Damn it, I hate when he’s all reasonable. It leaves me so few options for revolt. And the more solid I become in both our relationship, and myself, the more I desire to test us, and me. To figure out who I am. Now that I’m no longer just existing, I need to rediscover what makes me tick. My likes and dislikes. My wants and needs. How far I want the bounds of our relationship to extend.
At my hesitation, he prompts again. “The pictures.”
I’m feeling slightly dangerous. I raise a brow. “Or what?”
His eyes narrow and his jaw hardens. “Do you really want to test me and find out? Over this? Something I’ll probably see anyway when I meet your parents next week?”
He’s right. There are pictures of John and me at my parents’ house, but I don’t back down. “I don’t think it’s right for you to demand something so private and personal.”
“It’s a picture. I’m not asking for anything hard.”
“He’s mine. I won’t share him with you.” My tone is snappish and belligerent. Full of petulance. I don’t know where this is coming from, or why. I don’t want to ruin our day, but I’m struck with a burst of stubbornness.
He stares at me for a long time, his gaze hard and unreadable.
I hold my breath, unsure of what he’ll say or do. What I hope for and what I fear.
After what feels like an eternity, he says in a flat tone, “Suit yourself, Layla. This isn’t a battle I choose to fight with you. I’m going to bed.”
And with that he stands up and walks down the hall. A second later the door to his room closes softly behind him.
I sit motionless on the couch, Belle’s head still in my lap. This wasn’t the result I’d anticipated—it’s far, far worse than the fight I angled for.
I’ve put a wedge between us. I’ve disappointed him. Worse than any punishment he could have exacted on me. The kiss of death for a girl like me and the weight of it crushes me.
I stare at my phone on the table before picking it up. The metal is cool under my hot fingers. I unlock the private photo album and scroll through the pictures of John and me, stopping on my favorite taken a couple of weeks before he died. We were at a friend’s house, standing hip to hip, our arms locked around each other’s waist, and we’re laughing. We look happy. There’s no hint of our tragic future. No sign of what’s to come. I flip to the next one, a shot of John in profile while he watched the water lap against the lakeshore. It was a candid shot, and it captures the essence of him perfectly. His easy charm, his boyish good looks, and the barest hint of the devil lurking beneath.
I run my thumb over his face, trying to remember what the line of his jaw feels like under my fingers. But instead of John’s smooth skin, I feel the roughness of Michael’s stubble that never quite disappears no matter when he’s shaved.
With a heavy heart I close the album and press the voice mail icon, scrolling down and down, until I finally reach it. I click on the arrow and put the phone to my ear. A second later, John is on the line.
Hey, LayLay, I’m running late, but I’ll be home by seven. It’s been a hard day and I need to do filthy things to you. So be a good girl and be naked and ready when I get there.
It’s not quite the last message, which I’ve saved, but never play. This message is from a week before he died. Again, I replay it, my lashes drifting closed at the rich timber of his voice. So achingly familiar.
I remember that night. The sex. The laughter. Curling up in his arms after. But there’s a distance there now. I can no longer quite make him real in my head.
Instead, I think of Michael. Flesh and blood. The man whose palms I picture skimming down my body. Who’s cock I feel deep inside me. The man who’s single handedly pulled me back from the dead.
The message ends and I stare down the hall. I put a wall between us.
I shift my attention to the front door. I have two choices. I can leave and let the wall between us harden and set, or I can go to him and rip down the barrier.
In the end, there’s no real contest.
I turn and walk down the hall. To life.
I open the door and step inside to find him lying on the bed, reading a book. His expression is unreadable as he looks at me. He is silent, but his raised eyebrow speaks volumes.
My lashes flutter as my heart speeds up. I am suddenly nervous. “I’m sorry.”
He nods. “All right.”
I don’t know what to do. I’ve been fighting my instincts and nature for so long, I don’t trust them. I do the only thing I can think of—something I have never done with him. Something I’ve never even given to John. I open the locked folder on my phone, and find the picture of us as a couple I’d looked at moments before. It fills the screen, and I walk forward until I’m at the end of the bed. Then, I drop to my knees, lower my head and extend the phone, raising it high for him to see.
There is only silence, and the sound of my breath filling the room.
Finally, I hear him move. I resist the urge to lift my head, instead waiting in offering. It’s the most submissive gesture I’ve ever made, and it is hard.
So very hard.
A moment later he slides to the edge of the bed and his bare feet enter my line of vision, resting on either side of my thighs. The phone is plucked from my hand, but instead of studying it, he places it next to him, and runs his hands through my hair. His fingers tangle in the soft waves, and then he tugs.
In answer, I lift my chin.
Those hypnotic hazel eyes burn into mine and a fire starts between us. I want to move, to rise to meet him and fan the flames until it rages like an inferno between us. But I don’t. I sit still and I wait for him to take the lead. His thumb runs over the length of my jaw. “Thank you.”
I blink, my throat tight. “You’re welcome.”
“I don’t want to take him from you, Layla. I want you to claim him.”
The full weight of his words sink in. Out there in the living room, wasn’t about exerting his dominance. I was the one that turned it into a test. His motivation wasn’t a power play, but to help me remember the good memories of John, instead of the nightmares.
His fingers skim down my throat. “You’re mine, but being mine doesn’t mean you weren’t his.”
“Yes.” My tone is just a fraction above a whisper. They aren’t mutually exclusive. My needing Michael doesn’t negate my love for John, or our relationship. And for the first time I understand that. Really understand it, deep down in my bones.
“Do you think there’s room in your heart for both of us, girl?”
There is no longer any question about this. I nod. “Yes, Michael.”
In answer, he leans down and kisses me, a hard, passion-soaked kiss full of promise and magic. Then he’s pulling me off the floor, and rolling me onto the bed. His big body covers mine as he licks at my mouth, and his teeth scrape along my lower lip. I moan, needing to feel the full weight of him, needing him to claim me. To make what I offered on the floor real and strong. His and mine.
Separate from what I shared with John. Not better. Not worse. Just different.
His hands skim down my arms, bypassing my wrists to tangle my fingers with his. His mouth still on mine, he raises my hands next to my head, and presses them into the mattress.
But it’s no longer enough. I need more.
I want his fingers wrapped around my wrists so I can’t free them. I want to feel trapped. I want his hand to cover my mouth so I can’t scream.
I want afraid. Scared. Needy and desperate.
Things I don’t understand, but I need. Michael knows this but is forced to deliver it in a safe way to avoid triggering my past.
Suddenly, a great well of inner strength sweeps through me, followed quickly by a rush of hot, jagged rage.
I will not let that one night win. Not anymore.
The empowerment is like jet fuel in my blood and my movements become frantic. He raises his head and gazes down at me, that hard, commanding menace I’m addicted to, written ac
ross his face.
“How much do you hold back because of me?”
He releases my hands, and his expression clouds as his beautiful, cruel mouth dips. “I’m a patient man, Layla. And as far as I’m concerned we’ve got all the time in the world.”
My thumb brushes over his lower lip. “You didn’t answer my question.”
His palm covers my stomach and the muscles there quiver. “I’m careful not to do anything that might trigger memories of the attack. That’s not the same as holding back.”
I look at him, hoping my gaze is full of the trust I feel for him. “I need it all. And I think you need it too.”
Something flares in his eyes, and he sucks in a breath. I know he’s trying, but he can’t quite hide how much he wants it, or the price it costs him to always be on guard around me. “I can wait until you’re ready. However long that takes, I’m in, Layla.”
It occurs to me that, in this, he needs my permission. It’s the safe, caring, responsible thing. My emotional wellbeing, my mental health, it matters to him. I matter to him. But it’s also another wall between us.
One I created that now needs to be eradicated.
It was there for a reason, I realize that, but I need it stripped away. Because finally, at long last, my need to be whole is greater than my need to feel safe.
I curl my fingers around his neck. “I’m ready.”
I can see the hesitation in his expression, in the press of his lips and set of his jaw.
I hope my face conveys the depths of my sincerity, my certainty. “I need it. With you.”
When he still remains contemplative, I give him my most seductive, sassy smile. Hoping to alleviate his concern, I tease, “Shall I beg for it?”
The hazel in his eyes flares to bright gold, but instead of the attack I’m anticipating, he rolls over and puts his hands behind his head. “That’s a good idea.”
I blink, lifting up on my elbows. “Excuse me?”
That cocky, mean look slides across his features and my belly dips and heats. “You asked if you should beg for it. And yes, you should.”
My throat is dry. “I was teasing.”
His cool, slightly dismissive gaze glances down my body. “I told you that you were going to have to start paying for all your little challenges, and now seems as good a time as any to start. You want it, work for it.”
It’s been so long I’ve forgotten this part. The part where he doesn’t come free just because I want him.
I eye him, biting my lower lip. I’m out of practice. I haven’t begged for anything in a long time, and even back then, John typically only made me beg when I was already in a fevered state. When I was well past my fears and inhibitions and it was so easy I’d promise the world.
But this isn’t John. It’s Michael. He’s harder. More exacting.
I want what he will give me. And I’m so damn tired of being afraid all the time. The knowledge and understanding doesn’t stop the nerves and I laugh, a high-pitched titter that conveys my discomfort. “I don’t know what you want me to do.”
Another glance before he shrugs. “That’s for you to figure out, but naked is probably a good start.”
It’s a concrete action I can take and I nod, slowly pulling my top over my head and dropping it to the floor before flicking open my bra. After that’s discarded, I stand up on the bed, and remove my sweats and panties.
Now that my nakedness is complete I find myself once again unsure. I stand there, towering over him, at a loss. I decide the only course of action is to follow my heart. I move, lowering myself, as I straddle him. My exposed core rubs along his erection and the slight friction of the cotton sweats remind me how aroused I am. How wet.
How much I want this and him.
His expression is intent on my face, and he lies still, making no move to reach for me. I work my hands under his T-shirt and scrape my nails over his stomach. The muscles flex under my touch.
I roll my hips, my nerves slipping away as I remember why I love this. How addictive it is. Turning my brain off, I let the lust take over. I slip my hair from its ponytail holder and it falls around my shoulders. I run my fingers through the length, the motions grinding my clit against his erection.
It feels so good. He feels so good. I get lost in the sensation, my back arching, my nipples exposed to the air, my hair a silky cascade over my skin, soft cotton against my overheated flesh.
I gasp as pleasure races through me only to jerk back to awareness when Michael says dryly, “That looks more like masturbation than begging to me.”
A hot flush spreads over my chest, rolls up my neck and splashes on my cheeks. “Oops.”
He smirks, raising one brow. “Oops indeed.”
I slither up his body, pulling his shirt as I go, resting my bare wetness against his belly. I grab ahold of his wrists and look down at him. His eyes are dark on mine, burning with that passion that’s always been a live, tangible thing between us. I rub my slickness over his skin and watch in fascination as his jaw hardens. I squeeze my fingers around his wrists, loving the strong flex of muscles under my touch. I lean close and my breasts brush his chest, sending my nipples tingling.
And then I get serious. I get real. I lay my heart, and all my secret yearnings at his feet, because he deserves that from me and I’ll give him nothing less.
“Michael.” My voice trembles with emotion.
“Yes, Layla.” His own voice is filled with a husky smoke that leaves me breathless.
“You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me.” My eyes fill with tears but I go on, refusing to stop what needs to be said. “You have pulled me back from the dead, kicking and screaming, and I can never repay you. But this is something I can do. Something that I can give you that will never belong to anyone else. Only you can help me lay those ghosts to rest, to help me overcome the past. I trust you. More than I ever thought possible. So please, I am begging you, please take me. Hold me down, restrain me, possess me and make me yours. I’m incomplete without it. Without you.”
Then I roll off him and lay, arms wide, legs splayed in offering. I turn my head to speak the last words, to find him staring at me in a kind of stunned awe.
I smile, my heart breaking and filling back up again with something new and light. Something fresh and clean and pure that’s for him. And only for him. “I am at your mercy. Do with me what you will.”
He moves fast, like a panther that has been sitting too long in the brush and is now impatient for the kill. He springs on me, trapping me under him.
“Layla.” My name cracks in his throat.
“Yours, Michael.” I arch, offering myself completely and wholeheartedly. “Please make me yours.”
He sucks in a breath, and lightly brushes his thumb over my wrist and my whole body shakes. “Any hint of panic and I expect you to tell me right away.”
I blink, nodding eagerly.
His hand skims up my arm, over my neck until he grips my jaw, tightening his hold until it aches and forces me to meet his eyes. “I’m serious, girl. Any hint. If you don’t communicate, I promise you will pay dearly for it. And it won’t be with one of those spankings you love to hate. Understood?”
“Understood.” I arch again. I’m sure. Sure in the way I was about John. Sure in the way I never believed I’d be again.
In offering, I hold out my wrists. I need the bad memories replaced.
Releasing his hold on my jaw, he encircles my outstretched hand. Twining his fingers around the fine bones, studying me as his hold tightens.
Instead of fear, instead of dread, my body rages to life.
He’s watching me closely, too closely, when all I want is abandon, but I understand him. He’s protecting me. Keeping me safe, even from myself.
I nod in reassurance. “I’m okay, I promise.”
He tightens his hold further. His fingers like a vise. He waits.
Again, I feel no panic, only greedy desire. I nod again. “I know it’s you. I won’
t forget. I want this. Please, it’s been so long and I want it so badly.”
I finally seem to satisfy him and his expression transforms from concerned and watchful to beautiful cruelty. He yanks my hands above my head and I gasp as excitement rips through me.
His fingers manacles my wrists, and my breath quickens.
Then he looks down at me, his mouth twisted into an evil smile. “That was beautiful, sugar. I loved every word of it and it means the world to me.” He leans down, and bites my neck; hard enough I’ll have a mark tomorrow. “But I think you can beg harder.”
His teeth scrape over the curve of my breast and he licks over my nipple. “I don’t think you’re nearly needy enough.”
Oh god, yes. This is what I so desperately need. No more kid gloves. No more easy. No more nice.
Just hard, delicious mean.
The next morning, Michael is still sleeping and I’m stretching to reach the coffee, the dress shirt of Michael’s I’m wearing riding high on my thighs. Every muscle in my body aches in the best way. Last night, Michael took me in every way possible. So completely, so irrevocably, I woke up changed. My body is marked. My wrists are bruised. My ass is sore, my knees ache, my breasts feel too full, and my skin is oversensitive.
I’ve never felt so wonderful in my life.
I hear the bedroom door open and turn to look over my shoulder. He walks into the kitchen wearing his sweats from last night, no shirt, his hair rumpled. “Morning, sugar.”
“Morning.” I can’t help it, I beam at him, my smile so wide it hurts my cheeks.
He chuckles and walks over to me, slipping his arms around my waist. “I’d ask you how you feel but it’s written all over you.”
I laugh, and it rumbles in my belly. “Don’t brag.”
“I don’t need to brag, I know how good I am.”
I roll my eyes, and smack him in the shoulder. “You’re so arrogant.”
He leans down and gives me a toe-curling kiss. “You love it.”
I do. Not that I’d admit it. “I took Belle out already.”
He curls his hand around my neck. “You know, you can’t leave me, Belle will never forgive me.”
Crave Page 22
