“Not counting your self-punishment at the club.”
My confusion lifts and I say, “Yes, although I did recently go on a blind date arranged by my sister. I met him out and, um, it wasn’t the same.”
A smile lifts the corners of his full, masculine lips. “And how’d that go?”
I decide on the truth. With him I always decide on the truth. “It would have been great if I hadn’t met you first.”
He laughs and shakes his head. “You never fail to surprise me, sugar.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, unsure and awkward. I haven’t been on a real date since I was nineteen. I have no idea how this is done.
He cups my neck and his thumb brushes over the skin on my throat. It calms me, centers me and I’m grateful. “You are one gorgeous girl, Layla Hunter.”
I swallow. “Thank you.”
A muscle ticks in his jaw, and I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. “Everything we’ve been dancing around over the past week is going to get dealt with, one way or another, tonight.”
I gulp. That’s what I was afraid of. And desperately hoping for.
He presses into my pulse point. “My way. My rules. You don’t have to worry about anything. Understood?”
Relief, and the loosening tension in my body, doesn’t lie. It’s what I want. To hand responsibility over to him. “Okay.”
His hand tightens around my neck. “I’m going to kiss you.”
My heart skips a beat then resumes the pounding of a galloping racehorse.
He leans close, but unlike the first time, when we’d only just met, I tilt my face to greet him, breathless with anticipation. Right before his lips touch mine he stops and says, “I only hope we survive.”
The first brush of his mouth is like an electric shock to my system. He doesn’t plunge as I expect, considering the heat between us, instead he gently sweeps across my lips, frustrating me.
I haven’t kissed anyone but John in too many years to count, and I thought it would be strange to have another man’s mouth on me. But it’s not. And Michael is not some other man. He feels right.
I’m suddenly greedy.
I want more. Need more.
I put my hand on his biceps and rise to my tiptoes, hungry for the taste of him.
But he still doesn’t deepen the kiss, just teases me with a flick of his tongue.
I plaster my body to his and his erection presses against my belly. I arch into his cock as my fingers curl into the fabric of his sweater.
He takes my hips in his hands. They’re so big and strong I want to melt into him, but he doesn’t allow that, instead he lifts his head and sets me back.
I glare at him. I’ve resisted all this time and when I finally give in he gives me the equivalent of an air kiss.
He grips my chin. “Stop trying to control everything, Layla.”
I blink, and try to pull away, but can’t. “I’m not.”
His eyes narrow menacingly and I can’t deny the leap of excitement tinged with fear that zings through me. He lets me go, juts his chin towards the door and says, “Let’s go.”
I blow out an exasperated breath and turn away, stomping to my closet to angrily jerk my coat from its hanger.
Behind me, he chuckles. “Impressive tantrum.”
Cheeks burning in humiliation, I swing around and point a finger at him. “I. Am not. Throwing a tantrum.”
One dark brow cocks. “Really now? You could have fooled me.”
He’s infuriating. Unable to control my agitation, I yell, “You think you know everything but you’re not half as smart as you think you are. This is a big deal for me.”
A huge deal, breaking my cardinal rule for him.
“Yeah, I know,” he says mildly, looking unimpressed.
I shove my arms into my coat, already hating him, even as I burn. I button my coat and tie the belt with a hard yank, cinching my waist way too tight.
He walks over to me, grabs the belt, and unties it before redoing the knot so it rests comfortably around my waist. When he’s done, he looks at me, his expression unreadable. “You’ve been controlling every single thing since your fiancé died. And while it might make you feel safe, it will never make you happy.”
I feel small, vulnerable and scared. I cross my arms protectively over my chest. I drop his gaze and study my hardwood floors and say softly, “One of my rules was no kissing of any kind. No man’s lips have touched me, or any part of my body, since he died.”
“Ah, I see,” Michael says, but doesn’t sound all that surprised. He wraps his arms around me and it’s like being wrapped up in the most heavenly blanket. “Can you at least trust I know what you need? And how to give it to you?”
I’m so tired of trying to hold together my crumbling armor. It’s bone-deep exhausting. For the moment, I give it up, and put my head on his chest. I could stay like this forever. “Yes, I think so.”
“I suppose that’s good enough for now.” He rubs my back and I press closer.
My lashes want to drift shut. I could sleep with him. He might even keep my nightmares away.
“Ready?” His embrace loosens.
I nod, and reluctantly step away. I turn toward the door and put my hand on the knob, opening the door a crack.
He comes up behind me and puts his palm against the door. It snaps shut. He sweeps my hair to rest on one shoulder and leans down, brushing his mouth against my neck.
I shiver, and lean back against him.
“I want you, Layla.” His voice is a husky whisper in my ear. “More than I have ever wanted anyone.” His tongue flicks across my pounding pulse and I bite back a moan as his teeth scrape over my skin. “Now is not the time to kiss you the way that I want, because I swear to god, if I do, you’ll end up fucked in whatever position is most convenient.”
Jesus, the heat, it’s like an inferno. I want to scream in frustration. That’s how much I want him. It’s like an ache. A craving that overpowers anything I’ve ever experienced.
His lips skim over the line of my jaw. “And call me old-fashioned, but I’m going to at least take you to dinner before I violate the hell out of you.”
The images that flash through my mind are so explicit, so carnal, I gasp.
He grips my chin, twists my head and claims my mouth in his.
It’s the kiss I’ve been dreaming about. Hard and aggressive. Powerful and commanding. He takes complete control as his tongue sweeps along mine.
I moan, and attempt to twist in order to get better access, but he stops me with one arm wrapped around my waist, holding me in place. White-hot desire beads my nipples and I can feel the heat between my thighs.
Then, just like that, it’s over.
I’m left dazed, breathless and wanting more.
Low in his throat, he growls, kisses me again with a fast, brutal press of his mouth. “Let’s go.”
I don’t want to, but obey, because that’s what he wants and what I want too.
After a nearly silent drive over, where I think we were both trying to settle our raging hormones, he guides me into one of Chicago’s most sought-after hot spots. From where I’m standing, it doesn’t look like there’s an open table in the large, loft-style restaurant, and there’s people milling around the front door and at the bar. The crowd parts for Michael as we walk, seamlessly falling away as though by magic, and as soon as he gives his name to the hostess we’re taken right to a table.
It’s a spacious booth tucked into the back corner. I slide into the prime location, and Michael takes the seat adjacent, which allows us the intimacy of both looking at each other and being close. His knee touches mine. With a grin he reaches under the table, shifting my legs to rest against his as though he has all the right in the world.
I contemplate moving away, but don’t, tonight I want to surrender. Besides, I like the way his muscled thigh feels against my leg, that perfect mix of danger and safety. After the hostess hands us our menus, featuring the latest trend in “s
mall plates” and leaves, I turn to stare at him.
“How did you get reservations here?” It’s a six-month wait for a table on the weekend, and we’ve known each other a week. “Did you already have another date planned? Or is this an example of police corruption?”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Did anyone ever tell you that you have a smart mouth?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.” The memory of John creeps in and my shoulders slump a bit. “But not for a long time.”
He smiles and puts an arm around my shoulder, tugging me close. “I think I’d like your fiancé. What was his name?”
I stiffen against him. How can he be so casual? I swallow and answer, “John.”
“Where did you meet him?” His thumb rubs slowly up and down the curve of my neck.
“What does it matter?”
“It matters because he’s part of who you are, and your relationship with him is important.”
I can’t talk about John, not tonight. It’s too hard, when the guilt of wanting the man across from me, threatens to overwhelm. I don’t want to remember what it was like between us. It’s too much like infidelity. I deflect, and pull back, shaking my head. “Who are you? I thought cops were supposed to be all blunt force and hot tempered, why are you always so logical and reasonable?”
He grins. “That’s Hollywood cops, if real cops acted that way, they’d end up dead. A cool, level head keeps you alive.”
My throat goes dry at the mention of his profession and I realize too late I’ve been avoiding it, pretending it didn’t exist. He comes in contact with violence every day. I pick up my water glass and chug down half of it. He could be killed.
Murdered.
Just like John.
The waitress comes over, interrupting the dark path my thoughts are taking, and bringing me back to the present. She looks like a hipster with curly brown hair, a face scrubbed free of makeup, and a mellow smile. She starts to speak but Michael shakes his head. “Give us a minute.”
“No problem,” she says and walks away.
“What is it?” Michael asks, studying me intently.
I press my lips together and rub my clammy hands on my dress. Michael’s profession doesn’t matter. This date is temporary insanity, not a relationship. I’ll be long gone before anything can happen to him.
“Layla, answer me.” His voice is hard.
I straighten my shoulders and say as lightly as I can, “I don’t know, sorry. It’s silly but it only just hit me that your job is violent.”
His expression softens, and once again his thumb starts that slow stroking. “Yeah, it is. But probably not as dangerous as you think if you remember I’m an after-the-fact guy.”
I tilt my head, my brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”
“It means I usually get called in after the crime’s already committed. I’m not first response, at least not anymore.”
He has a point, but I don’t want to think about his job right now. I want to bury my head in the sand and give myself this one night without worrying.
It’s not too much to ask, is it? Not too much of a betrayal. John wouldn’t begrudge me this one night.
Before I can speak, a tall, willowy, stunningly gorgeous redhead, wearing a tight black tee, emblazoned with the restaurant’s logo, and matching skirt walks up to the table with a huge smile on her face, her gaze trained on Michael. She holds out her arms. “You made it.”
Smooth as silk, he slides from the booth, leaving a cold spot in his wake. He hugs her and they kiss each other on both cheeks. “Thank you again.”
“Of course, you know I’d do anything for you.”
I can only stare, and focus on making sure to keep my mouth shut, instead of gaping open.
Michael turns to me, gesturing in my direction. “This is Layla Hunter. Layla, this is Gwen Johnson, she owns the place, which is why we have such a great table.”
Gwen gives me a mega-watt, supermodel smile, and reaches over to shake my hand.
How can a restaurant owner be so thin?
And why am I jealous?
I cover my awkwardness with a bright smile of my own. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“You too.” She’s got those really light, striking blue eyes that redheads sometimes have, and they dance with mischief. She gives Michael a sly glance. “So this is the one Jillian told me about?”
Michael rolls his eyes and says to me, “Jillian and Gwen are best friends.”
I’m starting to relax and the knot in my stomach loosens. “Thank you for the table, I’ve never been here before and, like everyone else in Chicago, have heard nothing but raves.”
She puts her hands together. “Oh…a newbie…I love it.” She turns to Michael. “Let me put your order together.”
Michael shifts his attention to me. “Well, what do you think?”
A meal specially prepared by one of the tops chefs in the city, I can’t possibly refuse. “That’d be wonderful.”
“Fabulous.” Gwen looks me over. “Any allergies or things you hate?”
“Nope, I’m not at all picky and will try anything once.”
Gwen winks at me. “A girl who lives on the edge.”
I have to stifle my laugh, if she only knew.
Michael slides back in the booth and narrows his eyes on Gwen. “Try not to hover.”
Gwen laughs. “Oh, all right. I’ll be good, but I’m still reporting to Jillian.”
She leaves, motions to the waitress, and the two of them head off to what I presume is the kitchen.
Michael’s voice shakes me from staring after them. “Do you see what I do for you?”
My brows knit. “I would have gone anywhere.”
He crooks his finger, urging me closer, and, of course, I comply. “But I wanted to impress you.”
“You did?” I’m surprised.
“Yes, Layla, I did.”
“Why?” I don’t know why this so hard to believe. He seems so confident and sure, it’s hard to imagine him trying at anything.
“Because I need to overshadow the things you don’t like…the things about me that scare you.” He brushes my hair off my cheek.
His answer makes my breath catch and my heart pound a bit harder. When I think I can speak without my voice cracking, I say, “You always know the right answer.”
He laughs. “Trust me, I’m bound to fuck up eventually, and when I do, hopefully there will be enough good things you’ll be able to forgive me.”
I don’t know what to think of the suggestion of a relationship, and what it might mean. I need to believe this doesn’t mean anything. That he doesn’t mean anything.
I tilt my head to the kitchen. “So you know the owner? That’s convenient.”
He nods. “Jillian and Gwen have been best friends since birth. Her family lived next door.”
So he lived next to that gorgeous woman? I push aside my jealousy.
“Where’d you grow up?” It feels as though I met him a lifetime ago, but really I don’t know much about him. I’m curious, and suddenly want to know everything, so my knowledge matches the depth of my emotions.
“Evanston.” He names one of the diverse, well-off, lakeshore suburbs on the north side. “How about you?”
“Wilmette.”
He smiles. “That doesn’t surprise me.”
“So I take it you don’t come from a family of cops.”
He laughs, outright. “God no. My parents were horrified.”
The waitress comes over and puts a martini glass filled with something the color of blue sapphires in front of me, and what looks like plain old whiskey or scotch in front of Michael. “Gwen said to give you these, but if you don’t like them, let me know and we’ll get you something else.”
“Thanks.” Michael wraps his fingers around the rocks glass.
“Sure thing.” She nods and offers her mellow smile. “Your first course will be right up.”
I stare at the drink. I’d never seen a coc
ktail quite that color before. It’s almost too pretty to drink. “What is this?”
“God only knows. I stick to Glenlivet, but I’m sure it’s trendy and delicious.”
I take a tentative sip, and close my eyes in pleasure, as the faint hints of rum, lime and other flavors I can’t even begin to identify hit my taste buds. I take another drink, this time more healthy, resisting the urge to down the to-die-for concoction in one gulp.
“Good?” Michael asks, clearly amused.
“Heavenly.” I swipe my finger along the glass’s edge, rimmed with black sugar, and lick. I seriously don’t think I’ve ever tasted anything so good. I take another drink, and sweep my tongue over the rim—it’s sugar, but there’s something else in there too. “Gwen is a genius.”
When Michael doesn’t respond I look at him and find his gaze hungry and hot on my mouth. He leans in and flicks his tongue along my lower lip, shocking me still.
“I could watch you drink those all day.” His voice is rough. The air crackles with sex. He rubs his lips over mine and it’s like a bolt of lightning straight through me. “You taste delicious.” Another lick. “Maybe I’ll bring some home so I can lick it from your clit later.”
I gasp, my cheeks heating from his words, and the alcohol shoots straight to my head after a day of not eating. My breath turns shallow and fast as I’m caught in his magnetic presence.
The waitress returns with a long, flat wooden board filled with various breads and dips, breaking my trance. Reality floods me with a whoosh.
Michael turns and thanks her, so casually, it’s as though we’d just been discussing the weather.
She puts down the tray, and starts describing each item, but I don’t hear a word of it because blood is rushing in my ears and I’m throbbing.
As she keeps talking, Michael slips a hand under the table, and onto my knee. I stiffen, and his fingers play over my tights. My entire focus is on his hot palm.
Oh god.
His hand creeps up my leg, agonizingly slow.
I hold my breath. Anticipating the climb of his fingers. I can almost feel it, the shock of his hand on my bare skin, the slide of him brushing over the silk of my panties. His fingers working their way past the elastic to touch moist, hot flesh.
Crave Page 13
