Crave

by Jennifer Dawson

  “Tough day?” He slides the drink in front of me.

  I stare at the pink liquid and tiny ice cubes bobbing in the glass. I share nothing about my personal life here. I push the twenty toward him. “I’m good.”

  The bartender winks and flashes his killer smile. “It’s on the house.”

  We’ve fucked before. One time about six months ago on another night I couldn’t find the right person. The way he’s practically undressing me with his eyes, he’s more than agreeable to another round. I find myself mildly tempted—not because I want him—but because he’s easy. Uncomplicated. Quick.

  Only, if I hook up with him, I’ll break my one-night rule. While he’s hardly a threat to my emotional health, he doesn’t really satisfy my needs. Oh, he knows all the right words and actions, but lacks the pure menace that really flips my switch. Merely, he’d be a temporary fix.

  I take a sip of the pink liquid and push the twenty back. “No, really, I insist.”

  He takes the money, eyes still twinkling with mischief, as though I hadn’t rejected him at all. A few moments later he’s back with my change, which he slips next to my palm before rubbing a thumb over the back of my hand.

  I pull away.

  He gives me a nonchalant shrug. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.” Another sly smile flirts over his lips and he disappears to the other end of the bar.

  If only things could be that easy.

  Out of nowhere loneliness wells inside me. A pang of longing clogs my throat and tightens my chest with an almost unbearable ache.

  I scoop my drink up and turn away, taking a long gulp. The tang of cranberry bursts over my tongue and some of the god-awful weight pressing against my ribs eases. With sudden clarity, I know I’m going to go home tonight empty-handed. I’m in the wrong state of mind. My emotions are too raw. My need too prickly.

  No one will do because, tonight, I miss John. I want him. I miss the connection, and I can’t find that in a seedy, underground club with a random, nameless stranger.

  I take another sip, forcing myself to swallow past the lump in my throat, before putting the glass down on the bar.

  It’s time to go home and call this night for the disaster it is.

  A shift of movement catches my eye and I peer past a group of men who look like they’ve just come from a board meeting. Past a woman gyrating her hips over the lust-dazed guy sitting underneath her, and a couple making out.

  And, then, I see him.

  My heart slams into my chest, my pulse kicks up, and something akin to panic rushes across my skin.

  He’s staring right at me.

  My throat dries up like the Sierra and every cell in my body knows he’s the one.

  He’s tall, well over six feet, with broad shoulders and a strong chest that fills out a tight black T-shirt before tapering down to a narrowed waist. He’s wearing a pair of jeans that hug lean hips and encase powerful thighs. And while his body is spectacular, his face is something altogether different.

  Like nothing I’ve ever seen before.

  From the distance, I can’t see the color of his eyes but his gaze is so hot on me, so intensely focused, I flush with desire. With short brown hair, an angular jaw, and full sensual lips, his features are strong. Powerful. Masculine. He’s not exactly good looking, in fact, he wouldn’t be called handsome on his best day, but there is something about him that is downright sinful. Pure, evil wickedness. Sex appeal pours off him in waves, lapping at me like a touch.

  I shiver as my blood quickens and I respond to him like he’s my own personal homing device.

  I want him. More than I’ve wanted anyone in a long time.

  I swallow, my thighs instinctively clutching together, I can already feel the slickness between my legs, the beading of my nipples. My skin pulls tight, warms. I clench my hands into fists as my breath comes a little faster.

  I’m not sure I’ve ever had such a visceral response to a man, not even Joh— I stop the treacherous thought, unable to believe it even crossed my mind. The thin threads of anxiety weave an intricate pattern through my case of instant lust.

  I turn away from his magnetic presence.

  Fear coats the back of my throat. No. He’s not for me. He’s too intense. My body’s response is too strong. In that one look I know he will give me exactly what I’ve been craving, but the price is too high. This is not a man that will abide by my rules.

  I stare down at the gleaming dark wood of the bar, reaching for my drink with shaky fingers.

  I feel the pull of his gaze. The weight of his stare. His desire at my back, crowding me from across the room. The lace of my bra becomes an irritant, and I suddenly wish I had panties on. I need any protection I can get.

  Goose bumps pop along my skin and the compulsion to look back gnaws in my stomach.

  I want him. Want what I know he can give me. No man, in the year I’ve been coming here, has ever come close, but somehow I know the man across the room is the one. The one I’ve been both desperately searching for, and terrified I’d find.

  I imagine his gaze skimming over the lines of my back, the curve of my hips, the length of my bare thighs.

  He is not safe.

  The bartender walks past me, delivering another knowing wink on his way to service another customer, and suddenly his safety and simplicity doesn’t seem so bad. My one-night rule isn’t for men like him. He’s not a risk.

  I bite the inside of my cheek. I want to look back. At him.

  I take a deep breath, hating the thought that’s taken root in my mind—that the man across the room wouldn’t be a substitute for the man I love—he’d never let another man overshadow him. In that distant, logical part of my brain I understand I’m attributing traits to him I can’t possibly know, but the logic doesn’t stop the certainty. Or the panic.

  There is only one, viable option. I need to leave. I will allow myself to look one time, then I will go up those stairs leading to the outside world, and climb into a taxi. Once I’m back in the safety of my own home, I will change into sweats, wash my face, put my hair in a ponytail, and cry until there are no tears left.

  It calms me. Settles my ragged nerves.

  One look, then I run. Hopefully, I’ll never see him again.

  Slowly, as casually as I can muster, I crane my neck and peer over my shoulder, searching out the space along the wall he occupies.

  It’s empty.

  My stomach drops like a lead weight.

  He’s gone.

  I swing around, searching the perimeter of the club, but he’s nowhere to be found. Desperation churns inside me, and I pick up my drink. Raising it to my lips, I down the last of it in one long gulp, appalled at my disappointment.

  It’s for the best. I’m sure it’s for the best. I replay the mantra in my head over and over, hoping I’ll believe it.

  He is the most dangerous kind of man—one that can make me forget. It’s for the best he’s gone. Moved on.

  I put the empty glass on the bar. It’s time to go home. I shouldn’t have come. Like today, everything about tonight is all wrong.

  I turn around and slam right into him.

  On a quick intake of breath, I sway on the heels of my knee-high boots.

  Strong hands clasp my hips, his fingers a tight hold that makes a shiver run down my spine, even while he settles me. I don’t know whether I’m relieved or in full-blown panic mode. I look up, and up, into a pair of darkly amused hazel eyes.

  I attempt to pull out of his grasp but his grip tightens, his fingers on my hips digging into me. Pure electricity jolts through me. A normal woman would be disgusted by the blatant display of arrogance, slap him or fling her drink in his face, but, I’m not normal. And his handling of me excites me to an almost dangerous level of lust.

  Irises of green, mixed with gold, meet mine. The smug knowledge and blatant challenge clear in his gaze. He will give me exactly what I need. I haven’t had what I’ve truly needed for a long, long time. />
  It scares me.

  I want to flee. I want to stay. The sane, rational Layla whispers in my ear that he’s a threat, and not in that good way we like. We need to run.

  Places like this are for ignoring sanity.

  My tongue darts nervously out to wet parched flesh. I take a deep breath and say as calmly as I can, “What do you think you’re doing?”

  That wicked mouth quirks into a grin that does nothing but increase the pure sex and menace pouring off him. I respond like I’ve just taken a hit of crack. “Please let me go.” My voice quavers, betraying me.

  His gaze drops to my lips, before rising to meet my eyes. “You didn’t think I was going to let you run, did you?”

  My reaction to this man is so strong; my thighs start to quiver. I swallow hard, striving for the icy nonchalance so easy in my prior interactions. In my most haughty tone, I say, “There is no letting me.”

  His palm, hot on my hip, slides up the curve of my waist, his touch light but firm at the same time. Showing me in that one proprietary movement how easy control is for him. “Is that so?”

  “This doesn’t actually work, does it?” My voice is far too husky for legitimate disgust.

  His other hand slips loosely around my neck and his thumb presses into my hammering pulse. Giving him all the answers he needs. “What’s your name?”

  To my astonishment, I open my mouth and my name almost slips past my lips. Jaw snapping shut, I press my tongue to the back of my teeth.

  I never make that mistake. Ever.

  My only excuse is his presence has thrown my hormones into such overdrive, habit has taken over. I shake my head. “No names.”

  Those unusual hazel eyes flicker and one dark brow rises. “Really now?”

  “Yes,” I say, my chin lifting into the air. Most men don’t care about particulars like names when they think they have access to easy sex, but stating this requirement of mine feels silly. Since he’s the kind of man I created my list of rules to safeguard against, I’m all the more determined to stick by them.

  Gaze intent on mine, as though he’s studying me under a microscope, his lips once again twitch with the hint of a smile. “The name’s Michael.”

  I knew it. Knew he’d never abide by the rules.

  “I said no names.” My tone sharp with agitation, I push at his broad chest. The unmovable muscles under my fingers set off a riot of indecent thoughts. I could fight and struggle as much as I wanted and he wouldn’t break.

  A shiver races down my spine while goose bumps explode over my skin.

  “I’m not real good at following instructions.” One hand still a vise on my hip, he drops the other and traces a finger along the swell of my traitorous flesh. Saying without words that my body is giving him all the signals he needs.

  I press my lips together at the almost irresistible urge to lay myself in front of him, and offer whatever he wants as long as he takes me, rises in my throat. At my waist, he strokes over my silk-covered skin, as though sensing my distress. My resistance wants nothing more than to melt away as desire slams through me.

  He’s so very dangerous.

  It’s more important than ever to be level headed. I clear my throat. “Then that’s going to be a problem because I have some rules.”

  He chuckles, a low rumble of a sound that actually raises the fine hairs along my nape. His thumb returns to play over the delicate cords along my neck, as though he has every right to touch me. “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me, sugar. Let’s hear them.”

  Detailing my rather stringent set of rules is the first thing I do with a prospect. If they don’t like them, they walk away, and I move on to someone else.

  Staring into his not quite handsome but strangely compelling face, I find I’m reluctant. All of the sudden embarrassed.

  This is bad.

  The silk of my blouse shifts over my back and I realize I’m sweating. My throat constricts, locks up tight, making it impossible to speak.

  “You’re one of those overthinkers, aren’t you?” Amusement gleams in his gaze as his lips lift in a half smile that makes me want to take a bite out of him. He steps closer, his presence surrounding me, blocking out the people in the club, the flashing strobe lights over the dance floor, even dimming the music. In the sea of bodies, it’s as though we’re entirely alone.

  I need to leave.

  He shakes his head. “No, you’re not going anywhere.”

  It’s like he sees right into me. “This is a mistake.” My voice a hoarse croak that reveals everything.

  “Is it?” The smug amusement disappears, replaced by an intensity that hardens his jaw, and carves out his cheekbones. In that instant, I understand the amusement is an act to disarm me. This man, Michael, wants me as much as I want him. I have no idea how I know, but I do.

  “Yes.” The word a mere whisper.

  He leans in close, so close I feel the heat of his mouth against mine. “Liar.”

  My breath stalls in my chest. If I move a half an inch, his lips will touch mine. I can picture the kiss. The hot melding of mouths and tongues. I want it so damn bad I could weep.

  Since John died, I’ve fucked more than my fair share of men. I’ve had men’s hands on my breasts, on my clit, inside me. I’ve been spanked, bruised, and violated. I’ve been taken hard on my knees with my ass in the air and my face pressed into the ground.

  But I have never been kissed. The use of mouths, anywhere, is forbidden. It’s too intimate. Too reminiscent of what I shared with John. It’s a right I reserve only for the man I love. A small concession for my betrayal.

  That I would kill to have Michael’s mouth on mine terrifies me.

  His thumb once again pushes into my ragged pulse. He steps closer.

  I step away.

  He advances.

  I retreat.

  His touch is like a brand on my skin.

  My back butts up against the bar and there’s nowhere left for me to run.

  “Please, don’t.” My voice is filled with thick need. Between my legs I’m so wet, a trickle runs down my inner thigh. My heart slams against my ribs.

  His large body, so powerful and strong, presses into mine, crowding me. Overpowering me in a way even my roughest bouts of sex haven’t.

  My lips are so parched I’m desperate to lick them, but I can’t, because if I do, my tongue will touch his. And that would be a disaster. I want to feel his lips on mine too badly. His mouth is beautiful—full and masculine—almost cruel. His mouth could make even the purest women have illicit thoughts, and I am nowhere near pure.

  Reflexively, I clench my thighs as my belly jumps with desire.

  “Spread your legs.” His tone is a low, guttural rumble that is like a stroke against my skin.

  Panic. I shake my head vehemently.

  “Spread them.”

  “No.”

  He kicks my feet apart effortlessly. I teeter on my pointy heels but manage to remain upright by the strength of his grip alone.

  I tighten my muscles, desperate to hide how much I want him. Even though he certainly knows his effect on me. But, if he doesn’t have evidence, I can delude myself into thinking I’m still in control. It’s one of those ironic twists of fates—as much as I cling to my control and the rules I’ve created—I crave the release he can give me like an addict craves their next hit.

  But instead of heroin, I crave complete depravity. Delicious chaos.

  No one has even come close to delivering. What I’ve been doing is a Band-Aid fix, like methadone.

  But Michael, he will deliver. And I’m scared. Exhilarated. A mess of vacillating emotions I can’t even begin to decipher. All I know is that right now every single one of my senses is on full alert, and my flight-or-fight response is fully engaged.

  In my head, flight is winning. I believe this absolutely until I press my palm against his stomach and whisper a need-soaked, “Stop.”

  His head lifts and those strange hypnotic eyes meet mine. “Give
me another word.”

  I finally dart my tongue over my dry lips. He tracts the movement like a predator lurking in the jungle, ready to strike. Even though I know what he wants, I stall, not ready to make a decision and end this agony and ecstasy of suspended anticipation. Not when it’s been so, so long.

  Breathless, I ask, “What?”

  “Say another word, sugar.” One long finger slips past the silk of my blouse and circles my nipple through the lace of my bra. I jolt, the pleasure so exquisite it borders on pain. Under normal circumstances this type of behavior would be obscene, but here, in this nameless club anything goes except outright force.

  And anyone watching us wouldn’t dream of intervening.

  Another slow, torturous circling of puckered skin. I have a sudden, startling image of his mouth on my breast, sucking hard. That mix of wet fabric, hot mouth and teeth. I shiver and manage another feeble protest. “No.”

  Jesus, I have to fight to keep my head upright. The rounded edge of the bar presses firmly against my back as the heat of his body intoxicates me.

  He pinches the hard bud and rolls it between his thumb and forefinger. My nails curl into the black cotton of his shirt and he lets out a low sound of appreciation. His knee slips between mine. Both a threat and a promise. A tug on my nipple, I gasp and force my eyes to remain open. I try again. “Please stop.”

  He gazes hungrily at my mouth. “We both know for a woman like you, please, no and stop don’t mean the same thing they do to other women. You want me to stop, give me another word. Any other word but the ones that keep making those pretty blue eyes of yours dilate and those throaty little moans escape from between those very fuckable lips.”

  Unable to stop myself, my tongue darts out to wet my lower lip at the mention of my mouth.

  A safe word. That’s what he wants. That magic word that stops everything. Of course, I have one, it’s in my long list of rules, picked with John long ago. Asking for a word lets me know Michael is one of the good ones. That he’s responsible and understands the game we’re playing. That my safety and comfort matter. But the word is a life preserver that puts the decision in my hands.