Jagger

  JAGGER

  A Wild Heart Novel

  Shayne Ford

  Copyright © 2016 by Shayne Ford

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, organizations and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features mentioned in this book are the property of their respective owners and have been used without permission and in an editorial fashion only, with no implied endorsement.

  The publication/use of these trademarks is not associated with, approved of or sponsored by the trademarks owners.

  This book is for entertainment purposes only. The author and publisher disclaim any and all responsibility for any liability, loss, or risk, personal or otherwise, incurred as a consequence, directly or indirectly in relation to this book.

  This book is intended for mature audiences only.

  Written by Shayne Ford

  www.shayneford.com

  Twitter:@ShayneFordBooks

  Cover design by Shayne Ford

  The image on the cover is a licensed stock photo, and it is used for illustrative purposes, any person who may be depicted on, is a model.

  Created with Vellum

  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

  Also by Shayne Ford

  About the Author

  1

  VIOLET

  “Hold it, please!”

  Half of the people in the hallway turn their heads as my ear-splitting voice flies above them, aiming for the elevator. Faceless men and women, dressed in sharp designer suits, walking briskly across the corridor. Lawyers, accountants, CEOs and sales executives.

  Several big companies have offices in the building, and most of them have a dress code but not the online lifestyle magazine I work for.

  Our audience is the twenty-year-old crowd, and true to its culture, the company strives for a relaxed, creative environment, a memo I’d never gotten, or even if I had it never sank into my brain, because that’s how I do things.

  Backward.

  I spent an hour in the closet looking for something nice to wear. After all these years, I wanted to feel good about myself. Of all days, today, Monday, and of all places, the workplace I’ve called home for the past six months or so. Although dressing up for a job that doesn’t even have a dress code makes no sense, I had jumped at the opportunity.

  After a long deliberation, I opted for a sleeveless, tailored navy dress that hugs my toned body and stops short of my knees. The color setting off my long blonde hair and blue-green eyes.

  A long metallic zipper travels up my back. It’s sexy and versatile, one of those pieces you can take from the office to a cocktail party and a night date later on, if you happen to get lucky. Not that I’ve experienced that.

  As vain as it sounds and as much as it pains me to admit, I wasted close to an hour rehearsing poses in the mirror. It’s stupid, I know, and I cringed a lot. I even felt a pang of guilt. But I had to start somewhere. So why not here and now?

  For years, I had been wearing boxy suits, three-inch heels, sack-like dresses for family events and man repellent underwear. Practical and economical, the slogan of my shitty life.

  Any splash of color, any piece of clothing following a body line was frowned upon, by mom, as I was growing up, and by my husband later on. That’s how I ended up resenting the clothing and everything else it had symbolized.

  Like marriage, my old job sapped my soul. Luckily for me, a few weeks after the divorce, I switched from analyzing financial data for a living to writing for a wage. That’s how the shoes, dresses, and the suits ended up in a recycling bin during a long winter afternoon.

  I train my eyes on the elevator, hoping someone shows a pang of mercy. The doors begin to slide. Yeah, it’s not gonna happen. Why would anyone give a crap? There are plenty of elevators, and throngs of people just like me who can’t get their timing right.

  A curse slips under my breath as a man’s hand pops out, and the doors recede in a collective gasp of frustration. Animated by the morsel of good will, I sprint the last few steps, struggling to maintain my balance atop the four-inch heels.

  My eyes root on his wrist.

  I can’t help but notice the sculpted, long-fingered hand, and the edge of a tattoo wrapped around his wrist. A pounded, silver ring glints around his middle finger.

  This is not a common sight in the multi-billion dollar high rise, a place swarming with professional suits and designer pumps. The typical men and women I usually cross paths with lack tattoos, fashion diamond rings, and expensive watches, and wouldn’t be caught dead in jeans.

  Careful not to break a heel, I hop into the elevator. Body swaying and arms flailing, I’m working on regaining equilibrium. The same man who held the elevator, reaches from behind, grabs my elbow, and pulls me to him.

  Our bodies touch briefly as the doors smoothly close, sealing in a sea of anxious faces and vacant eyes. It’s hard to believe that these are the same people who fed their kids this morning, walked a pet, or even made love.

  The man in front of me shifts his beefy shoulder and gives me a shove that makes me stumble into the hard chest guarding my back.

  Out of reflex, I mumble an apology.

  Smoothly, the man behind me snakes his arm around my waist, and pulls me into him, just as another suit steps toward the doors, and almost stomps on my feet, missing my stilettos by a hair.

  Back pressed against my savior’s chest, I take in short bursts of air, my dress feeling suddenly tight. Is his body insanely warm? Or is it mine?

  As more people walk in, the space becomes tighter, and we pull closer. His warm breath rolls in my hair, spurring goosebumps on my shoulders.

  Eyes closed, I’m breathing slowly, relishing the feel of his muscular arm coiled around me. The fresh scent of his aftershave rolls over me, making my body react with unrelenting heat.

  As the elevator comes to a smooth stop, his hand slides up my stomach, stopping just below my chest. My eyes flip open as if I caught on fire, a silent gasp falling from my lips.

  The doors open and close a few more times, people trading places, some going out, others coming in, our bodies remaining glued, mine comfortable with his, and his welcoming mine.

  Every time the doors slide open, fewer people get in, and more space clears out, yet I’m still wrapped in his arms.

  Cutting her way to the door, a tall woman swings her laptop bag and almost knocks me over.

  Protective, the man wraps the other arm around my waist as the woman gives me the evil eye.

  What was that all about?

  As the doors close, I finally tear away and steal a glance in his direction. He’s tall, well-built and young. Really young. Not twenty-four years young like me. Younger than that.

  His dark, distressed jeans hang low on his hips, his muscular thighs outlined underneath. A studded belt draws my eyes to his hard rear.

  A hooded, long-sleeved black top covers his V-shaped torso and hard biceps, fitting tightly across his chest. T
he hood drapes over most of his face, concealing his eyes, revealing his sexy pout, flawless skin, and sculpted jaws.

  His arched lips glisten, moist.

  He softly bobs his head, in sync with the muffled beat of music pouring in his earbuds.

  “Thank you,” I say, touching his arm, unsure if he can hear me.

  Oblivious to me, he listens to the music, his bottom lip rolling, red beneath his teeth. A yearning sensation I haven’t felt in a while sets into my belly.

  I peel my eyes away.

  “Thank you for holding the elevator,” I murmur, mostly to myself as my hand slides off him.

  The elevator comes to a stop, and the doors pull open.

  I step out.

  “You’re welcome,” he says with a soft, nasal voice.

  His breath fans over my face as he whooshes by me. I whip my head to the side, trying to catch a glimpse of him, yet long strides put him way ahead of me.

  He pushes through the emblazoned, glass doors of Rapt, swings past the eye-popping black and silver logo, and enters the reception area.

  Picking up the pace, I walk inside the firm, sneaking in right behind him.

  He stops at the front desk and peels his hood off his head as Roxane, our receptionist, checks him in. Her eyes come to mine the moment I flick my gaze in his direction. I nod a silent greeting to her, squash my curiosity and rush to my office.

  Rapt shares the floor with an accounting firm, a partition wall neatly separating the two companies. They deal with numbers. We work with words. They are traditional and abide by the rules. We are creative and thrive in a lax environment.

  With one million unique monthly online visitors, Rapt is a force to be reckoned with in a very competitive space.

  At a glance, the company looks like a big lounging space for college students. Open cubicles line a large corridor that begins at the reception area and ends across from my office in front of a glass wall that ushers in the view of Manhattan. The IT Department is the only space separated from us, and it’s tucked into a couple of large rooms just around the corner.

  Strategically placed, the windows of my office filter one of the best views on the floor. White walls outline my workspace, the minimalistic furniture not taking much space.

  A couple of metallic shelves, a small table with leather armchairs sitting in the corner, and my lean desk comprising most of the furniture. Potted plants and the small fridge stocked with bottles of water give the place a cozy feeling.

  Taking a long breath, I click the ‘Publish’ button. A motion catches my eyes, and my gaze flicks up.

  Liv, my best friend, a writer and editor like me, waves at me from the doorway. She’s glancing over her shoulder from time to time as if she’s waiting for someone.

  Dressed in a long, flowing skirt and a crochet top that hugs her girlish frame haphazardly, she mouths something about my dress.

  “What?” I toss back at her.

  A playful smile lights up her eyes. She raises her hands and starts drawing an hourglass silhouette in the air that a blind person could see from the other end of the hallway.

  I grin.

  “Got it.”

  Her lips curl into a playful smile.

  At twenty-two, she arguably has more life experience than me. She traveled overseas, lived in different countries, and worked various jobs. And that’s besides going through several hook-ups.

  I, on the other hand, was married at eighteen, got divorced at twenty-four, and in a sense, I’ve got a taste of the middle-age life with all its goodies. Routine, conventional everything, and the endless obligations.

  “You look good,” she mouths again, this time with the soft brush of a sound.

  Before I get the chance to respond, she whips her head to the side, a smile touching her eyes as the man she’s been waiting for, edges to her, entering my line of sight as well.

  Shit. Oh, shit.

  He no longer wears the hooded top, his torso stretching a short-sleeved white T-shirt this time. They start talking, and I begin ogling him.

  She turns her back to me while his eyes train on her. I’m sure I caught the corner of his eye, yet he doesn’t look at me.

  He flexes his right arm, his finger pointing to the tablet he’s holding in the other hand, his lean muscles shifting smoothly like well-oiled cogs beneath his taut skin.

  An intricate tattoo sprawls onto his forearm. I swing my gaze up, filling my sight with his handsome features.

  Silky brown hair runs longer on his neck, a few bangs draping over his brow, setting off his high cheekbones, sexy lips, and hooded eyes. Black canopies of lashes cast shadows over his forest-green eyes. A grin beams on his face.

  He winks to Liv, and a pen snaps in my hand.

  Is he flirting with her?

  A blush spreads over his face as if he actually is, and I nearly fall off my chair as I lean forward to get a closer look. A charming smile tilts his lips, honey pouring from his eyes.

  Pretending I’m reaching for the bottle of water sitting at the other end of my desk, I push up to my feet, and lean forward again, my gaze stamped on his face.

  He lifts his gaze and locks my eyes and I completely space out, frozen into some sort of awkward downward-facing dog position.

  Dammit.

  A knowing smile rolls on his lips.

  Gingerly, I straighten my back and pull up to a standing position. I smile and blush and smile some more.

  Fidgeting, I blow a strand of hair away from my face, my dress melting on my skin.

  Unfazed, he roams his eyes over me as I nervously run my hands over my skirt, smoothing the fabric. A cocky smile creeps up his face, his lower lip rolling beneath his teeth. Mischief flashes in his gaze, and all I do is gape. Utterly smitten.

  What is wrong with me?

  Tilting his chin up, he motions to me softly before he narrows his heavy-lidded eyes and winks at me, turning my knees to butter. Flushed, I wave him goodbye, my dress feeling damp with the sweat on my back.

  He gives a short nod to Liv as well and strides across the corridor. My eyes follow him all the way to the other end of the hallway where he vanishes around the corner.

  I need a cold shower.

  “I love your dress,” Liv says, walking into my office.

  Sucking in a gulp of air, I try to catch my breath.

  “It’s probably too elegant for work,” I say, sagging into my chair.

  “No, no... It’s not. I wouldn’t wear it. It’s not my style, but it suits you perfectly,” she says, scooping a handful of candies from a jar.

  I give her a swift once over as she starts popping them into her mouth.

  “Yeah... You look like you need those.”

  “Ha, ha... Funny. You have a date or something?” she asks, shifting the topic of the conversation and throwing me a questioning look.

  Bits of sinful sweetness crunch between her teeth.

  “What does ‘something’ stand for?” I ask, sweeping the desk with my hand, tidying it up.

  “Fuck date,” she says under her breath, utterly entertained.

  Her eyes twinkle mischievously, and for a second I wish I were her.

  “It’s not that easy,” I say, suddenly feeling old.

  “Yes, it is, Violet. With that thing going on for you,” she says, her finger pointing to my body, “I can’t figure out what the problem is.”

  “The problem is here,” I say pointing at my head, forcing her to raise her eyes.

  She flashes a full mouth grin.

  “We all have that problem, but you can work around it or on it, depending on your level of motivation.”

  “I’m working on it. I’ll get a date or ‘something’, but not today. I just wanted to dress differently. That’s all. It makes me feel better.”

  “That’s good,” she chirps, her skirt twirling with her as she spins toward the door.

  “Oh, by the way... Who’s the guy you talked to?” I toss at her as she’s almost slipping into the hallwa
y.

  She makes another pirouette and turns to me, the corners of her mouth lifting with a devilish smile.

  “He’s cute,” she says, and a flashback of the high school years comes back to me.

  “He sure is,” I say, barely stifling a tell-all grin.

  “He’s here for a job interview.”

  “What kind of job?”

  She shrugs.

  “I don’t know... Something in the IT department.”

  “Hmm. Interesting,” I mumble, glancing at my laptop.

  “Too bad there are no openings,” she says.

  I cut my eyes to her.

  “There aren’t?”

  “They call people for interviews, keep their names on file, but there aren’t any actual jobs. At least not now. They may have an opening in a month or so.”

  “Oh...” I say, my voice filled with glaring disappointment.

  “Yeah. So that’s it. No more of him. Sorry.”

  She raises her arms in the air, twirls again and vanishes out the door.

  I lean back into my chair, suddenly feeling bereft.

  2

  VIOLET

  The sex wasn’t bad, although I don’t have a point of reference.

  My marital sex wasn’t sterling by any stretch of the imagination, not that it necessarily needs to be, or is in fact for most people.

  For Brad, my ex-husband, and me, sex was just another thing we’d checked off the list so we could focus on serious issues like work and family commitments.

  He’d never given sex much thought as long as it was neatly fitted into our schedule and matched the average frequency of our age group. By that, I mean his group.

  Our sexual encounters were far from spontaneous, romantic, or lustful, and needless to say they were never adventurous. They were carefully planned and conveniently squeezed into the wee hours of the day when the hard-ons were a given and my sleepiness a bonus.