When the Night Falls: Where Jasmines Bloom

The last word was lost in a yelp as his cock slammed into me again.

I couldn’t talk after that.

It was all I could do to grip his sweaty, muscular arms and hold on for dear life.

His thrusts sent spasms of desire coursing through me, and I was actually seeing stars.

I felt his breath growing heavier and knew he was close.

I reached up to him and captured his lips in a kiss as he picked up the momentum.

His pounding became erratic as he crested the mountain, with me right beside him.

And then his massive cock pulsed once as he flooded me with his nectar.

This spurred me on, and I felt my entire body seize up as I came all over him.

“Fuck, Jasmine,” he groaned as he slid out of me and fell onto the bed next to me.

I couldn’t help but giggle.

Even after all these years, I loved the effect I still had on him.

As my breath returned to normal, I gazed up at the gilded roof of the royal bedchamber above us.

My gaze traced the outline of the classic French architecture.

“I love you, my king,” I mumbled as I rolled into his firm chest and closed my eyes.

Theodore brushed my hair, chuckling.

Unlike most girls, I wasn’t just pumping him up when I called Theodore my king.

He was actually king now, ever since we took down his bitch of a grandmother last year.

“You know,” Theodore said thoughtfully, seeming to follow my train of thought. “You know everything about me. I’ve told you all there is to tell. But I still don’t know about you.”

At his words, I felt my body tense up.

My own past was not a topic I was eager to talk about.

I thought back to the last moment I’d seen my mom.

The furious look in her eyes.

The memory made me shiver, and I snuggled back into Theodore’s arms.

His hand snaked into my hair, gently smoothing it out.

“Let’s not talk about that,” I mumbled.

I still wasn’t sure if she would even talk to me.

I assumed she wouldn’t.

And I was happy with that.

But still, sometimes, I wanted closure.

I wanted to know that I was right to cut them off and that my mom didn’t want to make amends.

Every time I picked up the phone, however, I couldn’t bring myself to dial.

So now I just buried those feelings down and refused to talk about my past with anybody.

“I’m serious,” chuckled Theodore, putting a finger under my chin and lifting me to look up at him.

“I want to know your story.”

I gave him an incredulous look.

But his expression was serious.

Shit, I wasn’t getting out of this.

Was I?

Sighing, I rolled over so I was facing the ceiling.

And then I began.

I looked down at the scribbled set of ingredients in front of me and sighed.

Even on paper, I could tell that would be the most delicious chocolate cake you could imagine.

I could almost taste it right now, sitting at the desk in my poorly lit bedroom.

But then I swallowed, and the taste was gone.

What I wouldn’t give to be able to actually make a cake like that someday.

But my parents didn’t like the idea, of course.

Being Orthodox, they thought a woman’s place was in the kitchen, sure, but the kitchen of her home, not her restaurant.

No matter how many times I’d asked them to go to university to study business, they’d refused.

I looked furtively behind me at my open bedroom door.

Even though I was eighteen now, Dad still didn’t like it when I closed it.

So he’d made a rule: if I was in my bedroom, the door stayed open.

Still, I could always tell when one of them was coming upstairs by the creaking of the floorboards.

Our house was old, one of the oldest in Winnipeg, in fact.

I listened for a moment to make sure the coast was clear.

Then I slid quickly to my hands and knees and moved the loose floorboard just under my bed.

My parents didn’t know about it, one of my many secret hiding spots around the house.

Pulling out the little china piggy bank my mom had given me on my tenth birthday, I opened it and dumped out the contents.

A pile of notes and coins fell on my floor.

I was nowhere close.

Counting through the notes, I could tell that much.

I had about two thousand.

That wasn’t enough for… anything.

Certainly not a month of rent at any restaurant space in Canada.

Or even ingredients for a single night.

I’d just managed to move the floorboard and jump onto my bed when the looming form of my dad appeared in my doorway.

He was a hulking mass of a man and truly intimidating.

He narrowed his eyes when he saw me as if he knew I was up to something.

His eyes scanned the room, looking for the misdeed he was sure I’d perpetrated.

Then his gaze landed on the recipe notebook still open on my desk.

“Daddy, please,” I said. “Let me explain.”

“Vegan ratatouille à la Canada?” he roared, glaring down at one of my finer recipes. “You think your husband is going to want to eat this?”

“I—”

“No, you listen to me,” he bellowed. “This is for your little restaurant. Isn’t it?”

After a moment under his glare, I hung my head in shame and nodded.

He glared at me for a moment before taking the entire notebook and ripping it from its spine.

“No, Daddy! Please!” I yelled as papers cascaded across the floor.

My dad threw the notebook in my trash can and turned his ire on me.

“Get your head out of the gutter, girl.

No self-respecting man wants a woman who’s gone all day working at a restaurant.

Focus your efforts on making recipes for your future husband if you love cooking so much.”

I fought to keep tears from my eyes. “Yes, Daddy,” I nodded.

“Good,” he said, softening.

He came over and cupped my chin with his hand.

“I love you, Jasmine.

Now go downstairs. Your mom and I have a surprise for you.”

The moment I stepped into my mom’s well-kept sitting room, I knew something was wrong.

My mom, a thin and shrewd woman, was bending over the coffee table, laying the finishing touches on what appeared to be a full tea party.

I’d been called downstairs to the same sight enough times before to know what this meant.

“I’m not doing it,” I said crossly.

My mom straightened up, her expression turning to that of somebody who’d just bit into a lemon.

“You absolutely will, young lady,” she crowed back at me, making me roll my eyes.

The renewed squeaking of floorboards told me my dad had come down behind me.

“You’ve got another suitor for me?” I snapped. “I’m not interested in getting married to anybody from your church.”

My mom looked like she wanted to shout at me.

Instead, she took a deep breath and approached me with a mannered tone.

“Roger Winchester is a very smart and well-connected young man.

He would be a great match.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Plus,” my dad growled from behind me. “He’s doing you a big favor by considering you to be his bride.

You’ve developed a reputation at church, Jasmine.

You’re the stuck-up girl that no man wants.

So you should be glad he’s not turned off by that.”

I crossed my arms over my chest and glared between them.

I was right.

Roger Winchester was a complete and utter jackass.

He was about thirty, but he had the wrinkles of someone twice that.

And his puffy hair was already greying at the base.

He had big watery eyes, and he wheezed a little when he moved.

He was also quite a bit pudgy, although his expensive-looking business suit did a decent job hiding it.

But that wasn’t the worst thing about him.

No, the worst thing was his personality.

The moment he stepped in the door, he looked me up and down, his gaze lingering on my breasts.

Then his eyes snapped to my dad.

“Mr. Gibson,” he bellowed, giving my dad a massive dude-bro handshake.

“Good to see you.”

My mom led us to the living room and brought us all tea.

All the while, my supposed suitor spent the entire time talking loudly to my dad.

I was bored as hell.

To make matters worse, when I tried to reach out and grab a cookie that my mom had laid out, she glared at me.

The only plus from the whole afternoon was that he brought his little sister with him, Samantha.

She was pretty in a sweet, unassuming sort of way.

And she seemed to think this whole thing was just as dumb as I did.

She sat quietly behind her brother, rolling her eyes at me whenever he said something particularly stupid.

On more than one occasion, I had to stifle a laugh.

Finally, after about two hours of this misery, Roger stood up suddenly.

“Alright, Samantha, we’re leaving,” he announced.

Clearly, he wasn’t interested in me at all.

So with any luck, I’d never have to see him again.

I zoned out while he said goodbye to Dad and brushed past Mom without so much as a look.

His sister mimed his heavy footfalls behind him for my benefit.

But just when he’d reached the exit, he turned back, and his eyes found me.

He grabbed my hand and roughly brought it to his mouth, where he left a sloppy kiss.

“Okay, sweetheart. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

And then he and Samantha turned and left.

“What’s tomorrow?” I asked, uneasy.

I really thought I wouldn’t have to deal with him.

My mom turned to me, beaming.

“He’s invited us all over for dinner to meet his parents.”

I gasped, entirely pulled out of my story as I felt Theodore’s strong finger slide between my legs.

“Theodore,” I said with a little gasp as it found my folds.

“Yes, Madame Miele?” he asked with a sexy little chuckle.

He pulled me towards him, and I shivered in pleasure from the contact of his muscular back.

“You just looked so sexy lying there while you were telling that story,” he groaned, slipping a finger inside of me.

“I couldn’t help it.”

His fingering sent bolts of fire coursing through me, and I moaned.