Constant Craving

by Tamara Lush

  “Miami’s most eligible bachelor,” I say in a singsong voice.

  “Yes. A bachelor for years and I like it that way. Gracias.” The muscles in his jaw pulse and tighten as he clenches his teeth. Under the table, I run my toe down his shin, and he traps my foot tightly in between his calves. We’ve been in the restaurant what, a half-hour, and I’ve already pushed him to the edge. I won’t admit it to him, but it gives me a certain thrill to know he’s still affected by me.

  “De nada. You were probably ecstatic to get rid of me so you could screw your way through Miami. You achieved your goal. Bravo.”

  Rafa shoots me a withering smirk. “That’s interesting. I could have sworn it was your choice to leave me. For someone who prints the truth every day in the newspaper, you seem very willing to embrace alternative facts. And you have a loose grasp on how we ended, mi corazón.”

  I try to stop my nostrils from flaring in anger but can’t. I straighten my posture and wriggle my foot from his legs.

  “I’m not going to rehash our past, Rafa. I’ve put it behind us. I’m not discussing anything more than our impending business deal.” I pop an almond into my mouth.

  “Our potential business deal. I have yet to make an offer.”

  He smiles, slow and sexy, and all I can do is scowl.

  For some reason, Rafa seems to be gripping the steering wheel of his car pretty hard. So hard I think his knuckles are white. His car is an electric Tesla, expensive and stealthy, and I’m a little intimidated by the sleekness of it all.

  We don’t talk much on the way to my house. He’s always been intense when he drives. I stare out the window at the rain. Our barb-filled dinner had ended in détente, in the form of key lime pie because the restaurant didn’t have flan.

  “Is it strange living in your parents’ house?” he asks after a long silence.

  I shrug. “It’s not like I have any other choice. The mortgage is paid for, and I haven’t taken a salary from the paper in a few months.”

  “So what are you living on?”

  I pause. “A small inheritance and my father’s life insurance policy.”

  “Are you living alone? Did you get the dog you always wanted? And what’s this about you dating someone?”

  I don’t answer right away, and when I do, I change the subject. “This winter storm sure is unusual. Normally it never rains here in February.”

  “Not going to answer my questions? Does that mean I get to meet your new boyfriend when we get to your house?”

  I sigh. “There’s no new boyfriend. Yes, I’m living alone, and no, there’s nothing much to say about my ex. He worked at a TV station. He got a big job anchoring the five o’clock news in Los Angeles.”

  “Why didn’t you go with him?”

  I rolled my eyes. “If I hated Miami, wouldn’t I loathe L.A.?”

  I leave out the part about how Jared was both attentive and superficial. How he was a great boyfriend, but didn’t have fire in his belly for anything other than his job. Well, that and the fact he couldn’t find his way around a vagina if his life depended on it. It wasn’t like I was a sex addict or anything; I simply desired physical contact more than Jared did. When he left, we’d parted as friends.

  “And I didn’t ever get my dog. I’m not home much.” I shrug and turn my body to the window, hoping it will end the questions. I’m mentally exhausted.

  The unusual winter thunderstorm sends sheets of water over the Tesla’s windshield and thunder crackles in the distance. Rafa stops the car in front of my house and kills the ignition. He glances at my little, yellow, 1920s-era bungalow with blue trim.

  “Wow, that’s some déjà vu,” he says softly.

  I nod and wonder if he’s thinking about the first time I brought him here, during Christmas break our sophomore year in school. It’s déjà vu for me, too, but I don’t tell him that.

  “Thank you for dinner.” My fingers wrap around the door handle.

  “Wait. I don’t want you getting wet and sick.”

  Before I can protest, he produces an umbrella, climbs out of the driver’s seat, walks around to my side, and opens the door. He holds out his big hand.

  “Come, Justi.” I’m not going to argue, because it’s probably better not to get drenched, not after this difficult day. I slip my hand into his, and his familiar touch sends warmth up my arm. We walk quickly to the front door, his hand wrapping around my waist and drawing me close. I pull back, shocked at how normal it feels to be so close to him, then yelp when the raindrops hit me.

  “You’re half in the rain, chica. Get under the umbrella. I won’t bite.”

  Yeah, right. Part of me wants him to sink his teeth into my skin, which is why my insides seem like they’re vibrating from being so close to him.

  We pause on my doorstep. I gaze at him, his searching eyes illuminated by the porch light. There’s a sublime moment when I see a little glint of rain on his crazy-long lashes.

  “Well, it’s late. I’ll see you at the paper tomorrow. Thank you again for dinner. I had—”

  He doesn’t let me finish.

  Holding the umbrella over us with one hand, he wraps his other hand around the back of my head and pulls me to his lips. I let out a little squeak, but the rain drowns it out. His lips touch mine, and I dissolve.

  Ohhh, hell. I’m done.

  8

  Powerless

  It’s a beguilingly tender kiss, one that makes me go liquid inside. He slides his arm from my neck, down my back, and to my waist, drawing me into his warmth. The wind picks up, and my hair blows away from my face while the fronds of a nearby palm tree rattle against each other.

  “Jesus. Kissing you is still as natural as breathing,” he whispers.

  I can’t talk, can’t think, can barely move. I stand, still as a statue, my lips pulsing from the sensation. He kisses me again.

  My lips won’t budge at first, I’m so shocked at what’s happening. His mouth feels exactly the same as it used to, and I don’t know whether I want to devour him or sob or run. So I shiver, my body coming alive as his lips touch mine. His hand is still on my neck and jaw, and it feels so goddamn right.

  I moan against his mouth.

  He has no intention of stopping and gently nudges my lips open with his tongue. I melt into him, and his taste is sweeter than I remember. Sweet and dangerous, a deadly combination. I hesitantly graze his tongue with the tip of mine, then lightly nip his bottom lip. His kiss is soft and lush, filling my brain with memories. I let out another tiny whimper of pleasure. Our lonely, awful past melts away, and I’m left with only the present, which is raw and honest. Left with only his hot and yearning lips on mine.

  He stops and nuzzles his mouth to my cheek, and I’m overwhelmed by his spicy scent lingering on my skin. It’s a kiss that could make me reconsider my entire life, exactly like another kiss so long ago, when he kissed me for the first time under a Miami moon.

  “Justi,” he whispers. “I’ve thought about this all day. Maybe it’s why I really drove five hours to be here.”

  I draw back, even though I don’t want to. I feel my mouth quiver. This is so wrong. In a flash, I go from sensual to shock to anger. Sometimes I’m impulsive like that, especially when I’m emotionally overloaded.

  “What…what the hell is this?” I fume, wriggling out of his grip so my entire back is drenched by the rain. He presses forward with the umbrella and his big body.

  He looks at me with half-lidded eyes, unsteady with desire. Adrenaline surges through my body. I want him, but I shouldn’t. I can’t.

  I can’t with any of this.

  “Un besito. A little kiss. For old time’s sake,” he murmurs. “May I have another, por favor?”

  “We’re trying to do business together and put the past behind us and you kiss me? That was completely unprofessional and impulsive, Rafael. What is wrong with you?”

  I lick my lips, and he responds with a growl.

  “Do you want impulsive? I’ll give y
ou impulsive, Justine.”

  My heart stutters when he tosses the umbrella down the concrete steps, allowing the rain to wash over us. With both hands, he grabs my face and kisses me with an open-mouthed hunger. A low groan in my throat inspires him to kiss me harder. Which is fine by me. I’m now angry and needy and really damned confused. As if on cue, a crack of thunder and a flash of lightning burst nearby. Neither of us flinches or parts. Water runs down our faces and drenches our clothes. I kiss him back with a rough desperation, as if I want to devour him, and he reciprocates with equal urgency. I arch my back so that my breasts press hard into his chest.

  Of course I can’t say no to him.

  There’s no hesitation, no gentleness. It’s a scorched-earth, end-of-the-world kiss.

  My hands fist the front of his now-soaked shirt, and he draws back to stare at me. His lips are wet and parted. Ready for more.

  Jesus, he’s beautiful.

  The water on my face causes his hand to slip toward my mouth, and I turn my head, taking his thumb between my lips. I suck. Hard. He groans low.

  Thunder cracks overhead again.

  “Amor,” he whispers. “If you don’t tell me to stop right now, I’m going to strip you here in the rain and fuck you so hard the neighbors will come out with popcorn to watch the show.”

  I break away, radiating with anger at my lack of willpower and his mere presence. I release his shirt and straighten my posture, but he doesn’t let go of my face. Ragged breaths break from both of us, and rain drips down our faces. His eyes travel down my white blouse, which is now transparent from the water. My nipples are hard and shine through my thin bra. He slides his hands down my neck, over my shoulders, and circles his thumbs over the stiff points. I gasp and lean in, heavy-eyed, desperate for another kiss. He would fuck me right here in the rain. We’d done crazier things when we were younger.

  He pulls my body toward his. Emotions, complicated and messy, flow through me like the hard rain.

  “Hold on,” I say.

  I turn and unlock the door. Taking his wrist, I pull him inside while flicking on a light in the hallway. I drop my purse on the floor, and he shoves me to the back of the door, pressing his lips to mine. I curve a bare leg up to his hip, and he rakes his hand up my thigh, under my skirt. He pauses and I’m left panting.

  “Why are you stopping?”

  Without answering, he pins me even harder to the door, presses his erection into me and kisses me violently again. I sweep my other leg up to his hip. His hands cup my ass and lift me while I giggle. Enough of the tense banter and edgy flirtation we traded at the newspaper all day. We both know what we want.

  “The bedroom. Where is your bedroom?” he demands.

  This is the Rafa of my dreams. Of my past. Of my fantasies.

  I wrap myself around his torso and bury my face in his neck as he pulls me away from the wall.

  “Past the table, down the hall, to the left.” I shiver from the feel of my wet clothes and his strong arms against my body. I suck on his earlobe and coo a little in his ear.

  He stops in front of a closed door, and I giggle. “Rafa, this is the guest room. The next left. You know where it is. I’m sleeping in my old bedroom.” I sink my teeth into his neck.

  “Stop that or I’ll fuck you on the hallway floor. I’ve done it before.”

  “More than once.” I laugh when he bumps into the half-closed door in the dark, then barges it open with his shoulder. Rafa sets me roughly on the bed and climbs on top of me, his body a magnet to mine. Our mouths and tongues meet, and Rafa kisses me with such ferocity that I feel his stubble chafing my face, causing an exquisite burn on my chin.

  He pauses, hovering his mouth over mine and taking my jaw firmly between his thumb and fingers. “The light. Turn it on. I’ve waited long enough for this. I want to see you.”

  I grapple to reach to the nightstand and click the lamp switch while Rafa takes off his shoes. He flings himself back onto me. Neither of us cares about our wet clothes as our mouths and tongues collide. I open my legs wide for him, and he settles his hips exactly where they belong. It’s like we’re jumping in right where we left off: frenzied, intense, explosive.

  Rafa bites my bottom lip and I moan. He nips at my chin, then props himself on his hands. I try to catch my breath and stare at Rafa’s face. His eyes are closed, his lips pink, swollen and parted as he presses himself into me with a slow rhythm. He is a picture of male erotic pleasure, and I’ve spent long and lonely years yearning for this moment.

  “You,” I whisper, and his lids flutter open. Rafa’s deep copper eyes are framed by impossibly long lashes, and the startling combination evokes a long-buried hunger in me.

  His wet, white shirt sticks to his skin. Fumbling for the buttons, I free him from the fabric and slide it behind his shoulders and off his arms, tossing it aside. His shoulders are sculpted as if they’re carved from marble.

  Rafa presses against me, his mouth hot against my neck. He feels hard and good and perfect on top of me. Being this close to him after so long is familiar and comforting because I know his body, every ridge and plain. The swath of his bicep. The lone dark freckle near the jugular vein on his neck. His perfectly round bellybutton surrounded by hard muscles and a downy black sprinkle of hair.

  And yet, Rafa’s body is also deliciously taboo because it was precisely the one thing I’d told myself I didn’t desire. Couldn’t desire, ever again.

  My mouth goes to his earlobe, and I capture it in between my lips, then tease and flick it with my tongue. Rafa, never one for powerful cologne, smells the same as I remembered, faintly of wind and water and all things wild and forbidden.

  “Sit up,” I whisper. His chest and arms are more powerful than I remember, and I run my hands over his smooth, fever-hot skin, stopping to trace the triangle of muscles and tendons and bones near his collarbone and shoulder. Trailing my hands over the hard ridges of his stomach, he quivers at my touch. I’m reminded of the first time I saw him naked, how sensitive he was, how his muscles jumped when I hesitantly caressed and explored.

  My mouth skims over his pecs and finds his nipple. He groans in response.

  Rafa always liked me to suck and bite there, and I take his nipple in my mouth, tugging the taut peak with gentle teeth as goosebumps spread across his beautiful flesh.

  “Dios mio, you remember how sensitive they are.” Rafa grips my hair. I tip my head, putting my ear to his chest and running my palm over his skin while he gathers my hair in both hands. His heart beating in staccato notes is the best song I’ve heard in years.

  I straighten to meet his gaze, my palm sliding to his zipper. I feel his hard cock underneath and press with the heel of my hand.

  “I remember a lot more than you think.”

  Rafa grins, a focused, predatory look, and removes my hand, placing it on his bare chest.

  “You’re going to have to wait a little while for that. I might even make you beg.”

  “You know I will.” There. I’d done it. Surrendered already.

  He laughs as he runs his big hands over my breasts, tearing at my silk shirt until buttons fly everywhere. He reaches around my back for my bra clasp.

  “It’s in the front,” I pant. “Do you want me to unhook it?”

  “No. Let me have the pleasure.” He bites his bottom lip as his strong fingers undo the front of my bra, practically in slow motion. He gently slips it past my breasts and over my shoulders, his gaze on my chest the entire time.

  “You still take my breath away. Fuck.” He cradles my breasts in his hands, and I whimper when he rolls his thumbs over my nipples.

  I’m on my knees facing him, wearing only my skirt, which is hiked up to mid-thigh. My wet hair spills over my shoulders and the ends curl over my bare skin.

  Rafa takes his hands away from my breasts and stares at me for several seconds, not touching me, not talking. My nipples grow stiffer. There is nothing more that I want than to allow him to consume me and to do the same to him.
I’m shaking from the devastating sexual pull between us.

  I’m powerless to resist his advances or his body.

  9

  In His Arms

  “The most beautiful girl I’ve ever known.” Rafa sweeps my hair away from my shoulders. He almost looks soft and boyish, as he used to. Is he being truthful? I’m not sure. At one time, I knew the power I held over him. But the countless tabloid articles about him with models and starlets have eroded my confidence that he would ever desire me again.

  He touches my face with only his fingertips, and time seems to stop. I shudder in a breath because it’s all so overwhelming. I think I might cry. I swallow a lump in my throat.

  “Dios, everything feels out of control right now,” he says fiercely.

  He says those words while he grazes my skin with only the lightest of hands, and it makes me want him even more. I’m gasping for breath, on the verge of sobbing.

  God, does he feel the same way? Is it possible? I reach a burgundy-polished finger toward his face and trace his soft lips. Rafa opens his mouth and takes my entire finger inside, staring at me with such blazing need that I think I might faint. His tongue wraps around my finger, and I draw in a breath.

  “I’ve never forgotten how talented you were with that tongue, Rafael.”

  He grins playfully and takes my hand out of his mouth, pressing his lips to my palm. The sensation is so soft after his rough kisses, so soothing and caring. It brings back all of the tender, safe feelings I used to have for him.

  “If I recall correctly, you have a similar talent.”

  I giggle and move toward him, wrapping my arms around his neck. I can feel how warm his skin is next to mine. He runs a big hand through my hair, his eyes half-lidded, his mouth nipping at any part of my skin he could reach. We kiss with urgent passion, slow and wet, then hard and biting. Somehow we know exactly where to touch, to kiss, when to murmur and when to smile at each other.