Crave

by Jennifer Dawson

  Her wrinkled, arthritic hand meets his, and it makes him look even more strong and powerful. She smiles at me, and nods. “Good for you.”

  Michael chuckles.

  I blush, and stammer. “Ummm…”

  The elevator dings and stops blessedly on my floor. His palm falls away, but the heat remains, like a brand on my skin.

  Michael winks at Mrs. Klosen. “Have a good night.”

  “You too, dear.”

  And we step into the hallway and once again, we’re alone.

  “She seems nice,” Michael says as we walk down the corridor. For a split second I think he’s forgotten about our conversation, but he quickly dashes that hope when he continues, “I believe we have a question on the table.”

  I pull my key out of my purse and unlock my door, flicking on the light to step over the threshold.

  The place looks just like I left it this afternoon when I’d come home to change and get ready for dinner, Michael had been with me then too. I’d walked into the living room to find him stretched on my couch, an iPad in his hand. The sofa had been too small for him, and his feet had hung over the edge. I’d experienced a stab of guilt that I liked the look of him on John’s favorite piece of furniture.

  But it had been daytime then, and the room had been bright, not dark and cold like it was now. I scan the room and emptiness sweeps over me.

  It feels frozen in grief. Nothing like the warmth I’d experienced at Michael’s.

  It scares me. Forces me to acknowledge the truth I’ve been avoiding.

  I’ve barely left this apartment in a year and a half. It’s been my safe place. My haven. Filled with both my memories of the man I loved and the nightmares of his death.

  Every inch is coated in my despair, my tears, and sadness.

  And I don’t want to be here.

  The thought of climbing into my bed alone is too much for me to bear. But I don’t know how to say the words.

  In the end, I don’t have to.

  I look at Michael. My face must be as pleading as I feel, because he frowns, juts his chin toward the hallway leading to my bedroom, and says, “Get your things, Layla.”

  I turn, and do what I’m told.

  A week later, we’re walking Belle through the city streets after dinner. Belle tugs at the leash, anxious to get to the dog park where she can run after being cooped up all day. Michael yanks the leather handle and scowls at the dog. “Belle, heel.”

  She ignores him.

  I duck my head, smiling. I’ve stopped insisting I need to go home and as a concession, Michael hasn’t forced me to talk about the state of our relationship.

  I still tell myself this has to end. Not today. Another day. At some point I’ll gather enough strength to walk away. But today, I just want to be with him, walk his dog together, and sleep in his bed.

  “Belle!” Michael barks out in his most menacing voice as she tries to leap excitedly at a poodle passing her by.

  A laugh bubbles from my throat. Michael might have domination down to an art form, but his dog is clearly the boss of him. Every time she disregards his orders, I’m filled with a giddy delight.

  He squeezes my hand. “Are you laughing?”

  I grin up at him. “Who me? Would I do that?”

  He gives me his most dangerous glare. “Absolutely.”

  Slowly, as the days pass, more and more of my natural personality is starting to peek through, and I can’t help but tease him. “I’d never. She’s clearly well trained.”

  “She listens…” He sighs as she lunges down the street. “Sometimes.”

  I nod. “Thirty percent isn’t bad.”

  He laughs. “Brat.”

  I slip out of his grasp and curl my hand around his arm, pressing close as we walk. I love how he makes me feel safe. Love how I don’t worry about dark shadows when he’s with me. He can protect me. He’s armed and dangerous, and if anyone fucked with me, they’d be dead. The knowledge gives me a twisted satisfaction that makes his job almost worth it.

  We stop at a light and I put my head on his arm, resting against him, sucking in all his strength and warmth. “Maybe all she needs is some discipline.”

  He chuckles and kisses the top of my head. “Are we still talking about Belle? Or you?”

  I thought I was teasing about the dog, but now I realize that wasn’t at all true. I’ve worked myself into a nice comfortable corner I’ve refused to test, even as I strain at the confines. He hasn’t pushed. But I want him too. He’s been in absolute control, but whatever sadistic streak he possesses has stayed firmly under wraps.

  I want it. Crave it. And I’m scared.

  I suspect my fear, and the trauma I suffered, is what stops him from unleashing on me what I so desperately need. The acts I’d preformed with the men in the club don’t count. I’d let them hurt me because I’d wanted to hurt. To suffer.

  With Michael I want the cathartic release of it. Believe it will somehow cleanse me. But as much as he teased me, he’d yet to deliver.

  I know why. I’ve learned how he operates. He wants me to need it. Wants me to break free from the box I’ve created, to take back another piece of myself.

  He’s waiting for me to ask. But I don’t know how to say the words. With John I never had to, I’d just angled and bratted it up until I got my way, and he turned me over his knee.

  But Michael isn’t like that. There is no topping from the bottom with him.

  So I’ve taken to skirting around the issue, only to back away the second he calls me on it. Which is exactly what I’m going to do now. I clear my throat and say lightly, “Discipline? Me? I’m a perfect angel.”

  “That you are,” he says. The light changes and we start to walk again. He’s silent the next couple of blocks and the butterflies in my stomach fade away. When we reach the dog park Michael lets Belle off her leash and she sprints away, racing around the open field like a lunatic.

  I laugh. I love her. She’s helped me heal almost as much as Michael. I cast a sideways glance; he’s standing there, an amused expression on his face.

  I bite my lip. I’m worried. I think I might be halfway in love with him. Maybe more…maybe I’m all the way and I can’t admit it. That sounds like me.

  He catches my stare and raises a brow. “And what was that thought?”

  I flush, thankful for the cold and my already pink cheeks. “Your dog is crazy.”

  Michael watches her tear around the park. Eventually she calms down and then we throw the long ball to her for a while before heading back home. “Yeah, she is. She’s worth every second of the trouble.”

  Before I can stop the words, they are out of my mouth, hanging in the air between us. “Are we still talking about Belle? Or me?”

  I frown, chewing on my lower lip. Why did I say that? I advert my attention to the dogs roaming in the park.

  He runs a hand down my arm and when I still don’t look at him, he grips my chin and forces me. When I meet his gaze, his hazel eyes are absolutely serious. “You are worth it, Layla.”

  My throat tightens and I nod. It’s hard. It’s baby steps, and I sometimes feel like I’m standing in place. I’m getting frustrated. I want to be worthy of him. To be the woman he deserves. Once upon a time I was.

  Another thing that night stole from me.

  He leans down and brushes my lips with his. “You’re worth it.”

  “Okay.” In that moment, I believe.

  He tucks a lock of hair behind my ear, and bends down to whisper, “You know what you need to do, girl.”

  “Yes.” Hot, wanton need warms my belly.

  “Just say the words, and I’ll give you what you’ve been craving since the moment we met.”

  I put my hand on his chest to steady myself. I want him so badly my legs are quivering. “Why?”

  There are a million questions in that one word.

  Another brush against my lips. “You know why. It has to be your choice.”

  My fingers clench on h
is coat and I sniff from the cold. “But you already know.”

  A smile lifts the corners of that beautiful, cruel mouth. “I do, but it doesn’t absolve you from making the choice.”

  My teeth clench. This is what’s so frustrating about him. And me. All I need to do is ask and we’ll both get what we need. Because as much as I need it, he needs it too. His craving is just as strong. I know this. Sometimes, when we’re lying there, I can feel all his power leashed just under the surface, straining for freedom. But there’s one thing I’ve learned about Michael.

  He never, ever breaks.

  As much as I want to say the words, they stick like molasses to the sides of my throat. I growl. “Why do you have to make this difficult?”

  He shrugs, not seeming the least bit stressed. “I’m greedy. I want to hear the words from your lips. I want you to ask me.” He leans down again and nips my earlobe. “I want to hear you beg.”

  Tonight. Seven o’clock. Black dress. No panties. A car will be waiting.

  That’s all his text had said.

  The Uber car he’d arranged had driven me to another trendy hotspot restaurant, and now I stood in front on the sidewalk.

  I take a deep breath. I don’t know why I’m nervous, but I am. Maybe because this was the first time he’d given me such a direct order, and that order could only lead to good, but scary places.

  A symbol of our progress in the relationship I refuse to name.

  Since his message earlier this afternoon I’d been a mess of anticipation and now, hours later, I was on edge, nervous with excitement. As prepared as I’d ever be, I swallow hard and walk inside.

  A pretty blonde hostess smiles as I enter. “Can I help you?”

  I glance around at the patrons scattered about but don’t see Michael in the crowd. “I’m supposed to meet someone.”

  The hostess looks at the screen in front of her. “Your name?”

  “Layla Hunter.”

  She scans the computer and nods. “Yes, your party is waiting. Let me take your coat.”

  I wasn’t late, so that could only mean he’d gotten here first to watch my entrance.

  Licking my dry lips, I shrug off my jacket, smoothing down my miniscule skirt. I feel vulnerable and exposed, which, of course, is his intention. This was exactly the kind of depravity that works girls like me into a fevered pitch.

  The message hadn’t specified what black dress, but I knew he’d meant this one. The one he’d seen me in all those months ago when he’d watched me, unaware. I filled it out better than the last time I’d worn it, the sharp angles of my bones disappearing as my appetite returned.

  I follow the woman, scanning the dining room for the man that had taken my heart and refused to let go.

  When I spot him, my breath catches in my chest, and my heart seems to stop. He’s in a corner booth, dressed in black, his attention locked on me. The expression he wears reminds me of the first time I saw him, intense and powerful. Completely mesmerizing.

  My body responds, just like it had back then, springing to furious life, as every cell screams—this one.

  My heart beats nearly out of my chest as his gaze slowly, deliberately scans down my body.

  He lingers on my lips.

  The curve of my neck where my pulse beats wildly.

  My breasts, heavy and tingling with awareness.

  The swell of my hips, and unbidden, an extra sway goes into my step.

  My thighs, quivering in anticipation.

  His gaze doesn’t leave me during my entire walk through the restaurant, an eternity where the room went silent and the other people ceased to exist.

  It was just us. Michael and me. Alone in the chaos.

  When we reach the table the hostess gestures to the open seat and I move toward it only to freeze when Michael shakes his head.

  His attention shifts to the pretty blonde and she stands a bit straighter in his presence. Michael nods. “Thank you.”

  That’s all he needs to say to make it clear it’s time for her to go. A flush stains her face, and she darts a furtive glance in my direction. I can’t tell if she’s terrified for me, or jealous. Probably a bit of both.

  She turns and scurries away.

  I suck in a breath before taking a step toward the table, but again he shakes his head. “No. Let me look at you.”

  My own cheeks heat at the display, but I stand in place, as though rooted to the floor.

  That cruel smile lifts the corners of his lips and he raises one finger and makes a twirling motion.

  I lick my lips, darting nervous looks around the room to see if anyone is watching. Michael is much more blatant than John, and I’m still not used to it.

  Although I can’t deny it excites me. I’d always had a secret thing for private acts played out in public. The danger and threat of getting caught. I didn’t want to be on display, per se, but more I like the thrill of fear.

  It wasn’t John’s preference, but he indulged me. I frown; it’s that desire that caused my life to change so dramatically.

  I’ve kept it carefully under wraps, but of course, Michael has figured it out. But, unlike John, it is very much his thing. While this is the most overt he’s been, it’s always there, prowling just below the surface.

  A dark brow rises. “I’m waiting.”

  Again, I glance around; positive everyone knows what’s going on between us. I suck in a lungful of air, and then slowly turn around in a circle.

  When I once again come to a stop, he nods. “Good girl.”

  My knees actually wobble. I bite my lip and shift my gaze to the open spot, silently asking for permission to sit.

  He doesn’t respond, instead he says, “That dress looks even better than I remember.”

  “Thank you.” The demure tone of my voice at complete odds with the depraved need rioting inside me.

  He takes a sip of his drink, which I now know is Glenlivet. His throat works as he swallows and I can almost feel his skin under my mouth. The way he smells when my face is buried in the curve of his neck.

  My grasp tightens on my small purse.

  The longer he makes me stand here, watching me, making me wait, the wetter I become. My thighs feel slick, my nipples far too tight. Like they’d be painful to touch, but it’s that good pain. The pain I’ve been longing for, but can’t ask for.

  The night crystalizes into sharp focus.

  I’ll be asking him tonight.

  It will be my choice, but he’ll push all my buttons to get me there. Just like he’s been subtly pushing those buttons over the last week.

  He puts down the glass and props his arm on the back of the booth, still assessing me. “Are you wet?”

  Heat infuses my face. It feels as though he’s announced the question over a microphone. I nod.

  “Say the words, sugar.”

  Implacable. That’s what he is. “I’m wet.”

  “Good.”

  I glance once again at the booth.

  He takes another sip of his drink. “That dress still evokes the same response in me. I want to bend you over this table, yank up the fabric over your hips, and pound into you. I don’t care who sees.”

  I gasp in shock. In lust. Because I can see it. Like it’s my destiny.

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” His voice—Jesus his voice—it’s thick and full of power.

  “Yes,” I say, pressing my thighs together.

  “Men stopped eating when you walked through the room.” His fingers play over the edge of the glass, circling deliberately, the way he sometimes touches my nipples. “I want to show them that you’re mine. That you belong to me. That I can touch what they can’t.”

  I can’t help it, I lean forward, hypnotized by his words. The possession in his tone, it’s like crack to someone like me. “Yes.”

  He smiles then, and it’s so sinful Mother Theresa herself wouldn’t be able to resist. “Do you know why I picked this place?”

  I shake my head.

>   Another long, slow deliberate drink. “The bathrooms. They are big and private. Designed to fuck.”

  A trickle makes a track down my legs, and I press my thighs together.

  His head tilts and he eyes me with speculation. “You already look on edge. Already clenching those pretty thighs together.” He scrubs his hands over his permanently stubbled jaw. “So many options to choose from. Should I make you wait? Take you there now?” His gaze flicks down my body. “Or I could make you stand there and come before I allow you to sit down.”

  Distress and arousal wage a battle. It’s hard to tell what’s winning. I gasp out, “You wouldn’t?”

  He laughs. “Wouldn’t I? I’m sure you could manage it.” He takes another slow sip of his drink. “There are ways. You could press against the edge of the table.” His gaze flicks down my body. “Or you could just stand there and rub your thighs together until you create enough friction to get off.”

  It is in this moment the full weight of how Michael understands me sinks in. This is not some idle threat. I’m scared, exhilarated and every part of me is alive. I bite my lip, unable to breathe as I wait.

  His long, strong fingers tap against the glass. “Tell me, Layla, what should I choose?”

  I sense some sort of a trap, but I’m unable to stop myself from falling right into it. “Now?” The word comes out as a squeaky question.

  His lips curl into an evil smile. “Be more specific.”

  I shift on the balls of my feet. I wish I could play it cool, but that’s impossible. I’m as needy as he suspects, maybe even more so. Because I’ve been craving something just like this, and it’s finally happening. “Please take me to the bathroom.”

  “To do what?” He never makes it easy.

  I clear my throat, leaning in so my hips press against the table. “Fuck me.”

  Most men, once you say those two little words will do whatever you want. But Michael doesn’t appear swayed. He nods, his expression speculative, as though contemplating. “Anything else?”

  The trap springs closed as comprehension dawns. My attention flies to his and his hazel eyes flash in silent acknowledgment.

  My heart beats wildly in my chest even as my thighs slick. There are really only two choices here: I ask to be spanked in that bathroom, or I don’t sit down at this table until I’ve come.