Crave Read online

  Apparently, my brother-in-law has good taste in men, because Chad Fellows is a dream of a blind date. Across from me, at a small round table, in an out-of-the-way Italian restaurant, the incredibly good-looking Chad is sitting with an easy smile on his lips. He’s clean cut, with short hair the color of melted caramel and blue eyes that dance with amusement.

  At six-one, he’s not built like a guy that spends all his time behind a computer. His shoulders are broad, his body fine, and after the time I’ve spent with him, I’m positive he doesn’t get his sex from a World of Warcraft game.

  To my surprise, I find myself attracted to him, but it’s easy and nonthreatening, nothing like the intense rush of lust and panic I experienced with Michael.

  And thank god for that. There’s room for John here.

  Over the course of the evening, I’ve found myself relaxing. Chad feels like something I understand. Comforting and hot, with a bit of bite. I genuinely like him. It’s unexpected. And welcome.

  The gods have delivered the perfect distraction after all.

  We agreed to meet for drinks, but quickly moved on to dinner. Two hours later, the pasta dishes cleared away, we’re making our way through our third bottle of wine.

  I’ve only thought about Michael and the club every five minutes or so. Not bad, considering he’s fast becoming an obsession I can’t control. Which is why I need him out of my head for good.

  Instinct tells me Chad could help, and for that, I’m grateful.

  “Layla?” Chad calls from across the table, pulling me from my thoughts.

  I blink, snapping out of my fucked-up head. “Sorry.”

  “Where’d you go?” His long, tapered fingers slide up and down the length of the wine stem as though he’s caressing a lover.

  Not wanting to make an excuse, I tilt my head to the side, narrow my gaze and divert. “Why doesn’t a guy like you have a date on Saturday night?”

  He laughs, the sound as deep and smoky as the red wine we’ve been drinking. “A guy like me?”

  I’m perched on the edge between buzzed and drunk. It’s a nice place to sit and it makes flirting with Chad easy. Sitting right here, I can almost forget. Almost touch that time in my life when I was just a girl on a harmless date.

  With a smile, I shake my head. “Don’t even try that on me.”

  He shifts in his chair, and placing his elbows on the small round table, he leans in. Cast in the dim warm glow of candlelight, the sleeves of his white shirt are rolled up, and the muscles in his forearms cord and flex, drawing my attention to his lightly tanned skin.

  I’d expected this date to be a complete disaster, but it’s not. I have no desperate desire to escape. In fact, I feel a sense of safety. Like I’m cocooned in a warm glow. It’s such a relief after the violent, visceral, blood-pounding, heart-racing desire of Michael.

  Why do I keep comparing Chad and Michael? When I should be comparing Chad to John? I hate it. Hate Michael for preoccupying me.

  “Why are you frowning?” Chad asks.

  I quickly and expertly smooth my distressed expression into what I hope passes for pleasant. “Sorry, I wasn’t meaning too.”

  “What are you thinking?” Chad’s gaze dips suggestively to my mouth.

  He might not be in your face about it, but the guy has sex appeal in spades. I take a sip of my wine and let the smooth liquid slide down my throat. “Why are you diverting?”

  He gives me a long, assessing look as if deciding something before an easy smile flickers across his lips. “Truth?”

  I nod. Chad makes me long for normal. It’s so easy to pretend with him.

  Then, the man waiting for me in dark shadows pops unbidden into my head, tempting me with all the things I’ve been craving.

  Stop thinking about him, Layla. This, right here and now, is what’s important. I’ve been delivered my salvation, my escape route, and I will focus on that.

  Chad scrubs a palm over his stubbled jaw. “I did have a date. I canceled on her.”

  Somehow this doesn’t surprise me; he’s not the kind of guy who sits home by himself on a Saturday night. “Why’s that?”

  “Derrick made it sound like a one-shot deal.” His expression turns sheepish. “I’m shallow and I saw your picture.”

  It sounds good, but somehow I doubt it’s the full story. “And?”

  His attention slides away, settling on a spot over my shoulder.

  “Tell me,” I insist, already knowing the real reason, but wanting him to say it, curious if he’ll be honest.

  He shrugs. “I owed Derrick a favor. He called it in.”

  The truth it is. My respect for him raises another notch. A hard, bitter-tinged laugh escapes my lips. “That must have been a great selling point.”

  He grins. “I wasn’t lying, I am shallow. I saw your picture, so I knew at bare minimum I’d have something pretty to look at.”

  I raise my glass and take another sip of wine. It tastes like heaven now and every drink coats my raw nerves like a salve. “You must have been terrified about what you were getting into.”

  “I’ll admit I wasn’t looking forward to it.” His voice is strong, unapologetic. “But honestly, were you?”

  I suck my lower lip between my teeth as an image of Michael’s hypnotic eyes elicits a shiver. I shake my head.

  Across from me, Chad studies me, watching and waiting patiently for me to continue. I’m not sure I can elaborate. The truth isn’t an option, but there’s something about Chad that makes me not want to lie.

  He leans farther over the table, the dim votive candle casting his skin in warmth. “My plan was to have a drink or two then meet up with the girl I was supposed to go out with.”

  His answer makes me like him even more. “That’s honest.”

  “What was your plan, Layla?”

  The way he says my name, something in the tone or inflection, jingles the faintest bell of recognition. I avoid his question. “Why didn’t you?”

  “I’ll let you evade.” He flashes his white teeth, so even and perfect they could have only come from the orthodontist. “For now.”

  I blink, as a quick flash of instinctive heat warms my skin. The wine must be going to my head, because I’m imagining something that can’t possibly be there. I clear my throat. “So, what happened?”

  He shrugs. “You’re an interesting woman. I like interesting. After fifteen minutes I knew I wasn’t going anywhere. When I got up to use the bathroom, I called her and told her something came up and I’d have to cancel.”

  I want to tell him how thankful I am, but that would sound odd, so instead I ask, “Was she upset?”

  “She wasn’t happy.”

  “Do you think she’ll forgive you?”

  He chuckles. “Probably.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” It’s an odd strategy, but one I appreciate.

  His gaze skims over me in such a way I find I have to make a conscious effort not to shift in my seat. “If you were a different kind of woman, I’d give you a story.”

  I like his bluntness. It’s something I understand. “A different kind of woman?”

  He nods. “One who hasn’t seen so much.”

  My shoulders slump as reality comes rushing back. Of course he knows, I’d just deluded myself that Derrick hadn’t told him because I wanted to believe, if only for a moment that I was a normal girl, on a normal date, filled with possibilities.

  The loss of the momentary dream is an ache in my chest.

  The waitress, who’s been circling our table, appears. “Can I show you the dessert menu?”

  “We’re not ready yet.” Chad’s eyes don’t leave my face.

  She disappears into the crowd.

  In that split second, what’s been tugging at me all evening, reaches out and slaps me. Chad is dominant. It’s softer than the raw, brute force of Michael, but it’s been there the whole time and I’ve been ignoring it. He’s more like John. Oh, sure, I don’t know if Chad’s preferences are th
e same, but he’s got that same understated, quiet confidence about him. The same easy manner. I’d bet money that, like John, Chad sheds the mild manner the second the bedroom door is closed.

  My gaze widens and I shudder, my body’s instinctual recognition and response.

  His expression flashes and I know he’s been waiting for this. That, somehow, he’s known all along. I’m not sure why this surprises me. Is real life any different from the club? Like gravitates toward like, without fail.

  Needing to fill the silence, I ask a question I already know the answer to. “Did Derrick tell you?”

  “Yes, Layla, he told me.” His tone now holds a cadence I’d have to be blind, deaf and dumb not to understand since it’s staring me in the face.

  “I wish he hadn’t.” My voice is suddenly thick.

  “Why? It’s part of who you are.”

  Exactly. It permeates my life. It’s always there, whenever anyone looks at me. It’s in the way they talk. How they respond. Sometimes I want to scream at them to stop being so nice, to stop treating me with kid gloves. But I never do. I can’t hurt them any more than I already have.

  It’s why I started going to the club in the first place. To remember what it’s like when people don’t know. And I need the freedom to be as fucked up as I choose without apology.

  Chad’s waiting in that patient way good dominants have. He’s not afraid of this conversation, of my past. Unlike me. I look into his steady blue eyes and find myself giving him an honest response. “It changes how people see you.”

  He laces his fingers in front of him. Those strong hands look capable, and somehow safe. “I imagine it would, but tell me how it makes you feel.”

  I frown, taken aback, only Dr. Sorenson asks about my feelings and I’m not prepared to talk about them out in the open. I cross my arms protectively. “I don’t want to.”

  To my shock, he laughs.

  It breaks some of my tension and I find a smile quirking. “I guess that sounded pretty petulant.”

  He holds his thumb and forefinger an inch apart. “Just a little bit.”

  This man across from me feels familiar, and good. If only I could give in. But that would require something I can’t give Chad, something that’s missing inside me. Besides, I can’t break my rules, and this isn’t the club, it’s not like I can lay them out on the table without him thinking I’m a nut case.

  Besides, he deserves better. He deserves someone like the old Layla, someone shiny and fresh, full of wonder and life. Not my pale, lifeless self.

  I realize Chad’s staring at me and I quickly offer an apology. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s kind of cute.” His attention intent on me, he continues, “Do you still miss him very much?”

  My throat tightens. No one ever asks me. Not ever. For the most part, no one talks about John at all. It’s like he’s a ghost that only I remember.

  Something about Chad invites honesty and I confess, “Yes, every single day.”

  “There aren’t really words to make it okay, are there?”

  I shake my head. “No. How much did Derrick tell you?”

  He laces his fingers on the table. “Only that your fiancé died a couple of weeks before your wedding.”

  So my brother-in-law didn’t reveal all my secrets. “I see.”

  “Is there more?”

  “Nothing I care to talk about.” That little bit is enough to make me feel vulnerable and exposed.

  He sighs, and takes a long gulp of wine. “I wish Derrick hadn’t pushed so hard and maybe waited a year from now.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You’re exactly my type. But sadly, I think we both know you’re not ready to date.”

  And just like that, poof, the dream is over. “You’re right, I’m not.” Even if I was, it’s Michael I burn for. Unwanted tears well in my eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m a total wreck.”

  “I don’t think so. I think you’re stronger than you realize.” His expression is still relaxed, as though I’m not crying. It’s one of those good things about guys like him—they don’t fall apart at the first sign of tears the way most men do. “I apologize for bringing up a painful subject.”

  Not sure what to say, I pick up the white cotton napkin and twist the heavy cloth and blurt out, “I’m not your type.”

  He reaches over the table and strokes a finger over my knuckles. “Be still.”

  Instantly, without thought, I stop my fidgeting, and a second later I know I’ve confirmed his suspicions.

  A slow smile spreads over his handsome face. “Oh, I think you are.”

  Throat tight, I am unable to do anything but shake my head.

  “You never answered my question.”

  I swallow hard, searching my mind for his question, and coming up blank. “What question?”

  “Why’d you agree to this date when you’re clearly not ready?”

  I look into his blue eyes, his gaze so steady and sure, and it strikes me how much Chad reminds me of John. This should be disconcerting, but strangely, inexplicably, I find it comforting. It makes John feel close when I need him so badly.

  I can’t lie to Chad and give him the truth. Or at least my watered-down version of it. “I needed something to occupy my time this evening.”

  “Why’s that?” His voice is quiet, but edged with that tone.

  I can’t very well say that sometimes I go to an underground club and get my brains fucked out by strangers, and one of these strangers makes me want him so strongly it’s taking every ounce of strength I have not to go to him.

  It makes me sad. In another life, Chad and I are probably soul mates. He’s a reminder, a sign that all is not lost. It should be a ray of hope, and it is, but it doesn’t change anything.

  I’m not ready. And I still want Michael’s mouth on me. It would be somehow more tolerable if I just wanted him to fuck me, but it’s so much more than that.

  “Layla?”

  My throat is tight but I manage to say, “I didn’t want to be alone.”

  “I think there’s more.”

  I bite the inside of my cheek and shake my head.

  “I won’t press.” He studies me for a long, long time and I resist the urge to fidget. “I’ll be your company tonight.”

  Relief sweeps through me. I’ll never be able to express my gratitude and can only whisper, “Thank you.”

  His lips curve into a smile and he leans across the table and clasps my cold hands. “But, maybe someday, we’ll have a chance to try again.”

  If only that was true, but it’s not. Men like Chad don’t last long and some lucky girl will snap him up. But I nod in agreement.

  I’ll save my arguments for another day when I’m not so desperate.

  After a chaste brush of Chad’s lips across my cheek, and a promise that he’d see me again, I make my way into the safety of my condo, dead bolting the door behind me. I kick off the heels I’ve been wearing and practically crawl onto my couch. A soft, dove-gray suede that’s both modern and comfortable. John picked it out. I hadn’t liked it at first, it didn’t look cozy, but he’d talked me into it.

  Of course, he’d been right, it was a dream of a couch.

  I remember the day it was delivered. The guys had left, and before the door even clicked shut, John had my jeans stripped to my knees and me flipped over the arm. He’d teased me that day. Held me down and forced me to come over and over again until I was sweating and exhausted. After he declared the couch perfect for his purposes, I’d curled up under a white fluffy cover, so soft and luxurious it should be labeled illegal, and slept for hours. It was a good afternoon and this couch is still my favorite piece of comfort furniture.

  Although neither of us could have predicted it would see more tears than laughter.

  I glance at the clock, modeled after the one in Grand Central Station: it’s twelve o’clock. The witching hour.

  I’ve done it.

  I’ve managed my way through the night
. With the help of Chad, someone I actually like, that gave me a tiny sliver of hope for the future. And I’m thankful.

  I close my eyes, anxious for those first moments of sleepiness to creep over me. But they don’t come. Instead, an image of Michael, a man I have no business thinking about, fills my mind.

  The lust and the want, peaceful the last couple of hours, roars back, erasing any chance of sleep in an instant. My nipples bead and my belly heats, and it comes, that inner demon that lives inside me.

  It’s not too late. An evil whisper tangles me in its twisted thoughts.

  I suck in a breath. No. It is too late. He’s gone, and even if he’s not, I’m not going.

  But now, the thought’s in my head, taunting me.

  I want to be strong, but he’s like a compulsion.

  What if he finds someone else? What if he picks some other woman? One that wouldn’t dare resist?

  I can see it, the pretty blonde girl in the red corset from the other night. But this time, it’s not the big biker running his finger down her cheek, it’s Michael. His mouth skimming down her neck, licking at her pulse. Their lips fused together.

  The image of his mouth on hers is so vivid, so powerful, I bolt upright, my heart pounding.

  No. It’s too late.

  It doesn’t matter. If he finds someone else, I’m saved.

  It’s what I want.

  I glance at my front door. My black stiletto heels are discarded on the floor.

  Don’t do it. The sane, rational part of me begs. But I already know the truth.

  It’s too late. I have to see.

  Turns out, I’ve failed after all.

  My mad dash to the club has left me breathless, but at least I’ve stopped thinking. Stopped thinking about consequences, the angst, and just committed. It’s the wrong decision, but a decision nonetheless.

  That’s what the craving does, makes nothing else matter.

  The truth is I don’t even know what I’m going to do when I see him, if I see him. I fly through the room, trench coat half hanging off my shoulders, ignoring the people, the flashing lights, the writhing bodies on the dance floor and the bass too loud in my ears. Finally, after what seems like one of those action dream sequences in movies where the corridor gets longer and longer the faster you run, I’m standing by the bar, in the exact spot I stood Thursday night.