Reaching For Emeralds

by Lacee Hightower

  “Okay,” I said quietly. “No talking, but I’m always here when you’re ready.”

  “Fuck, Lay. Come here. I just want to hold you.” His arms were opening again, pulling me against his body as his fingertips dug into my skin like he was holding onto me for dear life. “I just need to know you’re safe every minute of the day, baby. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you. There’s no way I could go on, knowing you were hurt.” He was shaking against me.

  “Jackson. Baby, nothing’s going to happen to me. I don’t know what exactly happened to Hartley, but nobody is going to hurt me.” I caressed his chest with kisses. He backed up, easing his hands up my sides and cupping my face.

  “I’ll do whatever it takes to protect you, Layla. I hope you understand I’d kill anyone who tried to hurt you.”

  “Jackson.” I enclosed my hands around his wrists. His gaze was dark, his eyes bloodshot and overcome with fatigue. “Nobody is going to hurt me. As long as I have you by my side, nothing is going to happen, except wonderful, beautiful things.” I kissed his chest again, noticing the small bloodstains on his gray shirt and what seemed to be a swelling jaw.

  “Baby, why are you bleeding? And your jaw … it’s swollen. Have you been in a fight, Jackson? Where’s your first aid kit?”

  “I’m fine, Layla. Can we please not talk about it anymore and just go to bed?”

  Holy shit. Who was he fighting? And why?

  I knew better than to argue so I nodded, taking his hand and flipping off the light behind me as I led the both of us to the stairs. The fact that he’d been in a fight stabbed at my heart. The actuality that he wasn’t able to be completely honest and forthcoming with me just yet also hurt more than it should.

  Two hours later, I was tangled between his body after long minutes of nothing but sweet lovemaking and holding each other. He’d finally drifted off to sleep. Unable to get there yet, I watched his eyes moving behind his closed eyelids, wondering if he was dreaming. Pondering at thoughts of why he was so concerned with my safety.

  Knowing he was keeping deep secrets that he’d probably never divulge.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Layla

  Jackson ushered me to the ladies’ room to freshen up while he went to talk to the Director of Helping Hands about ways to get more donations to local food banks. I knew this was the last place he wanted to be under the circumstances. But he was still able to turn on his Shipman charm, acting like everything was fine. When in fact, it wasn’t.

  I blotted at my dark plum lipstick before doing a double-take. The beautiful, dark-haired, blue-eyed woman I’d seen looking our way twice already since we’d arrived was walking through the door. Dressed in a skin-hugging blue dress, she was one of the most unusually striking women I’d ever seen. Her hair was long, thick and nearly black, reaching the middle of her back. She had a foreign look about her. Her breasts were no bigger than mine, yet appeared so, as they flowed over the top of the low neckline of her dress, her nipples perfectly pebbled through the thin fabric. Taller than me with the silver stilettos she had on, she had to be nearing six feet tall.

  She ignored my stare, which she was obviously used to with her beauty, and pulled out her own lipstick, touching up her plump lips with a dark red, matte shade that I would never be able to pull off. I dropped my compact back into my nude handbag, fighting the urge not to gawk. And feel simple and plain.

  “I see you’re Jackson’s date for the evening.” Her voice was sulky, with a touch of an accent I wasn’t familiar with.

  The thought hit me that she may be an actress or possibly a model. She certainly appeared to be. “I am. I’m Layla.”

  “Oh, what a pretty name, Layla,” she said, running her fingers through her dark hair as she seemed to be studying me. “I’m Presley. I’m an … acquaintance if you will, of Jackson’s. I just had the most incredible conversation with him. He’s a very interesting man, isn’t he?” She dabbed on another dot of lipstick. “He’s always quite the gentleman in public gatherings. The complete opposite of when he gets behind closed doors.”

  An acquaintance?

  Close to him?

  I didn’t like the way she said any of that.

  In fact, I didn’t like anything about her.

  My stomach turned to knots. This supermodel-looking goddess had absolutely positively been with Jackson. Something told me he knew her from Venture. She didn’t act submissive, but then neither did Joslyn.

  “Nice to meet you, Presley.” I needed out of this stuffy bathroom. Shit, I needed out of this building before I hurled up the contents of my churning stomach. Backbiting envy rushed through my chest, sick at the thought of someone so perfect in Jackson’s bed.

  I could never stack up against Presley.

  “Tell Sir I hope to see him soon. I’ve missed him.”

  “I’ll be sure and tell him.”

  I flew out the door, two seconds from throwing up. Ready to kick Sir in his glorious balls. Rage and bitterness dripped from every pore on my body. I didn’t know if this woman had once been someone important to Jackson, but one thing was clear as day.

  She’d been his submissive.

  And I felt like punching her in the throat and stabbing her with long, pointed objects.

  I wrapped my arms around my mid-section, chewing furiously at my lip. I wanted to know right now if he’d paid money for her. And how damn much.

  God, I hated the way I was feeling.

  I knew Jackson belonged to a BDSM club. Of course I knew. But things were so good between us now, that I just hadn’t allowed myself to think about all that involved. Jesus! I hadn’t seriously considered a lot about his kinky lifestyle. Did he have a playroom in his new house? A room I hadn’t seen? Did he have rows of canes and butt plugs? I was all too familiar with one of his canes.

  Jealousy crawled through my skin. I couldn’t catch my breath. And the last thing I wanted to do right now was look at Jackson. Not for a few minutes at least.

  My God, was I completely naive? The man I loved was a Dom and his subs called him Sir. How many more of his past subjects would I run into? And why was all this just sinking in? Was I completely dim-witted? Did I need actual eight by ten photos of him in action to bring on the realization of what I was dealing with? And what that really meant?

  I walked toward a table with assorted desserts, trying to acclimate my breathing, hide my watery eyes and what I knew was an unsettled expression. I wouldn’t make a scene at something this important to Jackson, but I couldn’t stop picturing Presley … and Joslyn … and body after beautiful body. Bound. Naked. Calling Jackson Sir as he surged his thick cock inside them until he filled them with his release. Did he wear a condom with any or all of them? We’d never once discussed protection. I’d been on birth control for years to help with cramping, but Jackson never even asked me if it was okay to go bareback. Something about that sickened me even more.

  I eyed an exit and walked outside. “I can’t do this,” I whimpered to myself. My stomach grinding, I leaned my head back against the hotel wall, staring up at the clear, star-covered sky.

  He’d never be content with me.

  He wouldn’t love me forever. That wasn’t the way a man like Jackson was engineered.

  One day he’d want to move on.

  “Are you okay, Miss?” A hotel employee tapped my shoulder. “Do you need some help? Is there someone I can go find for you?”

  “No. I’m fine. It’s just stuffy in there. Thank you for asking.”

  I walked farther out into the parking lot toward Jackson’s locked Mercedes, my head reeling. Our sex was entirely hot and we’d done things that I considered kinky, but they were nothing in comparison to what I knew he’d done with other women. He bled control and dominance. He’d spanked me, used a cane just hard enough to sting my skin, and taken my ass, but didn’t he need more?

  Wouldn’t he eventually miss being someone’s ‘Sir’?

  I’d walked into this plann
ing on learning how to be his submissive. Completely willing to do all his kinky sex acts. Then everything just went an entirely different direction when love entered the equation.

  We needed to have a discussion. Tonight.

  And if he did in fact admit to needing me on a submissive level, then that’s what I would do. But, could I?

  Blindfolding. More spankings. Flogging. Anal plugs. On my knees as he took my mouth. That damn cane that even though I knew he was using lightly, hurt like a motherfucking bitch.

  My breathing was heavy as I got a mental image of a very beautiful, hard, naked Jackson demanding I call him Sir as he had his way with me. Taking me from behind with my eyes darkened by a silken blindfold. Burying his tongue inside my sex, yet denying me orgasm.

  My god, I was aroused. And wet.

  My phone was dinging. Shit, it was Jackson.

  “Hi,” I answered.

  “Sweetheart, I was worried. Where are you?” The warmth of his concerned words took my breath away, but I couldn’t deny how hurt I was.

  “I’m on my way back in. I just needed some air.”

  Jackson looked up from the gentleman he was speaking with as I walked back in, taking long strides toward me and leaning over, kissing the side of my cheek. “It is pretty stuffy in here, sweetheart. We don’t need to stay much longer.” I blinked up, a dark red smudge clinging to the top of his lip. It was lipstick.

  Her lipstick.

  Tuning out the big red flag telling me it would always be this way with Jackson, I reached up, brushing the smear from his mouth onto my finger. I couldn’t have felt worse if I’d just been blindsided by an eighteen-wheeler. With a quick flip of my wrist, the lipstick was obvious to the both of us. Again, I needed the fuck out of here before I did something that ended up on tomorrow’s social media sites, as well as every local news channel.

  “How dare you, Jackson.” I practically ran back toward the same door I’d exited only moments ago, my stomach churning.

  “Layla,” he grumbled, catching me by the hand.

  “Go to hell, Jackson. Let go of me.” I yanked at my arm with every bit of strength I had, yet his grip was firm. “Either let me go or expect to be plastered all over the news tomorrow morning when I slap you in front of all these people who are already gawking like hungry, fucking vultures.” He dropped the tight grip on my stinging wrist.

  “Layla, let me explain, sweetheart.”

  “Explain? There’s nothing to explain,” I hissed, walking out the side door of the hotel. Jackson’s angry footsteps were only inches from mine.

  “No fucking explanation needed, Jackson. I have all I need staring me right in the face. You may actually want to wipe off the lipstick I missed,” I said, tears flying from my eyes. “It’s really not your color.” Quickening my pace, I started walking … anywhere. Just somewhere I didn’t have to see his eyes.

  “You’re just like all the others. Nothing more than a hard-dicked, lying fuck.” I pulled out my cellphone to google taxis when he grabbed it, sliding it inside his jacket pocket.

  “Give me my phone, Jackson!” I slapped his chest with both hands, the impact causing him to step back as I fell against his body.

  “Do not hit me, Layla,” he scowled, the vein in his neck pulsing. “You won’t like where that leads us.”

  “To hell with you. Go back to your beloved Presley. She missed you. You obviously feel the same.” I swiped at my tears, Jackson instantly pulling a handkerchief from his jacket and gently dabbing at my face.

  “First of all, Layla, don’t ever doubt my feelings for you. And secondly, act like an adult. Don’t go accusing me of something you have no goddamned proof of.”

  “Proof?” I lifted my hand that still had the dark red lipstick remnants. “What other proof do I need, Jackson? Her scent drifting from the pores of your body? Her wet panties in the front seat of your car?”

  His features turned hard. He grabbed my hand and walked us underneath the hotel canopy toward his car, pulling out the key fob. He opened the passenger side door with restrained anger. I held out an arm to argue. “Get the fuck in, Layla.” His arms circled me, leaning on either side of my shoulders. His breath was heavy as I hesitantly slid in the passenger seat, jumping at the impact of the door slamming shut.

  “You think I want her?” His tone was chilled and low as he closed his car door and turned to face me. I couldn’t look in his eyes.

  I counted to ten, fighting off a panic attack. “I don’t know what you want anymore, Jackson. Why don’t you man up and tell me? Why don’t you make me understand the lipstick on your face if you don’t want her? You paid for her once so you obviously wanted her then.” Tears welled up in my eyes. I dabbed the mascara-stained handkerchief against my face again.

  “Just tell me one thing, Jackson. Was she someone important?”

  His gaze narrowed, undoubtedly calculating the conversation. His toned arms flexed through his shirt as he reached for the sides of his head, leaning from side to side as he cracked his neck.

  “Layla, Presley was my submissive at one time. But no, she wasn’t important.”

  I leaned my head against the neck rest, staring out the moonroof. “This is something I’ll have to get used to, isn’t it? Running into your past?”

  He pursed his lips together, his gaze bright under the star-filled sky beaming through the open moonroof. “I suppose it is, sweetheart,” he said softly, warmth returning to his eyes. “You knew this, Layla. Don’t turn this into something we can’t overcome. I’m a thirty-five-year-old man. I have a history.” He reached for my face, pulling me toward him and kissing the top of my head.

  “Can you accept that, Lay? Can you live with my past and allow us to have a future?”

  I swallowed back the lump of emotion, trying my best not to picture Jackson doing the things I knew we still hadn’t. But he was right. We couldn’t move forward if I didn’t forget the past and stop getting a mental picture every time something—or someone—reminded me of who he was.

  But Presley… She bothered me.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Jackson

  My job was never-ending, some days very trying. Hard to watch young men or women ruin their lives by one stupid mistake, it was my decision on whether or not to prosecute an offender. My responsibility to decide if we had substantial evidence for grand jury proceedings. The difficult call of whether to continue with prosecution, decline, or present a plea bargain to the judge, all laid on my shoulders.

  But the law was the law, and today I’d made the call to continue with prosecution proceedings against a young twenty-one-year-old man who’d made a bad choice and robbed a wealthy family’s house in order to pay for his meth addiction.

  The well-to-do family was an elderly couple, the man seventy-five percent disabled, while the woman got around with the help of a walker. Depending on the judge, the first-time offender would probably get the mandatory sentence of ten years, even though we were shooting for longer, due to the age of the couple robbed. If the kid was lucky, he’d be released after eight years with good behavior.

  So much crime. So damn much violence in this city, the police still had no leads on Hartley’s attack. It was pointless to think they ever would. Carlos Agli didn’t make mistakes. His men knew better than to leave any evidence.

  ****

  The roads strangely empty today, just after five I was walking through the back door. Layla wasn’t in the kitchen. The lights were all off and it didn’t appear she’d been in here at all.

  Fuck, was she still pissed from last night? Was she fucking okay?

  Three-stepping the stairs to get to the bedroom, I found her against the wall, staring out the back window.

  “Hey, baby.” I eased out of my suit jacket, catching my breath.

  She didn’t answer. Or look at me.

  “Lay?” Confused by her silence, I felt strangely unnerved.

  “Jackson … should I be worried about Presley?”

 
Fuck!

  “Last night, she said to tell Sir that she missed him.”

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  My mood darkening, I walked to the window, pressing my hands on either side of the glass. “Sweetheart, I love you. There’s absolutely nobody you should be worried about. Not a single soul, Lay.”

  “She said she was close to you. How close, Jackson? Did you have feelings for her?” she asked, her voice quaking.

  “Layla.” I cupped her cheeks. “We’ve had this discussion. Why do we need to do this again?”

  “I know,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t be bothering you with this now. Not with Hartley and everything. I just don’t know what to do. I’m trying to understand. You’ve fucked so many women and I know that, but I can’t quit picturing you with her. Did you have anal sex with her, Jackson?”

  Jesus fuck!

  I let that question sink in for a quick second, imagining how I’d feel in a reverse situation. “Layla, look at me.” Lifting her chin, her eyes were swollen with dry tears. “Baby, Presley is from my past. That life is over, sweetheart,” I added, “so why do you want to keep discussing this? You’re all that matters now. I thought you knew that.”

  Silent for a few beats, her eyes filled with new emotion, digging deep at my heart. “I do, but then it’s just that … she’s so beautiful. And I’m scared you’re going to wake up one day missing all that. It’s what you know. It’s your life.”

  “My life,” I repeated, “is here. With you. And us. I love you more than anything in the world.”

  She shook her head. “No, Jackson. One day you’re going to want to visit Venture again. Those auctions… Those women are so much more than me. I’m just a simple girl that wants to bake bread, and honestly, I’ll probably fail at that, too.”

  “Sweetheart! Jesus!” I cupped her cheeks. “You couldn’t be more wrong. You’re everything to me, Lay. There’s no comparison. And if you fall, I’ll be right there. Falling right beside you, baby.”