So here we stand, so close, yet not nearly close enough. Our breathing seems to synchronize into short, agonizing puffs of air.
“I want to touch you, Layla.” His voice a low rasp.
I squeeze my eyes shut tighter.
“I want to flip up that dress, rip off your panties, and take you right where you stand.”
I bite my lip to keep from groaning.
“Jesus, I don’t think I’ve ever wanted a woman this much. You’re like a fucking drug.”
I blink my eyes open, unable to believe what I’m hearing. I grit my teeth as I watch his fingers flex on the doorframe as though he means to rip the wood from the wall.
“But, I’m keeping my promise. Not only to show you I always keep my word, but also to teach you to be careful for what you ask for.” He bends his head, and I can feel his breath as his mouth trails down my neck. I grind my teeth in frustration as his lips graze over the finest of hairs, but never make contact.
Sensation explodes over my skin and I gasp as an inferno builds between my legs. I whisper an urgent, “Please.” Not sure if I’m asking him to stop or continue.
“No,” he says.
The disappointment that washes over me gives me my answer. I want him to continue. I feel empty knowing he won’t. I lean my forehead against the door. If I don’t get space, I’ll start begging, so I manage to croak, “I need to go in now.”
He shifts behind me, and I have no idea what he’s doing until thirty seconds later he holds out a small pad of paper and a pen. “Give me your home and cell number.”
I can only stare at the offending objects. “No, I can’t.”
“I’m not asking. Give them to me, or I’ll get them myself, but understand you will be hearing from me.”
I grumble and take the pen, scribbling my numbers on the paper like a good little girl. “There, are you happy?”
“Yep,” he says simply and the pen and paper disappear.
Out of nowhere, surprising me as nothing else about this night has, a smile twitches at my lips. A real, genuine, spontaneous smile that hasn’t graced my face since John died. I clear my throat, as a small bubble of laughter fills my chest. I cough it down. It unnerves me, frightens me.
I’ve barely thought about John. Even worse, I don’t want to think about him.
“Turn around and look at me,” Michael says, and again, it’s not a request.
Once I have my stoic mask back on, I don’t even bother trying to fight, and turn around.
His hazel eyes flash with what I can only assume is approval. “I’m on call the next five nights, but Friday, you are mine.”
Heat and desire flare to life. “And if I say no.”
He bends at the knees so his face is close to mine. “Sugar, no isn’t an option here.”
Something entirely devious tickles my belly. “No.”
He grins. “Someday soon you’re going to have to start paying up on all these challenges.”
I cross my arms over my breasts, hoping to hide my beaded nipples. “It’s not a challenge. It’s a refusal.”
He laughs and chucks me under the chin. “Friday night. Seven o’clock.”
He turns and starts to walk away and I call after him, “I won’t be here.”
He swivels around and walks backward toward the elevator, giving me an obscenely, exaggerated perusal. “Yes, you will be.”
Yeah, he’s right, I will.
“So, how’d it go?” April asks, a big, goofy grin on her face. She’s practically giddy with excitement, standing in her expansive dream of a kitchen, filled with all the latest commercial stainless steel appliances, custom distressed white cabinets, and Italian marble countertops. April and Derrick live in a six thousand square foot house in Barrington. Land of the one acre lots and open concept floor plans.
My brother-in-law lounges on the couch in the great room, watching the football pre-shows before the Sunday game starts, while my nieces build a city of pink, green and white Legos on the coffee table.
They’re the perfect picture of domestic bliss.
My sister decided to throw together an impromptu brunch and my parents should be here any minute. I wanted to say no, but couldn’t. I’d said no the last three times and that’s my quota. Besides, my family is worried about me, and this visit will assure them that I’m not about to slit my wrists.
I’ll never tell them that wasn’t always the case, it would break their hearts, and I can’t bear that. They’d never rest easy knowing how many times those first six months I sat huddled up on the shower floor with a razor in my hands, the sharp edge gleaming under the rainfall of water. But I’ve come through that hurdle. I guess that’s one good thing about me, through it all, I could never put the blade to my wrist. Even at my absolute worst and most desolate, some part of me clung to life.
“Come on,” April says, pulling me back from those dark times. “Don’t leave me in suspense.”
My brow pulls together. I have no idea what she’s talking about, and in a moment of pure panic, I think she means Michael before logic prevails. There’s no way she could know about him. I search my mind and come up blank, finally asking, “How’d what go?”
She blows out an exasperated puff of air. “Your date with Chad.”
Oh, that. My date seems like a lifetime ago, and my head is so full of Michael, I’d forgot all about him.
I look at my sister, standing with her hip propped against the counter in her skinny jeans, knee-high Frye boots, and winter-white sweater. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and her sky-blue eyes are even more vivid with artful makeup in shades of brown to complement her fading tan. She looks fresh faced and gorgeous, like an advertisement for upscale, weekend casual.
Her expression is so painfully hopeful; I can’t help but throw her a bone, especially after our disastrous lunch. “It went really well. He’s great. Your husband has good taste in men.”
It’s the truth. That I’m conveniently leaving out my desperate lust for a homicide detective that eclipses every man I know, including my dead fiancé, is despite the point.
Derrick, my handsome brother-in-law, with his sandy-blond hair and brown eyes, holds up a beer bottle in salute, never leaving his position on the couch. “See, I told you that you were worrying for nothing.”
April clasps her hands together in what can only be glee. “Oh, Layla, I’m so glad. I drove Derrick crazy all night.”
He finally looked away from their sixty-five-inch flat screen to grin at me. “I had to pry the phone from her hands more than once.”
I roll my eyes and shake my head. “He was a perfect gentleman and very nice company. There was nothing to worry about.”
A timer dings and April flits over to the stove to remove her homemade cranberry muffins. “Are you going to go out again?”
“I don’t know,” I say, evading. I don’t want to give her false hope but I don’t want to cruelly dash it either. To divert her attention, and mine, I glance around. “Is there anything I can do?”
April places the steaming muffin pan on the Viking range to cool. “Nope, everything is ready to go.”
Of course it is. My sister inherited the domestic goddess gene from our great Aunt Betty, whose parties are still legendary in some circles. All the food is already in various ovens and warming drawers, the mimosas are chilling in the fridge, and April’s table is already set.
The center of the dining table holds a magnificent arrangement of fresh flowers in different shades of light green and creamy white. I’d bet a million dollars April arranged them instead of a florist. They’re packed with flowers, with zero filler, and have her signature all over them. Crystal candlesticks, with lime-green pillars flank each side and various baubles adorn the table. Cloth napkins rolled around silverware and decorated with rings of glitzy green and silver beads lay across crisp, white china plates. Each place setting has a crystal champagne flute and matching water glass.
Her table looks ready for a Martha Ste
wart photo shoot. Better actually.
Would I have been like this if John hadn’t died? Would I be designing my own tablescapes by now? This thought sends me tumbling head first down the “what if” path. Would we have moved out of the city into a starter-size version of this one? Would I have been pregnant by now? We’d loved kids and neither one of us had wanted to wait long. I can almost picture him here, sitting on the couch with Derrick, discussing the upcoming games. I place a hand to my flat belly and experience a pang of loss so deep it takes my breath away.
I want to be normal again.
A soft hand cups my shoulder. So deep in thought, I jerk back and find April staring at me with a frown of concern. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” My standard white lie nobody believes. I blink, and clear my throat of its sudden tightness.
She searches my face, and opens her mouth to speak, but before she can say anything the front doorbell chimes, and my parents call out in greeting.
Saved by the bell from further probing.
My two darling nieces jump up and race to the door squealing, “Grandma, Grandpa.” They adore my parents. As well they should.
My mom bustles into the room followed by my dad, their arms filled with bags and a big white box obviously from a bakery.
Sonya claps her hands and yells, “Doughnuts!”
Sasha tugs at her Grandmother Clara’s hand. “Did you bring chocolate?”
My mom, still an attractive woman at sixty with her artfully highlighted blonde hair and blue eyes that match her daughters, smiles in obvious delight. “I did.”
“And powdered sugar?” Sonya asks about her favorite.
“Of course,” my mom says.
April shakes her head. “You shouldn’t have. I’ve got plenty.”
Clara waves her away, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek before putting the boxes on the island.
Sonya turns to my dad. “We built our Lego friends you gave us for our birthday. We have a whole town.”
My father laughs, and ruffles her spun-gold hair. “Sounds impressive.”
My parents, expressions filled with happiness, turn and see me. Instantly, their faces transform into twin masks of concern. Like all the joy has been sucked out of them.
My stomach twists.
It’s how they look at me now. It’s not their fault. They don’t mean it. In truth, they probably don’t even realize it. They’re so worried about me all the time they can’t help themselves.
I ignore how it hurts me, how responsible I feel, and determinedly plaster a smile on my face. “Mom, Dad. How are you?”
“You came.” My mom’s tone clearly states she wasn’t expecting me.
“Yeah,” I say lamely. “I missed the last few.”
Robert, my father, gray and partially bald now, walks over and pats me awkwardly on the shoulder. “It’s good to see you. You look well.”
“Thanks.” It’s a lie. I look horrible. The mirror this morning wasn’t kind. I can no longer hide the dark shadows under my eyes with makeup. I’m pale and wan, my cheekbones too defined, making me appear gaunt. My clothes, a pair of baggy jeans and long tunic, hang on my frame. I look unkempt, like I’m recovering from an illness. And standing next to April with her fresh, golden beauty, that screams vitality and health, I’m positive the difference is quite startling. Quite concerning.
My mom frowns even while she gives me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “I’m so happy to see you, my baby.”
“Thanks, Mom. You too.”
Now that the pleasantries are over, an uncomfortable silence permeates the kitchen before my mom shifts her attention to the twins. “Come, Sasha and Sonja, and show me what you built.”
My nieces are only too happy to drag them away.
I watch them, feeling wistful, as Derrick gets up from the couch and shakes my dad’s hand before hugging my mom.
It pains me that my parents don’t know how to talk to me anymore. I can’t blame them. I don’t make it easy on them. They don’t know what to say to this damaged daughter that’s replaced their fun, happy one.
What happened, it’s like an elephant in the room, sitting there blocking all the light. My family thinks I avoid them because it’s too hard for me, and I’m too desolated by grief to make it through a family event. And that might have been true at first, but now, I just can’t stand how uncomfortable I make them.
When I’m not around they can forget, be happy. I want that for them.
They think this is all about John, but they don’t understand, when I lost him, I lost them all.
I’m a stranger now, walking among them, but essentially alone.
It’s nine thirty on Sunday night and I’m lying in bed, curled under the covers trying desperately to think of John and failing miserably. It’s Michael who’s captured my attention and he’s pervasive. All consuming.
Just thinking about him makes me wet and I’ve been resisting the urge to rub my clit and quell some of this god-awful desire. I don’t know why I’m resisting. It’s silly, considering he’d never know, but that stubborn part of me doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction, even though I’m only hurting myself.
My nipples pull tight, taunting me further.
I try and focus on the time John made me go to work with no underwear and tortured me the entire day with dirty text messages and even dirtier phone calls. I try to recall how he sent me to the bathroom over and over again to bring myself close to orgasm but never go over.
But the image doesn’t stick.
Michael’s face keeps replacing my fiancé’s and I hate him for that. Even as my body burns. I’m not even thinking of anything kinky or obscene, instead I can’t stop obsessing about his mouth. I’ve memorized its shape, the fullness, the cruel curve of his upper lip. The way he smiles.
How would his mouth feel on mine? His tongue. The scrape of his teeth on my soft flesh.
I groan and give in to temptation, pulling at the hard buds through my nightgown. My head relaxes into the pillow as I picture his lips tugging at my breasts.
I want to think about John, like I always do when I’m desperate to come and needy, but I can’t.
Instead, I replay my encounter with Michael in the hall. What would have happened if he touched me? Would he have fucked me right in the corridor where any of my neighbors could have seen? Would I have wanted him too?
Right now, my body on fire, the answer is yes. I’ve always liked danger. Liked the risk of public disclosure. My fingers slide down my belly. I can’t resist.
The phone rings, and I let out a startled scream, my palm covering my suddenly pounding heart. I look at the caller ID—private. It’s possible it’s a telemarketer, but I already know it can only be one person.
I press my lips together.
It rings again.
My fingers clutch the sheets. Ignore it.
Another ring.
One more and it will go to voice mail.
After a quarter of a ring, my willpower crumbles and I snatch the phone from the receiver. My voice is entirely too breathless when I say, “Hello.”
“Hello, Layla.” It’s him. Of course, it’s him.
“Why are you calling me?” I snap rudely, ignoring the leap of excitement at the sound of his voice.
“I told you I would.”
Irrationally, I feel like he can see me, that he knows I was about to touch myself while thinking about him. “You said you were on call.”
“I am,” he says, the deep rasp of his voice causing a shiver down my spine. “I just got home.”
I can’t help but wonder what home looks like. Is he sitting on his couch? Lying in bed? Is the TV on in the background? I hate that I’m so curious about his life. I don’t want to be, but I can’t help myself. I want him back in the club, where he belongs, but refuses to stay put.
I’ve known him four days and he’s already invading my life.
“Are you tucked into bed like a good little girl?” His tone amuse
d.
I shift, sitting up and leaning against the headboard. “It’s early.” I refuse to acknowledge the little girl comment.
“Too early for bed?”
I glance around my bedroom, unable to shake the feeling he’s spying on me and knows all my secrets. “I don’t want you calling me.”
“Liar.”
I bite back a growl of irritation. Because, of course, he’s right. I was preoccupied all day wondering if he’d call. At April’s house I kept my cell phone in the back pocket of my jeans instead of stuffed in my purse like normal. When I went to the bathroom, I’d checked to make sure it hadn’t switched to vibrate, and then got completely annoyed at how much I cared. Earlier this evening, I couldn’t stop shooting sidelong glances at the phone or the anxious welling of hope that I’d hear from him. When I picked up the phone to make sure it had a dial tone, I gave up and went to bed.
Not that I’d admit any of this in a million years.
Instead, I say haughtily, “Has it occurred to you that I haven’t thought about you at all?”
He laughs, a low rumble of a sound that races over my skin as though he’s touched me. “No, not even for a minute.”
He’s baiting me; I know he’s baiting me. It’s a tactic John used to employ all the time. I shouldn’t rise to the bait but, for a girl like me, it’s impossible to resist. “Are you really that arrogant?”
“Of course.” There’s a pause over the line. “But that’s not why.”
“I’m not going to ask.” I hold my breath, wanting him to push on.
“You don’t want to know?”
“No. Don’t bother.” So stubborn. John used to say it was my biggest weakness, what he could count on to be my undoing.
I haven’t changed.
A long pause. “Have it your way.”
I want to scream in frustration. He knows I want to know, but now I’ve gone and trapped myself, which he probably anticipated all along. I shake my head. “You’re impossible.”
“You’re not exactly a cake walk, sugar.”
I find another wayward smile tugs at my lips. Am I enjoying this? No. I can’t be. I quickly transform the quivering of my mouth into a frown. “Then you should make it easy on yourself and walk away.”
Crave Page 8
