Made To Love

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Made To Love Playlist

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Excerpts

  About The Author

  MADE TO LOVE

  Copyright © 2017 by SM West

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  First Edition - April 2017

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9953375-1-0

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage or retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic, photocopying, mechanical or otherwise, without express permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, story lines and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, events, locales or any events or occurrences are purely coincidental.

  This book is for your personal enjoyment only. Please respect the author’s work by not contributing to piracy and purchasing a copy for those you wish to share it with.

  Cover Design by Najla Qamber Designs

  www.najlaqamberdesigns.com

  Edited by C. Marie

  Proofread by M. Ute Editing

  Interior Design & Formatting by Jersey Girl Design

  www.jerseygirlandco.com

  Other Books by S.M. West

  Red (Love in Color #1)

  Love Happens Anthology - Hitch

  To my muse, for making fantasies a recipe for lasting love.

  Made To Love Playlist

  LISTEN ON SPOTIFY

  “Leather Jacket” – Arkells

  “Here Comes The Night Time” – Arcade Fire

  “Starving” – Hailee Steinfeld

  “Roses” – The Chainsmokers

  “Reflektor” – Arcade Fire

  “Electric Love” – BØRNS

  “Fragile” – Kygo, Labrinth

  “I Wanna Be Adored” – The Stone Roses

  “The One” – Kodaline

  “Can’t Help Falling in Love” – Haley Reinhart

  “Scars to Your Beautiful” – Alessia Cara

  “The Drugs Don’t Work” – The Verve

  “Mercy” – Shawn Mendes

  “Just Say Yes” – Snow Patrol

  “R U Mine?” – Arctic Monkeys

  “You & Me” – Marc E. Bassy, G-Eazy

  “Love Me Now” – John Legend

  “The Best Day of My Life” – American Authors

  “If she’s amazing, she won’t be easy.

  If she’s easy, she won’t be amazing.

  If she’s worth it, you won’t give up.

  If you give up, you’re not worthy.”

  Bob Marley, Guitar Songbook

  Olivia

  “I hate you,” I seethe as beads of sweat trickle down my forehead, the salty fluid stinging my eyes. A few drop onto the gym mat as I push up to stand, completing what feels like my millionth burpee.

  Jonah chuckles, playfully tapping the sole of my right runner with the tip of his shoe. Now in my final rep, down in plank position, I prepare to do yet another push-up. His nudge only serves to grate on my nerves, which is most definitely his intent.

  In a singsong tone, he replies, “Stop being a cry baby and give ‘em to me, darlin’.” His apparent amusement at my distress only pisses me off more. “Keep your elbows tight to your body,” he directs in his back-to-business tone.

  A snarl slips from my parched lips. “Seriously, I fucking hate you,” I say as I pant, collapsing into a puddle of mush. My body is a mass of overworked, inoperable muscles. With my face planted in the sticky, smelly vinyl mat—gross—I’m unable to move, even if I wanted to.

  “My, my, you’re a catty one today, swearing and all. Liv, cut the sass. We’re almost done,” he says light-heartedly in his southern twang. My disgruntled nature during a workout is nothing new to him. In fact, if I were anything but, he’d be surprised.

  Placing my water bottle on the floor beside my lifeless body, he chuckles again as I longingly gaze at the appealing clear liquid. The thought of the cool water coating my dry lips and tongue, sliding down my scratchy throat is practically orgasmic. If only I could pick the damn thing up. Though a seemingly simple task, lifting my arms right now is like raising the Titanic—insurmountable. I can’t wrap my head around the command. Nothing, body or mind, works. I’m wiped.

  “I don’t suppose you’d help me with the water?” I ask, my voice sickeningly sweet. “Like, say, lifting my head and pouring it down my throat?”

  “Would you like me to swallow for you too?” he deadpans, one eyebrow raised, hands on his lean hips.

  “No, I think I could handle that part,” I sarcastically quip with a slight grin. I manage to raise my head a few inches off the floor and smile weakly at my torturer.

  His blue eyes twinkle at the hilarity of my exhaustion. He’s seen me at my worst, my current incapacitation is nothing. Focusing on his outstretched hand, like a mirage in the blistering desert, I find a way to thrust my aching, protesting body into a sitting position. Lifting my hand, I gesture for him to bring his to mine. I’ve already overdone it. His beautifully sculpted arms bunch and flex as he effortlessly pulls me into standing. I almost cave, forgetting to be mad, and praise him for the assist.

  “You’re a tyrant,” I grumble instead, belying my gratitude. Every muscle—including many I never knew existed—screams in agony. I’m going to be sore tomorrow, and probably more so the next day. The thought has me groaning in dread. I’ll be back in his torture chamber in less than forty-eight hours.

  What the hell am I doing to myself? Oh, yeah, I’m getting fit and healthy, putting myself first for once in my life. I got myself into this mess, and now I’m paying for it. I’m intent on cleaning up my body, mind, and spirit.

  Okay, I didn’t do it all by myself, but I was certainly a participant in my downward spiral, though a reluctant and unwitting one. I did the unthinkable and equated my worth to the actions of another—a man, no less. I shudder at the thought, at my stupidity. In my defense, I was in love. I was entrenched in a long-term relationship and had a family to think about. Nevertheless, the fact of the matter is, I lost sight of me. I stopped caring about my appearance, my health, my life, and my dreams.

  Shit, how did I end up down the rabbit hole of negative thoughts so fast? Oh yes, Jonah—I blame him. Wanting to inflict as much pain as I’m physically drowning in at this moment, I set my sights on him. What better person to direct my wrath at than the one who put me here?

  “I believe you meant trainer, not tyrant. Come on, I’ll give you a quick rub down. You better have a nice, long, hot-as-you-can-take-it bath with Epsom salts tonight. You were great today. You gave
it your all, and you’ll be feeling it,” he says matter-of-factly.

  “Nope, tyrant fits better. And yes, I’m well aware I’ll be in hell tonight and definitely tomorrow, thanks to you.” I lightly swat his rock-hard bicep and delicately walk toward the massage table. This is the best part of my daily dose of exercise.

  Jonah Carson isn’t cheap, but he’s highly recommended as the go-to personal trainer to reshape your mind and body. With a waiting list as long as my arm, I was fortunate to jump to the front of the line because of a referral from one of his longest and dearest clients, my best friend Tamsin.

  At first, I hemmed and hawed about hiring him. He was expensive, way more than some of the other trainers I interviewed, and I needed to be frugal with my money. I was no longer a stay-at-home mom with a husband as the sole breadwinner. I had a new life and a new business. Still, with my life upended and my whole focus on getting back on track, my health was important.

  I am worth it.

  Then I met Jonah and all my reservations flew out the window. Twelve years my junior, this sweet and sexy man from Nashville was mesmerizing. I was a goner, and not in a sexual way. If I was going to have a personal trainer, I wanted him. His body was a work of art. While I’m not going for perfection, I certainly wouldn’t mind firm, defined muscles like his, and fewer bumps and bulges.

  I fell hook, line, and sinker once we started talking. We clicked instantly. I saw in him someone who would push me to be my best, yet also understood that I was vulnerable. I had a ton of work ahead of me, and shedding forty pounds would be the easy part; I also had all my negative talk and baggage to eliminate. I was rebuilding my confidence and rediscovering me.

  It was the way he spoke to me that drew me in. The way his eyes and tone softened as he asked me why I wanted to lose the weight, I could tell his meaning was deeper. He wanted to know my reasons beyond changing my physical appearance. I knew he would know when to be hard on me and when to go soft. On Jonah’s part, as he’s said many times since, he recognized in me the determination and sarcastic sass ingrained in him. He often comments that I’m the sister he never had.

  So together with my lawyer, we worked the expense into my alimony. Truthfully, my ex-husband, Pete, didn’t begrudge me anything in the divorce. In fact, he would have given me everything if I’d asked. I think he figured—or wished—if he gave me what I wanted, I’d stay.

  Strong hands deftly work the backs of my thighs and calves, kneading and massaging my tight, sore muscles. My moans are slow, lingering, and uncontrollable. By now, Jonah’s unfazed by my inappropriate sounds. At first, when we’d started this exciting love-hate relationship…okay, there isn’t any hate; you simply can’t hate Jonah—although there are moments almost daily where I plot his death as he tirelessly works me to the bone. Even with all of that, his intent comes from a loving place.

  Where was I? Oh yeah, back to my moans. The first few times he administered his massage, he shamelessly snickered at my noises to the point of tears streaming down his rugged face. Between his fits of laughter, he stated that I was like a porno soundtrack; “one horny vixen” was how he put it. In the beginning, I was uncomfortable and embarrassed. Try as I might, it is hard to control my vocal enthusiasm for his magical hands—and yes, I know that sounds all kinds of wrong.

  Yes, surprise, surprise, I’m not silent during sex either. I’ve tried, believe me. I’ve spent years trying to perfect silent sex, but I’ve failed miserably. Unless there’s something stuffed in my mouth—get your mind out of the gutter—I whimper and scream as I orgasm.

  I’d like to think Pete enjoyed my verbal satisfaction when we were married. Truth be told, I have no clue—he never said a word either way. In fact, when we had sex, he was mute. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think you need to be vocal during sex or that being silent is a no-no; it’s not about that. It’s that I never knew if my pleasure or oral encouragement turned him on or bothered him. I never knew what he felt or what he was thinking at any given moment in time, and that was the crux of it, the downfall of our twenty years of marriage. I never knew.

  Olivia

  After a scalding hot shower, a balm to my weary muscles, I feel like superwoman—strong and sexy. This is why I keep coming back. Yes, the results are motivational and I do love Jonah, but it’s the inner strength and confidence I can’t get anywhere else that keep me coming back for more.

  It also helps that I love the reflection in the mirror. This new outfit rocks. The downside of losing weight is having to constantly buy new clothes until I get to my ideal weight. Okay, I’ll shut it—there is no downside to getting closer to your goal.

  Gazing in the full-length mirror, I admire my most recent purchase. As I twirl around, my lips curve up into a smile at my image. The flouncy hem of my red pencil skirt swirls in parallel with the white peplum knit top like the blooming of a flower. My ensemble is figure flattering, oozing feminine charm yet also appears professional, and my strappy black high heels make the outfit complete. Yes, this will definitely do for my meeting with a prospective client. I seriously need to land this account.

  As I head out, my phone buzzes with an incoming text. Glancing at it as I descend the stairs, it’s Pete, my ex. It’s his third text today asking me to dinner, tonight. With the first text, I said no. He wants to rekindle our relationship—his words—but there’s nothing to rekindle. The second text I ignored, and now, I intend to do the same.

  Jonah is cleaning-up when I walk back into his home gym, wiping down the last of the equipment. His house is huge with the perfect layout to keep his home separate from his fully functional gym and yoga studio.

  “Whoo-eee,” he drawls, ending with an appreciative whistle. “You’re going to work or on a hot date?”

  “Work—why? Is it too much?” I ask, now doubting my fashion sense.

  “Hell no!” His emphatic response settles some of my uncertainty. “It’s perfect. You look gorgeous, as usual. I’ve never seen you in that outfit before.”

  “It’s new. I had to buy a few more work clothes because some of my stuff is now too big. Sin will be thrilled,” I say, stating the obvious. Since hitting Tamsin’s size, she’s been the willing recipient of my clothes that no longer fit as I move down in weight.

  Sin, her rather apt nickname, is blessed with a sinfully sexy body. She has curves that she’s never had to work at—well, that’s not completely true. After having each of her four children, she did have to watch her diet and exercise for some time. She is a tall, curvy blonde with the body of a pinup model.

  “The struggle is real,” Jonah ruefully remarks with a grin. “Lunch is ready, let’s eat.” My workout schedule varies daily. Once a week, we have lunch following my session and his private chef prepares a nutritious meal.

  He doesn’t lunch with all his clients. In fact, I’m one of only three he ever shares a meal with, and I’m fortunate to be among his close friends. Jonah’s been in Toronto for five years and while hugely popular professionally, he’s selective with his friends.

  When he traveled north, he was following his then fiancée from Nashville to Toronto. She was accepted into the National Ballet of Canada and not long after uprooting his life, leaving his family, friends, and business for her, she cheated on him with another dancer. Though devastated, he stayed to make a go of it.

  Jonah met Tamsin because of his ex. Sin was a costume designer, working with the National Ballet at the time. They met at an after party and immediately hit it off, so much so that Sin became his client, and that’s saying a lot because she would rather peel off her skin than exercise.

  The meal is delicious, as always. Emeline has made one of my favorites: salmon avocado maki with mango sorbet for dessert. Chewing his sushi, Jonah asks, “So who are you meeting dressed like that?”

  Staring at him, I try to decipher the meaning behind his words. “A new client, hopefully. She’s opening a boutique hotel and needs an interior designer. Why?”

  “She? It’s a woman?”
he clarifies, running a hand through his stark white-blond hair.

  “Yes,” I answer warily, not sure what he’s getting at, though I’m pretty sure I won’t like it. “Why?”

  He quirks an eyebrow at my tone, a grin creeps across his face, softening his chiseled jaw. “Just curious. You’re hot and I’m wondering if I have to worry or not.” I open my mouth to object but he barrels on. “Come out with me and a few of the guys tonight. Brad will be there, I think you’ll like him. I know he’ll like you.” His eyes approvingly rove my body. “He’s a good guy.”

  Shaking his silly suggestion off, I look him straight in the eye, blatantly expressing my annoyance at having this conversation again. “No, thanks. Brad’s closer to my son’s age than mine,” I hiss. “And last time I checked, I’m an adult. I don’t need you worrying or taking care of me. Thanks, but no thanks.”

  Tossing the napkin on the table, I rise, not upset, just frustrated. I don’t want to go through all this again.

  “Liv, don’t go. You haven’t had dessert yet,” he protests. “Millie will have my balls if you leave without having the sorbet, she knows how much you love it.”

  “Well, you should’ve thought of that before you decided to play matchmaker for the hundredth time. J, you need to get this through your thick skull: I’m not interested. I’ll never go out with a man younger than me,” I declare. “And I’ve told you that many times, so please listen.”

  “All right, all right,” he says, walking toward me with his hands up in surrender. “Sorry. I just think you’re selling yourself short. Who cares about age? You’re a beautiful woman, inside and out. Any man, no matter his age, would be a fool to not want to go out with you,” he places his arms on my shoulders.

  My hands wrap around his strong forearms, anchoring myself to this magnificent man who cares about me. Gazing into his loving eyes, I reply, “Thank you. I love you and appreciate you being the president of the Olivia Cassidy fan club. I’m just not ready to date, and even when I am, I’ll never date a younger man.”