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  By

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The author has asserted their rights under the Copyright Designs and Patent Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book.

  Copyright © 2015 Jennifer Dawson

  Edited by Mary Moran

  Cover Design by Alvania Scarborough

  All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

  Dedication

  To my husband, who has loved and supported me, and all my craziness, for over twenty years.

  To Lizbeth, our walk and talks gave me the strength and peace of mind to walk this path.

  Special Thanks to Alvania Scarborough.

  No book is created alone and that is especially true here. Thank you for holding my hand, walking me through this crazy process, believing in my writing, and the thousands of conversations we’ve had over the years that brought us to this point. You’re the best!

  Praise for Jennifer Dawson

  “TAKE A CHANCE ON ME is a captivating, lighthearted story from the first page to the last.”- Cocktails and Books

  “Witty repartee, memorable secondary characters, and powerful attraction skillfully handled will have readers eager for the next in the series” TAKE A CHANCE ON ME– Publisher Weekly

  I loved this novel (Take A Chance on Me). Mitch and Maddie are perfect together, and their story is a feel good, sexy read. – Love Reading Romance

  “THE WINNER TAKES IT ALL was pure bliss to read. I loved the writing, the dialogue, the banter and I absolutely adored the characters.” - The Sassy Booster

  “If wicked banter, a little heat and family gatherings make you smile, I totally recommend the Something New series.”- Caffeinated Book Reviewer

  “I loved Cece and Shane together. From their first scene in this book (Winner Takes It All) their connection and chemistry was evident”- A Fortress of Books

  “Dawson draws a clear picture of a high-powered romance…The titillating sex scenes feel like lost souls coming together.” THE WINNER TAKES IT ALL – Publisher Weekly

  Welcome to Crave, the first novel in the Undone Series

  I vow. I crave. I give in.

  I used to be a nice, normal girl. I had dreams. Good, happy dreams of a white picket fence, 2.5 kids, and a fairytale love that lasts forever. Nobody ever warned me that sometimes, the prince dies three weeks before the wedding.

  Like any addict, I swear this time is the last….

  Now, I go through my days, a shadow of my former self. I pretend I’m okay, and the people in my life pretend to believe me. But, sometimes, when I can no longer stand the craving, I roam an underground sex club looking for my next hit. It’s dirty and wrong, but I can’t stop, and my only line of defense between them and me, is the rules I’ve designed to keep me safe. The men always abide by my rules. Until I meet him.

  And, like any addict, I’m wrong.

  I don’t question the instincts that tell me to run. One look at him, standing there, power radiating off him in waves, tells me all I need to know. He will make me crave those happy dreams I’ve left behind. And that is not an option.

  Want to be notified of new releases, read exclusive experts, and get a chance to win free books and prizes?

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  Check out Jennifer’s contemporary romance series, Something New

  Take A Chance on Me

  The Winner Takes It All

  The Name of the Game (coming September 2015)

  Books in the Undone Series

  Crave

  Sinful (coming Fall 2015)

  To purchase or learn more about Jennifer Dawson’s books check out her books:

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication & Special Thanks

  Praise for Jennifer Dawson

  Blurb

  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

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Sneak Peek of Sinful

  About the Author

  Eleven P.M.

  Two months. Five days. Twenty-one hours.

  It’s my new record although I have no sense of accomplishment. No, I’m resigned as I walk down the dark, deserted alley. The heels of my knee-high, black patent boots click against the cracked concrete in echo of my defeat. The distant sounds of the bass thuds in my ears in time to the heavy beat of my heart.

  My own personal staccato of failure.

  I’m not sure why it’s always a surprise. Maybe because, at first, my conviction is so strong. By now my pattern is long and established—I vow, I crave, I give in.

  Rinse. Repeat.

  But, like any good addict, I always swear this time is the last.

  Of course, I try. My therapist has given me “management tools” to get me through the hard times, and like a good patient, I follow her instructions to a tee—I meditate, do yoga, and write all my crappy feelings in the journal she insists I keep.

  Only, it’s backfired and become part of the ritual. When the cycle starts, it’s a matter of time before I end up here.

  I’m sure when John brought me to this underground club the first time, he’d never envisioned I’d be back on my own, wandering through the crowds, looking for my next fix. The club reminds me of him, and I wish I could go somewhere else so I wouldn’t be confronted with my betrayal, but I don’t have a choice. There aren’t ads for places like this. Or maybe there are and I don’t know where to look.

  Swift and sudden, anger clogs my throat, and for a split second I hate him for changing me so irrevocably, and leaving me so permanently. Fast on the heels of anger, the guilt wells, so powerful it brings a sting of tears to my eyes. In the pockets of my black trench coat, my nails dig crescents into my palms.

  I push away the emotions. Exhaling harshly, my breath fogs the air as I spot a hint of the red door that signals both my refuge and my hell. I hear the muffled hum of music that will crescendo once I’m inside to pump through me like a heartbeat.

  My pace quickens along with my pulse.

  As much as I hate giving in, I can’t deny my relief. Once I step through that door, I don’t have to pretend. I don’t have to be normal.

  The tension, riding me all day, distracting me in meetings, making me wander off in the middle of conversations, ebbs. A twisted excitement slicks my thighs as the bare skin under my skirt tingles.

  I haven’t bothered with panties. It makes things easier, quicker. Less about getting off and more about taking care of business.

  I have
on my usual club fare: short, black pleated skirt that leaves a stretch of thigh before my stockings start. A sheer, white silk blouse that’s unbuttoned low enough to show the lace of my red demi-bra. My lips are slicked with crimson and my dark chestnut hair is a tumble of shiny waves down my back.

  My outfit is carefully orchestrated. I leave as little to chance as possible.

  No leather or latex. I’m not into bondage. Chains and rope do nothing but leave me cold. Once upon a time I loved to be restrained by fingers wrapped tight around my wrists, digging into my skin, but now I can’t handle even a hint of being bound.

  I reveal plenty of smooth ivory skin, my clue to guys into body modification or knife play to stay away. I like fear, but not that kind. I want my bruises and scars hidden away, not worn like a badge of honor for the world to see.

  My wrists and neck are free of jewelry so the Masters don’t confuse me with a slave girl. I tried that scene once, thinking all their hard play and intense scenes would focus my restless energy and make me forget, but there is no longer anything submissive about me.

  I don’t want to obey. I want to fight.

  The scream leaves my throat, echoing on the walls of my bedroom, as I start awake. I jerk to a sitting position, sucking in great lungfuls of air. Drenched in sweat, I press my palm to my pounding heart, the beat so rapid it feels as though it might burst from my chest.

  I had the dream again. Not a dream—dreams are good and full of hope—no, a nightmare. The same nightmare I’ve had over and over for the last eighteen months. An endless, gut-wrenching loop that fills my sleep and leaves my days unsettled.

  I miss good dreams. Miss waking up rejuvenated. But most of all, I miss feeling safe. I’d taken those things for granted and paid the price.

  Lesson learned. Too late to change my fate, but learned none the less.

  On shaky legs I climb out of bed and pad down the hallway of my one bedroom, Lakeview condo and into the kitchen, my mind still filled with violent images and blood trickling like a lazy river down a concrete crack in the pavement.

  I go through my morning ritual, pulling a filter and coffee from the cabinets. Carefully measuring scoops of ground espresso into the basket as tears fill my eyes.

  I blink rapidly, hoping to clear the blur, but it doesn’t work, and wet tracks slide down my cheeks. But even through my fear, my ever-present grief and guilt, I can feel it. It sits heavy in my bones, familiar and undeniable.

  The want.

  The need.

  The craving that grows stronger each and every day I resist. That the dream does nothing to abate the desire sickens me.

  I know what Dr. Sorenson would say: I need to disassociate. That the events of the past, and my emotions aren’t connected, but she can’t possibly understand. Throat clogged, I brush away the tears, and angrily stab the button to start the automatic drip.

  My phone rings a short, electronic burst of sound, signaling an incoming text. I’m so grateful for the distraction from my turbulent thoughts I snatch up the device, clutching it tight as though it might run away from me.

  I open the text. It’s from my boss, Frank Moretti. CFO is leaving to “pursue other opportunities”. Need to meet 1st thing this AM to discuss.

  I sigh in relief. As the communications manager at one of Chicago’s boutique software companies this ensures a crazy day I desperately need. Frank will have me running around like a mad woman. I take a deep breath and wipe away the last of the tears on my face.

  Salvation. I won’t have time to think. Won’t have time to ponder what I’m going to do tonight. I type out my agreement and hit send, hoping against hope I’ll be too exhausted this evening to do anything but fall into a bed, dreamless.

  Too tired to give in to my drug of choice.

  My morning is filled with back-to-back meetings and I don’t sit at my desk until eleven. On autopilot, I make my way through voice mails, jotting down the calls I need to return. All the while the all too familiar ache has only grown more insistent.

  The morning’s pace has done nothing to ease the tightness in my chest, or curb the craving. Other than momentary periods of respite, it’s distracting me.

  Reminding me in countless little ways I can’t resist.

  My sister’s voice comes over the line, ripping me away from my thoughts. Tone light and happy, she tells me she’s looking forward to our lunch at noon. I dart a quick glance at the clock on my computer and groan.

  April is the last person I want to see.

  Not that I don’t love my sister, I do. She’s great. It’s just that being around her reminds me of all I’ve lost and how I’ll never be the person I was again. Today, I can’t bear to witness that look of expectation my family gives me, like they’re waiting for the Layla Hunter I used to be to show up. I hate the disappointment, the loss, shinning in their eyes when they search and don’t find her.

  I don’t know how to tell them I miss that girl as much as they do.

  This is not a good day to remember. Not when I miss John so much it’s a physical hurt. If he hadn’t died, I’d have been married a year and a half now, living the younger woman’s version of April’s life. Despite our dirty little secret, John and I were like every other couple we’d known in our late twenties, living in the city, having as much fun as we could before I got pregnant and we moved out to the suburbs to claim our white picket fence, four bedroom, and two and a half bath dreams.

  Unlike me, my sister’s path didn’t deviate, falling perfectly into place as she’d planned all along. Her successful executive husband adores her; my twin nieces are right out of a stock photo they’re so cute. Beautiful, golden-haired angels that break my heart every time I see them they’re so precious. April even has my dog, the Golden Retriever John and I said we’d get the second we moved out of the city and had a yard.

  His memory is close today, and with April’s call, I can see it—that charmed, blessed life I’d believed I was entitled too. A life where the evils of the world were so out of my hemisphere I’d never dreamed they’d happen to me.

  Obviously, I was wrong.

  Panic fills my chest, breathless in its intensity. I look down to realize I’m clicking the button on the top of my pen over and over. Stilling my restless fingers, I take a deep calming breath. Counting to twenty as Dr. Sorenson has taught me.

  I can’t go to lunch with April. Not today of all days when I need so badly what John used to give me that it’s a dull, persistent ache.

  I dart a quick glance at the clock and pick up the phone. I might be able to catch her. But then I recall I canceled on her two times before. My sister might be a happy little homemaker, but she’s no pushover, if I cancel again, she’ll come drag me to lunch by my hair.

  I swallow all of my turbulent emotions threatening to bubble over and drop the receiver back into its cradle. Resigned.

  I spot April already waiting for me in the little French bistro two blocks away from my work. She wears a worried, uneasy expression as her gaze darts around the room. As soon as she spots me she beams, flashing her trademark, million-dollar smile.

  My stomach tightens as I walk toward her. She looks gorgeous and the sight of her makes me feel like a poor carbon copy of my former self.

  While we have the same clear, sky-blue eyes, she’s a California blonde to my brunette. Today she’s wearing a casual dress the exact color of red autumn leaves falling to the ground outside. The simple cut, and jersey fabric, skims her body kept toned by walks and grueling sessions of hot yoga. It highlights golden skin, sun-kissed from her recent four-day jaunt to Naples, Florida, for a little alone time with her husband, Derrick. She radiates good health.

  In essence, my complete opposite.

  She throws her arms out in greeting and I begrudgingly step into her embrace.

  “You look wonderful,” she says, squeezing me tight.

  Liar. I look horrible. Lifeless and flat in the light of her glowing, earth goddess warmth.

  “So do you,
” I mummer back, except I mean it. I suck in her scent. She smells like flowers and sunshine. Achingly familiar, so reminiscent of a time hovering out of my reach, I want to stay in her embrace forever.

  But, of course, I don’t. I break away and step back. Her lightly raspberry-stained mouth tucks down at the corners, her hands still resting on my arms as though she means to pull me in for another hug.

  I tug away, retreating to the safety of my seat.

  Her lips press together, but then she flashes me another brilliant smile, and settles into the chair across from me. She lays her crisp, white linen napkin daintily across her lap before looking at me. And I catch it, the hope shining in her eyes.

  I pick up the menu resting across my plate and stare at the words without reading. An awkward silence, which never existed between us before, fills the empty space.

  April clears her throat. “How are you?”

  “Good.” Another lie. Today, I am drowning. “Work’s crazy.”

  “I’m glad you were able to get away, you need a break, Layla.”

  I put down the menu. “I’m fine.”

  I want to reassure her. If we have a good lunch, she’ll be able to report back to my mother that I’m making progress. Peace might elude me, but I want it for them.

  The frown makes another appearance, but before April can say anything, our waiter comes over and places a big bottle of sparkling water down on the table. Young, with a mess of golden-streaked hair, and the chiseled bone structure of a model, he’s all fresh-faced innocence. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  My sister orders a glass of white wine.

  I shake my head and he disappears into the lunchtime crowd, leaving us alone with our uncomfortable silence.

  I manage a smile and settle on the safest possible subject, one guaranteed to make my sister forget her worry. “How are the girls?”

  Her whole face lights up. “Their dance recital is in a couple of weeks and they love their costumes so much I can’t get them to take them off.” She picks up her phone and swipes over the screen before holding it out to me.