Crave Page 4

  I hate it.

  It’s wrong. I know it’s wrong but I can’t help it. I want to be powerless here. To have no control. My choice stripped away. To be overpowered so I won’t be responsible. If I don’t tell him my safe word, I can ignore that I don’t want to say it. That I want what he’ll give me, more than I want to walk away.

  My mind goes unbidden to that night when John died—when I’d had all those choices stripped away from me. That I want them now fills me with shame.

  Instantly, my eyes well.

  All at once, Michael transforms in front of me. His knee moves from between my thighs. His hand on my waist gentles and his tortuous fingers leave my breast. He steps away but brushes away the tears that have slipped onto my cheeks. “Those will work too.”

  I blink, my throat closing over. “I’m sorry.”

  “Want to tell me about it?” His voice is soft, but it still sends another wave of tingles down my back.

  I shake my head. “I need to leave.”

  “Why?” His large palm slowly slides up and down my spine, and I want to melt into him.

  “Because this is wrong.” I order my feet to move away, but they stay rooted to the floor as though nailed into the concrete.

  “Don’t bullshit me.”

  The sharpness of his tone has my head jerking up and my sadness retreating to the background.

  His gaze narrows. “It’s right, and that’s what’s got you so spooked.”

  Of course, he’s correct. The chemistry between us is so strong it crackles like electricity, but I can barely admit it to myself, let alone him. Instead, I offer up a feeble, “You don’t know anything about me.”

  “I know what’s important.” He leans in close and I suck in the scent of him, noticing for the first time he smells delicious. An intoxicating mix of spice, sex and danger that makes my head spin.

  “I can give you what you need.” His fingers twine around my throat and squeeze. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to feel the threat, and respond with another surge of powerful lust.

  “Not what you want—” His mouth dips perilously close to mine. “What you need.”

  It takes every ounce of willpower I have not to lift my lips the rest of the way to his, which my instincts warn he’s waiting for. I manage to resist.

  In the end, it’s the image of John’s face that stops me.

  “And it scares the hell out of you,” he murmurs in a low tone that rasps along my nerve endings.

  His accuracy is dead-on and it fuels my determination to get back on firm footing. I steel my spine. “You don’t know anything about what I need.”

  Liar.

  His palm, so hot it almost seers my skin, grasps my bare thigh. I bite my lower lip so I don’t moan in ecstasy. He squeezes, and then roughly shoves his fingers between my legs. My cheeks heat as he glides over my soaking flesh. Those hazel eyes meet mine. “Yeah, I can see that.”

  The muscles in my legs relax fractionally, almost against my will. I want his touch so bad it’s like an ache. His hand is big, his fingers thick and slightly callused. Rough, worker hands that feel like heaven on my skin.

  I gasp with pleasure as his thumb strokes my clit. “Do you taste as good as you look? As you feel?”

  In the distant recesses of my mind I try and formulate a sentence that will make it clear mouths aren’t on the table, but my thoughts scatter every time his thumb circles the hard bundle of nerves between my thighs.

  As odd as it sounds, I rarely come from my trips to the club, yet out of nowhere the orgasm rises in me like a tsunami. Panic sweeps through me, combining with my desire as his movements become rougher. Harder. More insistent and controlling. That he manages to handle me so effortlessly frightens and excites me to an almost unbearable pitch. My eyes go wide and like a compulsion, I meet his intent gaze just as the climax starts to swell.

  Abruptly, he pulls away and the wave that would push me over the edge recedes. He slowly raises glistening fingers to his mouth and sucks.

  I pull in a deep breath, taking in the scent of my arousal that clings to the air. It should look cheesy and pornish, but he manages to make it look like the most erotic thing I’ve ever witnessed.

  When he’s finished, he reaches for me, curling his hand around my neck. His thumb brushes first my cheek and then my lips. The essence of my desire seeps into my skin and I’m completely hypnotized.

  Another stroke of his thumb over my overheated flesh. “We’re not gonna play by your rules.”

  It’s like a slap in the face.

  I viciously pull away, batting at his hands. The reasons for my rules come crashing to the forefront. They serve a vital purpose. They’re for protection. From men like him.

  “My rules are the only ones that matter.” My voice shakes with the force of my fear. Fear that he’ll stay. Fear that he’ll leave. I shouldn’t want him to stay. That I desperately do causes me to add rashly, “If you don’t like them, you can leave.”

  His lips curve into a cruel smirk. “Sugar, if I leave, you’ll be hating yourself in an hour.”

  I square my shoulders and my chin tilts with defiance. “In an hour you’ll be replaced.”

  He laughs. Actually laughs.

  Anger is added to my already volatile pile of emotions. “You don’t think I’ll do it?”

  He shrugs as though completely unconcerned. “Even if you do, it will leave you empty and unfulfilled.”

  “You can’t possibly be that arrogant.”

  “I’ve seen you. I know how you operate.”

  The admission surprises me. I’ve never seen him and he’d be impossible to miss. “Have you been watching me?”

  His eyes flash, turning them more green then gold. “I’ve been biding my time.”

  Before I can get lost pondering what that could possibly mean, I force myself back on track. “Then you understand it’s my way or no way.”

  The statement hangs in the air, suspended between us.

  His lips quirk. “All right, no way it is.”

  My heart hammers against my ribs as though pounding to get free and stop this madness. The urge to take it all back clogs my throat. I grind my teeth to keep the words where they belong.

  He turns away.

  My stomach drops, churning. I clench my hands into tight fists to keep from reaching for him.

  He’s leaving. His absolute control over the situation infuriates me.

  Just as I want to scream, he swings back around.

  I feel a split second of overwhelming relief that’s quickly dashed by the hard jut of his chin. That is not the face of compromise.

  “Saturday night.” The words a clipped, almost military command.

  “What?” I sputter.

  “Be here, Saturday night.”

  “I won’t.” Goddamn him. Again, he’s making it up to me. My decision.

  His jaw firms into a hard, unforgiving line. “You will.”

  My fucking choice. “This is your only chance.”

  “You keep telling yourself that.”

  I hate him. And want him. “I won’t be here.”

  I can’t be.

  “We’ll see who’s right Saturday.” And with that, he walks into the crowd without a backward glance.

  I search the throngs of people that have somehow materialized while I was lost in my own little world, but he’s gone.

  And, once again, I am alone.

  By noon the next day I’m a wreck.

  He was right. Within an hour I hated myself. I’d gone home alone, just as he’d predicted. After my encounter with him, no one else would do. The second I walked through the door, I collapsed on my bed and rubbed my clit frantically to an explosive orgasm, so powerful my hips came off the bed and I cried out.

  After, I sobbed.

  I hadn’t thought of John. Not even for a moment.

  I’d thought of cruel lips, strong, high cheekbones, and hypnotic hazel eyes. I thought of his calloused thumb moving in deliberate circles
, and how he sucked his fingers clean. I thought of his hand on my throat. The tight grasp on my hip. And how much I wanted his mouth on mine.

  For the first time, I had an orgasm that hadn’t included John. The guilt is like the dull blade of a knife. I’ve shattered the connection between us and I want it back. I need it.

  The pull of Michael is too strong. He’s like a drug, and I cannot prove him right. Not again. I haven’t felt this volatile since John’s death, and the fact that I didn’t get my fix isn’t helping matters. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if I’d gotten some relief, but instead, I’m almost manic in my desperation.

  I need a plan of action, because I cannot be at that club tomorrow.

  Impulsively, I schedule an emergency session with my shrink. Not because I think Dr. Sorenson can help, but because she’s the only one I can tell the truth. The only one who knows my dirty little secret. She’s my confessional. My nonjudgmental calm in the eye of my emotional storm.

  After I get time on her calendar later this afternoon, I pick up the phone and quickly dial my best friend, Ruby Stiles. She picks up on the second ring and I get straight to the point. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”

  “I have Nanna’s eightieth birthday party.” Her voice has a smoky rasp that perfectly complements her femme fatale dark-haired looks.

  “Shit!” The word a hard, angry bite. Too late I realize my reaction is out of proportion to a night spent alone. My usual preference.

  “What’s wrong?” Since my friends normally have to drag me out by my hair, she naturally assumes something is amiss.

  She’s right. Not that I’d dream of telling her why. She might be my best friend, but she has no idea about my late-night activities. And despite Ruby’s live-outside–the-box philosophy, I doubt she’d understand.

  “Nothing,” I answer quickly, wanting to reassure her, but my frantic impatience bleeds through.

  I have to find something to do. There is no way I can sit home by myself.

  “Where were you last night? I called.” Her tone is filled with concern.

  I never looked at my messages. I should know better, considering I’m on the watch list. Not wanting to raise any additional suspicions, I lie. “I was home. I didn’t feel like talking.”

  That’s entirely within character.

  “Are you sure? You sound strange.” Ruby and I met our freshman year of college when we were paired as roommates. Two good girls from the suburbs on our own for the first time, we were fast friends and she knows me better than anyone. But, like the rest of them, I’ve hidden the full extent of what happened, and what I’ve become as a result. She’s always been there for me. Even during the worst of my grief, she held my hand those first few months, staying over, shaking me awake from my violent nightmares and soothing me back to sleep.

  I blink, taking in a quick intake of breath. I hadn’t dreamed last night.

  Why hadn’t I dreamed? I always have the dream.

  “Layla?” Her voice even more worried now that I failed to answer.

  “I’m fine. What’s Julie doing?” Not a close friend, but she knows all the best hot spots and is able to walk right into any club, regardless of the line. A luxury afforded by her father’s name and her gorgeous, Nordic good looks.

  A long, silent, assessing pause. I’ve gotten use to them. It’s what people do when they’re deciding whether or not you’re too fragile to push. Finally, after what seems an endless wait, she says, “You want to go out…with Julie?”

  “Yes,” I snap, no longer caring that I sound like a lunatic. “Is it so hard to believe I want to go out and have a good time?”

  “Well, yeah.”

  I don’t blame her for this. Everyone assumes I spend all my nights home in isolation, refusing to get on with my life. Which is what I normally do, except for when I cave. “I want to go out. You should be happy, isn’t that progress?”

  In my desperation, I’m not remotely convincing.

  Another long stretch of dead air. “Layla, what is wrong?”

  “Nothing!”

  “Look, I’m singing tonight over at The Whisky, meet me there and afterward we can talk.”

  I blow out a hard breath filled with frustration. Tonight doesn’t solve my problem. An image of Michael’s face fills my mind; so crystal clear I can almost reach out and touch it. Unlike my fiancé’s image that grows more and more fuzzy as the days drag on.

  What I need is a plan for tomorrow because I cannot go to the club. Obligated to appease Ruby’s concern, since she’s tried so hard to help me, I’m trapped into agreeing. I don’t want to raise any more suspicion. “Yeah, sure.”

  “Okay, I go on at nine. Don’t blow me off.”

  She knows me too well. “I won’t.”

  As soon as we hang up, I scan through my phone’s contact list, searching for someone—anyone—to go out with. I start making calls. One by one I’m met with sad, I’m-so-sorry-I-have-other-plans-already responses.

  I want to scream in frustration.

  It’s like the gods are conspiring against me—which makes no sense—I have zero willpower right now, why aren’t they helping? Don’t they understand how important it is that I stay strong? If I can just get through Saturday night, I’ll never see him again. It’s forty-eight hours. Then, after it’s over, and the threat of him is gone, I can relax and start again.

  With someone safe. Who will stick to my rules and won’t make me forget.

  All of my options exhausted, I’m near frantic. I have to do something. Anything. I’d go to my parents’ house, but they go to bed at nine, and that’s too much time left on my own. I will cave. I’m too weak to resist, and Michael is too addictive to ignore.

  I already miss his hands on my skin.

  The notion of missing any other touch but John’s is so jarring, one last-ditch, desperate option comes to me. It’s the worst option, but still, better than the alternative.

  Besides, it will help my family, and that’s worth something.

  I pick up the phone one last time.

  This has to work.

  My sister answers in a half of a ring, rushing headlong into contrite. “Layla, thank god you called, we’ve been worried sick about you.”

  In my panic, I’ve forgotten all about the calls from my family, each one more anxious than the last. “I’m fine.”

  How many times have I uttered those words? Too many times to count.

  “You were so upset. I’m sorry I pushed you. It’s just that we’re all so worried about you.”

  “Don’t be worried. I’m fine. I’m the one that should be sorry. You were only trying to help.” I was cruel to her yesterday. Needlessly harsh. But I’m about to make it all up to her. I take a deep, cleansing breath and try to calm down, unable to believe I’m about to do this.

  But there’s no other choice.

  “We only want what’s best for you,” April says, in her soft, apologetic tone.

  “Sure, I know.” I don’t want to go into this right now. My mental health, the state of my grief, I’m just so sick of it. I rush headlong into the purpose of my call. “Listen, about yesterday.” The words are like tar in my throat, but I manage to spit them out. “You mentioned Derrick knows a guy at work.”

  The line becomes so quiet you could hear a pin drop. “Yes, Chad.”

  “If he can get together tomorrow night, I’ll go.”

  “Something’s happened.” The first confession of my inner turbulence lightens some of the tightness in my chest. Just saying it, and getting it out of my crazy head, is a relief.

  I’m on Dr. Sorenson’s subdued, sage couch as she sits across from me on her swivel chair, notebook in hand, pen at the ready. A nonthreatening, attractive champagne blonde in her mid-forties, she flashes me a pleasant, closed-mouthed, professional smile. “Go on.”

  I lower my gaze to my lap and twist the thin silver, etched band around my right finger. John gave me the ring for my college graduation. I put it on to help me re
establish the threads of connection broken last night. To remind me of what’s important. “I went to the club.”

  I hear the scratching of ballpoint pen across paper and imagine her writing something like—Still no progress! Triple underlined.

  I swallow and go on. “I…met someone…someone dangerous.”

  “Dangerous?” she asks, her tone banal.

  I glance back at her, and she appears completely unruffled. Her hair is in a smooth, sleek ponytail, her makeup neutral, warm brown tones that match her knee-length rust-colored skirt and cream, button-down blouse. There’s no alarm on her face, no surprise. Her expression gives away nothing.

  “I felt…” I trail off, not sure how to explain.

  “You felt?”

  I swallow hard. “Threatened. Unsafe.”

  She shifts on the chair, and leans forward ever so slightly. “Did it bring back the flashbacks of the attack?”

  I shake my head. “No, that’s not what I mean.”

  Her head tilts to the side, encouraging me without words to continue.

  “I met a man, and I felt something.” Such inadequate words to describe what went down with Michael last night.

  “Go on.” One of her favorite phrases.

  “He made me forget. About—” tears well in my eyes, “—John.”

  She expertly plucks a tissue from the box sitting on the coffee table that separates us and hands it over to me. “And how did that make you feel?”

  “Like I betrayed him.”

  “How?”

  She already knows, but I suspect she wants me to sort out and unravel all of my complicated emotions. I realize my cheeks are wet and I swipe them with the Kleenex. “The club isn’t for feelings.”

  “I see.” She once again leans back on her high-back leather chair. “And what is it for?”

  Punishment. The word pops into my mind like blown glass, so startling and contrary to anything I ever thought, I can only freeze in the face of it.

  A second later, the idea shatters into a million shards.

  It cements my determination to stay far away from the club, because in that one moment of absolute clarity, I can see how Michael will change me on a fundamental level.

  And I can’t have that. Not with someone like him.