Who was this woman? Why was she on Venture’s auction stage pretending to be something she wasn’t? And why in Christ had stabbing jealousy crashed over me the minute she walked onto the stage staring at me with heat in her eyes?
“Yes?” I snapped, my reputation of being a dick in the office beaming in my tone.
“Sir, I’m going home. Is there anything else you need?” Carla’s, or whatever the fuck her name was, voice was soft and timid, only her head peeking around the corner of the door. She was scared as hell of me. They all were. I’d personally fired the last two receptionists, incompetency something I had no time for. Thank fuck, this girl seemed to actually want her job. I probably needed to cut the asshole factor just a little. Finding a girl content with answering phones and opening mail wasn’t an easy task to accomplish. So far, she was the best we’d had.
I flashed a polite smile. “I’m fine. Thank you, Carla. Have a nice evening.” She returned the gesture and turned to leave. I glanced down at the tight, curvy ass filling her skirt. It wouldn’t be long before Seth had a piece of her. If the confident jackass hadn’t already.
One final glance out my office window, I slipped my jacket back on, watching the city bullshit bustle like any other day. Car after car, the harmonious sounds of impatient people honking, crowds of people chasing time, building after lit-up building, smog … the homeless. Every element of any city in my opinion, had its own sense of fascination, downtown Dallas being no different. High-rise construction sparkling with colorful lighting and signs, the hustle and bustle of people walking, talking, or staring down at their smartphones … it was all a part of what defined the city life.
Far from the glamorous DA that everybody assumed, my life was difficult and draining. Goddamn hard to live with at times, my job was never-ending. But in the end, I loved it. Criminals were only multiplying. Removing even one scum off the street gave me an inner peace, even considering the phone call I’d taken two hours ago reminding me just how fucked up life could become for a man in my position. Another arrest to arrange. More false evidence to put into play. Two more felons to quietly release back onto the streets. More and more days keeping my mouth shut.
Committing illegal actions to keep Carlos Agli happy.
Whatever it took to keep my loved ones safe.
My morals were fucked. What I was doing was unacceptable. Yet, scruples were irrelevant. In my case, they held no significance. My obligations were to the only family I had left. I’d never break the promise I made to my dad to take care of them, and even though Hartley had her own protector in Justin, I’d never burden him with the unknown. I wouldn’t risk his life. Severe migraines and eye issues brought on by years of constant childhood abuse, he had enough on his plate. Hot-headed with a short fuse, he was a protective motherfucker when it came to my sister. He’d spend his last dime defending what was his. Already living through one shit show growing up, I wouldn’t subject him to a second. The less he knew, the better.
Feet away from my shiny Mercedes in its designated space, I glanced at my ringing phone. One of my newest prosecutors was already asking to be taken off a case. Searching for any fucks to give the whiny prick that would never progress in the legal field, I answered the call and dealt with the inexperienced baby attorney.
For the first time ever, I had no idea what to expect when I got home. I’d spent a crazy amount of money on this woman and couldn’t fathom why. Couldn’t put my finger on what was different about this one, particularly since I’d sent her father to prison, other than the obvious fact that she was hot as fuck. But, I was anything but an idiot. Saying she was up to something was an obvious understatement. Labeled a three-bar submissive was damn near hysterical. I could read compliant behavior from twenty feet away. Layla didn’t fit the bill. Her innocent demure was as vanilla as a woman clad in a dark-colored habit. Maybe that’s what lured me in. Part of the attraction. Figuring out what kind of trickery she had up her sleeve and showing her just exactly who she was dealing with.
I liked games as well as the next person.
If this beauty wanted to play, on no account would I spoil her idea of recreation.
Her unusual green gaze locking with mine the first day of her father’s trial shot off an odd, unparalleled zest through my gut in three seconds flat. Outlandish and sporadic, I’d instantly wanted those eyes. Beneath me. Blinking up at me with need while I plunged through her sex. Glazing over when I launched her into the orgasm of her life. I wanted my hands all over her flawless pale skin, touching and learning just what set her off. Kissing every inch of her body.
Magnificently beautiful, my attraction to this stranger was more than just lust. Yet, the whole concept was nothing but simple fantasy. The cunning little minx was a player and I was a Dominant male seeking nothing more than entertainment. And for that, stunning, submissive women were everywhere, only a phone call away. Sex with a beautiful compliant woman was as easy as a trip to the local supermarket. They came and they went. I’d had some absolute true beauties. Some of the most exquisite women in the city on their knees begging unmercifully for my cock. None held a candle to Layla Richardson, this woman who should hate my fucking guts. The emerald-eyed beauty I couldn’t wait to feel squeezing my hard length. Or around my mouth as I tasted her for the first time.
And I would. Very soon.
An important meeting on the schedule tomorrow morning, I had a case to prepare for and needed some rest tonight. But what I had waiting at home was all I could concentrate on, sleep being secondary to my hungry cock, along with pure morbid curiosity. I had a deep fascination for beautiful females. Controlling them. Watching them on their knees as I took their mouth. Begging me to let them come, or better yet, sinking my dick deep in their pussy or ass. It was all the same.
Me. Controlling. Commanding.
Attending to my needs.
Labeled a sadist by many, that wasn’t really the true me. I didn’t necessarily crave inflicting severe pain or humiliation on a woman. What I enjoyed was pleasing and in turn gaining the same equal gratification. If that involved extreme bondage or more, then I was down for it, but the control factor was my priority. Surrender in the bedroom was essential. Being sexually demanding was key to a strong relationship. Not only in the physical sense, but also an emotional one. Over the years I’d learned that most women, submissive or otherwise, wanted some sense of dominance.
If Layla Richardson really thought she could endure eight weeks of games with me, I’d damn sure give her the privilege. And enjoy every beautiful minute. Would she hyperventilate when a flogger was about to slide over her beautiful bare skin? Would she turn moist at the touch of a hand reddening her sweet ass? I had no idea. Fuck, I didn’t even know why she was here. And why she wanted me when she should detest the mere sight of me. There had to be a reason.
An ulterior motive.
Why and wherefore … that was the question.
Maybe the most beautiful creation I’d ever seen and possibly even eager to take my cock, whatever she ultimately had up her sleeve might very well take on new meaning after sharing a few short hours in my company.
Chapter Six
Layla
My hair felt sticky, my eyes struggling to open through all the mascara caking my lashes. I made a rule to never go to bed with makeup on. Once reading that every night a woman failed to remove her makeup it aged her exactly thirteen days, I’d always scrubbed off every stitch before my head hit the pillow.
My heart leaped as I remembered the last words before darkness took over.
Get her some fucking help. Now!
This was Jackson’s home. His bed. An instant faint memory of someone carrying me last night, no recollection of anything else came to mind.
But I was here in a big beautiful bedroom that smelled all male. A scent I remembered perfectly.
Other than a plush white rug in front of the large four-poster bed, the entire room was black and gray. Even the walls and bedding. A square-shaped tabl
e with a large lamp was on one side, while the wall to my right was entirely covered in built-in bookshelves with photos and large vases filling the nooks. Behind the bed were black and white baseball pictures hanging at all different angles, the flooring underneath a distressed, gray wood of some sort. Long floor-to-ceiling windows took the place of a wall directly in front of the bed, overlooking a large, rectangular pool and spa. A beautiful marble fireplace rested in the very corner of the spacious bedroom.
Entirely nude, the realization of why I was here was loud and clear.
The auction.
The blistering heat radiating off the stage.
Jackson’s silence while the two gentlemen continued their verbal bidding war.
Longing and shame.
My present lack of panties.
A small antique-looking clock, a bottle of water, and a walnut muffin that looked almost as mouth-watering as the ones I baked myself, sat beside me on the small square table. My God, it was four in the afternoon. I’d slept nearly all day. Reaching for what appeared to be a note, my head throbbed as I leaned over to see what he, or someone, had written.
Eat the muffin. You’ll need the strength. At the end of the hallway is your room. The closet is filled with clothes. Feel free to roam through the house until I get home.
He bought me at auction.
Oh. My. God.
Small bits and pieces were coming back. Too stressed to eat or sleep, fatigue and lack of food, on top of caramel vodka, got the best of me. But I remembered one thing clearly—his demanding voice ordering someone to get help. It was the same as it had been every day in the courtroom. Strong.
Dictatorial.
Sensual.
Deep.
Masculine.
Oozing sex.
My head still in a fog, I slid off the bed glancing a second time at a younger Jackson filling the multi-sized picture frames, a strong smell of new paint making my pounding head ache even more. Photos showed different angles of him pitching, his strong muscular body filling out his uniform like a made-to-order tight sleeve. Catching my eye were two close-up shots. One with the baseball behind his back as he leaned over contemplating the play with his muscular ass up close and personal, his strong glutes ripping with strength and power. The second photo was an upper body shot with his glove on one hand while the other was fisted in front of him as if he’d just made a special pitch or a strike-out. Both phenomenal shots, the first one was definitely my favorite. With his hair longer and his facial hair thicker than the shadowed look he presently wore, Jackson was a walking clone of the famous soccer player, David Beckham. I knew he looked like someone, but I’d never realized who until just now.
My eyes still lingering on a younger athletic Jackson, I placed pressure against what felt like ugly, insistent hammering against my forehead and tip-toed toward the adjoining bathroom. Jackson had probably been in there only hours before showering, shaving, dressing in another sharp suit. Something about that was sexy.
The long, black marble countertop was empty other than a few glass containers holding cotton balls, a toothbrush and general bathroom items. I lightly touched the edge of his toothbrush with the tip of my finger. It was dry. He’d been gone a while. My God, I was stalking. Hopefully, he didn’t have cameras or some kind of built-in security, taping what I was doing at the moment. Especially considering the large fact that I was still completely naked. A large walk-in closet was partially opened, my desire to snoop way more significant than my obvious nudity.
His note said I could roam.
The closet breathed of Jackson’s cologne. Large, with built-in shelving and drawers, one side held nothing but his suits with perfectly-starched shirts in solids and stripes hanging underneath. Directly to the right were his shoes. Rows of every color, every style. I pulled open one of six stacked drawers. Lined with neatly-folded ties, Mother of God, who needed this many?
I reached for a dark jacket, pulling it against my face. I knew that scent like I knew my own. Walking past me in the hallway before court on more than one occasion, the essence was familiar. It reeked sex appeal and one-hundred percent pure undivided male. Clean and elemental, it was laced with a light touch of something resembling the outdoors. Thoughts of him rubbing against my body, covering me with cologne and his natural aroma, sent a shiver all the way through my thighs.
A breath of icy cold air drifted from the closet as I eased the door shut, chilling me to the bone. Down the hall, the door was open to what was now my bedroom. Smaller than Jackson’s, it was still twice the size of my apartment bedroom, decorated in white with subtle touches of vibrant turquoise. I rubbed my hand along the side of the plush comforter, eyeing the closet. Upper shelving was covered in lingerie and underwear, while a lower shelf held casual jeans, leggings and tank tops, all new. Hanging were formal and casual dresses, capris and matching tops. Jesus Hell! He’d spent more money on eight weeks of clothing than I had in a lifetime. I reached for a folded pair of black leggings and a pink tank top, the edge lined in tiny, square-cut rhinestones.
I like the bling, Jackson.
The attached bathroom had a stand-alone shower on one side and a beautiful freestanding, elegant clawfoot tub with decorative etched feet in the corner. I couldn’t wait to spend endless hours soaking in what was quite possibly the most beautiful bathtub I’d ever seen.
After washing my face in nothing but warm water, I scrubbed at my teeth with the toothbrush resting on the counter and quickly wished for my No7 facial cleanser and moisturizer.
Where was my phone? My purse? Guaranteed to be filled with texts and voicemail from Joslyn, I quickly slid on the stretchy leggings and simple top and tip-toed down the circular stairs looking for the kitchen, not bothering with shoes, a bra, or much less a painful brush through my mess of hair. Stiff and sticky with lingering hairspray, it was nothing but a head full of tight knots. I hoped Jackson had a good conditioner somewhere close.
I never found my purse or my phone, completely forgetting the two items as I walked downstairs and got my first glimpse of Jackson’s stunning home.
“Jesus, this house is beautiful,” I whispered.
Light and cheery, it was definitely new construction. Still smelling the faint scent of paint, the walls were a light gray, as opposed to the darker shade in Jackson’s bedroom. At the end of the staircase, two large black and white photos with close-up shots of adorable, smiling young boys were encased in dark frames. They almost looked identical, but yet they weren’t.
A large living room was decorated in a contemporary style with oversized leather furniture and dark accessories, tall windows overlooking the gorgeous pool area that I’d seen from his bedroom, as well as the same distressed gray wood covering the floors. Far in the distance was a brilliant view of the city that I was confident looked beautiful once the sun set, a quick stab of sadness in my chest as I thought of my dad’s fascination with stargazing.
Down the hall a little further was a library full of books. Hundreds, if not more. Jeez, the man was an attorney. It only made sense he enjoyed reading. Later, I planned on checking out his taste of reading material.
Faint sounds of someone speaking were coming from the kitchen. In front of more long rows of windows was Jackson. One hand rubbed at the back of his neck while he rolled his head from side to side, staring outside and talking on his cell, or rather yelling. Thoughts of sneaking out to get showered were an afterthought when he turned toward me. Still carrying on a conversation as he stared down at me, I was uncomfortably aware of my appearance.
“Take care of it, Vince. I don’t give five flying fucks what time it is. Just do your job.”
Still dressed in his expensive suit pants, his jacket was missing, his shirt collar loosened with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A light coating of hair covered his well-veined, fit forearms. A deep silky brown—Jesus, even his hairy arms were sexual.
Uncharacteristically calm as he finished his phone conversation without any more angry de
mands, he continued staring at me while pulling out his wallet and keys, along with a handful of change from his pants pocket, setting it all down on the long, marble-covered island. The subtle familiar aroma of his cologne wafted through the air, sending a stab of lust through my chest. Yet, I couldn’t like his scent or any damn thing else. None of this would work if I let my guard down. Pleasure was the last thing I was seeking.
Still quiet, was this the way it was going to be for a long eight weeks? A lot of silence? Awkwardness?
Antsy and anxious, everything about him bellowed intimidation, which I was confident he’d have no other way. I’d seen it a hundred times in the courtroom.
But, I was here for one reason.
Sex. Manipulation. And he was entirely gorgeous. How hard could it be to pretend?
Or how easy? How good?
His gaze narrowed as he studied me up and down with a long, drawn-out carefulness, his eyes beaming their rare warm, golden color. He ran a long forefinger underneath my chin, lifting me toward his lips and holding it in place for seconds that seemed like hours. His expression glowed with greed and redemption. A touch of anger flashed across his eyes, but they were still strangely beautiful.
“Before I tell you what is going to happen during the next eight weeks, be aware, Layla Michelle.” His grip tightened underneath my chin as he perilously stressed both my first and middle names. “I’m not a fool. I see when I’m trying to be played. I’m not exactly sure yet what you’re trying to accomplish, but know this,” he breathed against my lips, any nearer and he would have been touching mine. “I paid top dollar for you. You will do exactly as I wish. Capiche?”
Capiche?
What a fuckwit.
Inside I was shaking, but I held my head up, flashing my most innocent smile and leaning against his chest, brushing my breasts against him, calculating the feel of his body. I wanted to ask if he’d undressed me last night, but obviously he had. Why did he remove my panties though? Was that really necessary?
Reaching For Emeralds Page 3