I hitch up my knees when he pulls the thong low, anticipating more. I become more aroused with every inch he travels. I love this. He pulls the fabric over the shoes – the shoes always stay on. He loves to fuck me with my heels on.
He falls to his knees and presses his large hands against the cheeks of my rear. “Such a lovely ass,” he says, his breath ragged. “And it’s all mine.” He presses his face against the curve of my hip and I love the feel of his beard on my skin. My brain is fuzzy and all I can think is…
I wish it could always be like this.
Flynn
“Damn it,” I yell after her. I don’t mean to, but the moment yanks the words right out of my mouth.
The poor girl’s face is being dragged along in the mud and yet, she’s still holding on for dear life. “Let him go,” I yell. “Let him go.”
She finally lets go of Buddy. She is a sight – she’s in tears and her whole body is stained with mud; from her red helmet, her riding vest, to her riding boots. A few seconds ago, her pants were a nice shade of light brown, and now they’re practically black. Her mother runs to her in a mad dash.
“Oh, Katie,” she cries. “Are you okay?”
I know she’s fine. She’s just a bit shaken up. I’ve seen this dozens of times. Her mother’s not doing her any favours by coddling her.
I feel horrible. This is not going smoothly at all.
No worries. I’m a professional. I’ve done this for years. I can handle this.
“You’ll be alright, Katie,” I assure her as I near closer. “No worries.”
She eyes me with contempt. She hates me. If looks could kill, I’d be a dead man. Her mother turns to me with as much scorn in her gaze as her daughter – this is the same woman who usually makes googly eyes at me. I’m pretty sure she’d like more than therapy riding lessons for her daughter, but aside from the wedding ring on her finger, I don’t get involved with clients or clients’ mothers.
I offer my hand to Katie who is still sprawled out in the mud. “C’mon, Katie. Get up. Don’t let this get you down.”
As she rises to her feet, we both look over at Buddy who is happily frolicking and getting his fill of grass. The damn pony is supposed to be on a diet, but every chance he gets, that little rascal runs away to munch on grass. Truth be told, he’s a nightmare; as pig-headed as they come. He’s a bit jumpy occasionally and always jittery when we tack him up. Yet I chose him for a reason.
Katie’s been riding Joey these past few weeks. A very sweet pony, but he barely moves – slow as molasses, he’s as laid-back as they come. But Katie needs a challenge, a bully of a horse. There’s a method to my madness – I only wish Katie and her mother could understand. Hopefully, they will in time.
“I’m filthy,” Katie cries. “I can’t ride like this. I should just go home.”
“Yes,” her mother agrees, a hand firmly on her hip. “That would probably be a good idea. We should get you cleaned up.”
I shake my head. “No, no, no. No need for that, Katie.” I pat her on the shoulder. “This is a horse farm. We get dirty. It’s all part of the fun. Horses run away. We run after them. It’s how it works,” I tell her with a smile.
I spot a small grin curving her lips and I have faith – I know I can turn this around. I pull off my bandana. I don’t wear it around my neck. I wear it on my head. I guess I’m not much of a cowboy. “Here, you can wipe yourself with this, and then we’re going to go get that little troublemaker.”
She smiles as she wipes her muddy face. Her mother’s lips are pursed, fine lines etching her mouth – she’s still not pleased. I consider flashing her a flirty smile for a second, but I think better of it. I head toward the fields instead. “C’mon, Katie.”
She runs up to me and together we head out to retrieve Buddy. “The thing is… you can’t run after him. He’ll just keep running and he’s faster than you,” I explain. “You need to go in circles around him, pretend you’re playing. You need to trick him. He might be bigger than you, but you’re smarter.”
She smiles up at me, and even through the mud stained face, I can tell how pretty she is, what a beautiful woman she’ll become once she gets over her low self-esteem and fears. She’s only twelve – this is the perfect age to work with her, to make a difference.
“I’ll show you… and then you can try.”
There’s a sudden swing in her step as she follows me, and I know she’ll be okay.
She came to me months ago – a complete mess. A bit overweight and extremely shy, she’d been bullied for months, by both boys and girls. Her mother had already transferred her to a new school, but it was only worse. The problem with bullying, I tried to explain to her mother, is that certain kids are targets
because they come off as weak and completely defenseless. Those are the kids who have very low self-esteem, sometimes stemming from problems at home.
In our initial therapy session, it came to be known that her parents were going through a bad divorce initiated by her father. Cliché story; the man fell for his administrative assistant, and the mother doesn’t want to let go – probably the reason she still wears that wedding ring. Honestly, the mother needs as much help as the girl, and I try to help them both.
I pat Katie on the shoulder as we inch closer to Buddy who eyes us with caution – he knows we’re here to get him and bring him back to the paddock. He’s still munching on the grass, getting his fill while he can. I walk circles around him, call out his name. Katie falls into step with me, mimicking my actions. She calls his name sweetly.
Following a little dance, Katie manages to get closer. I back away, careful not to steal her thunder. She needs to do this herself, to know she has the power. This moment is key – it’s crucial to the therapy we’ve been working on for months. She needs to know she’s a strong young lady. She needs to realize she’s not powerless. “You have him,” I call out. “Go get him.”
She inches closer, and lunges toward Buddy who swivels round. I wince, wanting this more than anything. “Go round and grab that lead rope,” I call out. “You’ve got this.”
In a brief moment of bravado, she swoops in and grabs Buddy. My heart swells at the sight. I’m so proud of the kid – she’s come a long way. But Buddy won’t have any of that. He starts trashing about, and I spot apprehension and fear in Katie’s eyes – she’s about to give up and let go.
“Hold on to him,” I yell. “You’re in charge. Show him who’s boss. Tug on the rope.”
She straightens, and I see the transformation in her as she takes control. “Settle down, Buddy,” she snaps as she tugs on the rope. “I’m in charge here.”
Buddy wavers and finally submits, understanding that she’s as powerful as I am. Katie is in charge and the pony seems to finally get that. My eyes well up. She’s got this. She beams as she nears closer, leading Buddy who is surprisingly docile.