Constant Craving

by Tamara Lush

  I've forgotten how complete I feel in his arms.

  My body’s need for him is undeniable, but my mind is trying to warn me away from the primal instinct drawing us together. I have to put a stop to this. He’s in St. Augustine on business. Rafa seems serious about investing in my newspaper, that’s clear from the endless meetings we had all day with the various departments at the paper. The last thing I want is him thinking I’ll sleep with him in exchange for helping. My body is not an acquisition in a transaction.

  But my every cell wants him. Is clamoring for more. And perhaps I don’t mind him acquiring me.

  Rafa moves almost in slow motion, pressing me down on the bed. His light kiss is both familiar and comforting, making my need grow by the second. His naked chest lightly brushes against my bare breasts, and I’m aflame, abuzz, awash, in him. How does he always know the exact moment to slow down during our lovemaking, to prolong my pleasure?

  “We still have it, Justi. That craving for each other. Don’t we? Deseo constante,” he murmurs, using the Spanish words for the phrase constant craving.

  My lips graze his ear. “I could fuck your voice.”

  I give a little cry when I feel his full lips on my neck and his teeth biting me hard. As I wrap my legs around him, my skirt lifts higher up my thighs while he consumes my neck with a tantalizing slowness.

  I shouldn’t be stupid about this. One night is probably all he wants, and one night will destroy me. He’ll screw me and return to Miami, and then I’ll be devastated all over again. I can’t think he’s going to come into my bed and proclaim his love after all these years. Not now, not ever. Not after what happened between us. I need to put a stop to this…

  My mind blanks as Rafa trails a tongue across my collarbone. I moan when his lips reach my breasts. Taking a nipple into his mouth, he sucks for a few long moments, sending waves of heat between my legs. He flicks his tongue over and around the erect peak, then sits up.

  “You’re even more beautiful in reality than in my memory, Justine.”

  Jesus, he’s saying all the right things.

  This is an exquisite torture. One hand cups my free breast while the other skims my bare thigh and roams under my skirt until his fingers find the perfect spot between my legs. I am dripping wet.

  A small gasp escapes from my lips, and the room becomes blurry, surreal. He strokes me with a feather-light touch, and I think I might explode.

  My body knows exactly how to respond to him, even though my mind is going haywire. Part of me is poised to strip off my skirt and panties and never allow him to leave my bed again. Another part is telling me to run. Fast and far.

  His hand is still between my thighs, rubbing my sweet spot. Despite all the years, his fingers find my clit immediately and he rubs it through my underwear. My skirt is around my hips now, and he’s grinning as he looks down at me. He presses the pad of his middle finger against me and circles unhurriedly, the lacy fabric creating a delicious friction.

  “You knew this is where we would end up. You with your beautiful legs spread and me fucking you and making you come over and over and over.”

  I close my eyes, reveling in the ascent of an orgasm and purring out loud from his touch.

  “This isn’t why I called you,” I murmur.

  “You don’t like this?”

  I shake my head. “I do, but…”

  “But aren’t you glad I’m here?”

  His lips touch mine, and he continues to circle my clit with a lazy rhythm. Oh, Christ, it’s too much.

  I need to end this…

  But I want to feel him, all of him.

  “Your body hasn’t forgotten me. You’ve soaked through your panties. That’s my Justi. Always wet for me. Always ready for my fingers and my mouth and this.”

  He rises into a kneeling position and puts my hand back on his zipper. I grasp the outline of his solid erection underneath the fabric.

  “Isn’t this what you want, muñeca?”

  And he’s using his favorite, sexy pet name for me. Muñeca. It means doll in Spanish, and my body used to light up every time he said it. When he first used the nickname years ago, I thought it sexist. I came to love the word each time it crossed his lips.

  “Justine. Mi muñeca.”

  I sigh pleasurably as he cups my pussy and presses his hand hard against me. My panties are as damp as if I had left them out in the rainstorm. I whimper when he takes his hand away.

  Kneeling in between my legs, he trails his fingers from my knees, up my thighs, and to the elastic edges of my underwear. He teases me by stroking my fabric-covered labia, tracing the seam of my sex with his thumb.

  “What was your record for orgasms in one night, Justi? Think we can break it? Bet we can if I lick you.”

  Must…stop…now. It has taken a long time for me to achieve a sane emotional balance in my life. Now, with Rafael’s presence in my bed, my very foundation threatens to crumble.

  With a strangled moan, I close my legs and squirm away.

  I jump off the bed and grab my still-wet shirt, holding it over my chest. As I clutch the shirt with one hand, I struggle to pull the damp skirt over my hips with the other. Breathing hard, I stand at the side of the bed and gape at Rafa with wide eyes.

  “No, Rafa. No. We can’t do this. It’s a mistake. A huge one.”

  Panting, he stares at me incredulously. “Jesus, Justine, why not? What’s wrong?”

  Before, I’d always given myself eagerly to him, practically never said no and always went to bed with a smile. Now, I have massive doubts. And a mountain of fear.

  “It isn’t right.” I stand in front of a bureau near the foot of the bed, my bare back to him. Suddenly the room seems tiny. It’s probably like a closet to him, compared to the space he’s used to back in his penthouse condo on Miami Beach.

  Shaking, I fumble and drop my wet shirt while I rummage in a drawer. My breasts feel heavy, and they hang in the open. I snatch a blue hoodie.

  “Amor, what isn’t right?” He crawls over to the edge of the bed, kneeling behind me. He runs his hand down my back, and I shudder. I see our reflection in the mirror. We still make a gorgeous pair. My pale skin next to his darker hue, the curve of my waist near his chiseled chest, the softness of my face next to his angular one. Our eyes meet in the mirror and I exhale.

  “Corazón. I want you. And these, wow. Better than ever.” He reaches to cup my breasts from behind. My taut nipples betray me; they’re so hard they’re almost painful. I jerk away and put the hoodie on, zipping it to my neck. I notice the hoodie is inside-out but don’t bother to fix it.

  He chuckles softly. “Even though you’re wearing a sweatshirt and a business skirt, with mascara running under your eyes like a raccoon, I want you more than any of those models in Miami.”

  Somehow, these words don’t soothe me. They piss me off. They’re complimentary, but annoying. I step away from him and drum my fingers on the bureau.

  “No. I don’t want to be one of your conquests. Get out. You’re here on business. Or at least you said you were.”

  He presses his palm against his forehead. “Justi. Let’s think about this. We can enjoy each other and negotiate a deal. I can separate the two.”

  I shake my head. “I can’t separate anything. Sorry. I don’t want you to invest in my paper if it means I have to sleep with you.”

  “Would it be so horrible to spend a night or two with me? Am I so repulsive? You didn’t seem repulsed a few minutes ago. No, you seemed to want this as much as I do.” He climbs off the bed and reaches for his shirt.

  “I’m sorry to lead you on. It was totally inappropriate of me. Especially after how we ended.”

  The tendons in his neck cord and tense. “Dammit, Justine.”

  “Just go, Rafael.” We stare at each other, wet and disheveled. Turned on and angry. A shiver runs through my body. “Why did you come here? To help me? Or to fuck me, Rafa? Because if that’s your reason for being here, go back to Miami and leave
me in peace. Please. I was doing fine without you.”

  “Really? So why did you call my company?”

  I chew the inside of my lip, straightening a few perfume bottles on my bureau. “I called a different company, which you happened to buy. Why did you come here? Why couldn’t you have sent someone else?” My voice is shrill because I’m on the verge of crying. I hate that I’ve been reduced to this.

  He rolls up his shirtsleeves carefully, and I stare at his broad hands. “Maybe I came here to see what kind of woman you turned into.”

  “You wanted to see me broken and failing.”

  He shrugs. Now he’s obviously pissed. “And I wanted you to see who I became.”

  “Rich. Powerful. Everything you dreamed of,” I murmur sadly.

  “Yes.” He pauses. “I loved you, once upon a time. Then you hurt me. More than anyone, ever. You possibly hurt me more than my own mother.”

  “Loved. Past tense. And you hurt me, too. How can you ignore that fact?” My tone is softer now, because he’s raised the specter of his mother. She’d put him on a raft to Florida at the age of six, with his aunt and uncle. He’d grown up filled with rage and broken glass, qualities that were soothed by me. Or so he’d said when we were together. “You know we were more complicated than that, Rafael. Our ending was more complicated.”

  As his lips curl into a smirk, his eyes land on a framed photo perched on my bureau. It’s of my father. He shakes his head as if he’s trying to forget the image.

  “Perhaps it was. You left so quickly that I was never sure.” He turns to me with a cool stare. I chew on my thumbnail. He’d tried to break me of the habit years ago, and I suspect he’s fighting the urge to pull my hand away from my mouth.

  Leaving his shirt unbuttoned—which distracts me, because his muscles practically ripple like waves—he stands near me. Too close, close enough that his scent washes over me and my knees turn rubbery again. I try to wipe the mascara from under my eyes.

  “I wanted to see if we still have that chemistry. I guess I won’t find out.”

  “Whatever. You know we still have it. And you know it’s dangerous for both of us.”

  He shrugs. “A little bit of danger can be good. Isn’t that what you said when you left me to go cover some disaster in Central America?”

  Buttoning his shirt, he leans in a bit. I’m trembling, not from fear but from confusion and need. Another shiver goes through me, a bigger one, and my teeth chatter for a millisecond.

  “Anyway, Justi, I’m planning on being in this area for a while so I can assess the media market. I have my eye on some other papers and even some TV stations in this part of Florida.”

  “What do you mean, you’re going to be in this area for a while? Why didn’t you tell me this?” I rip a piece of skin off my thumb’s cuticle.

  He wraps his fingers around my wrist and lowers my hand away from my mouth. I squirm my hand out of his grip. Taking my chin in his other hand, he tilts my face to meet his. I narrow my eyes at him.

  “I was waiting to surprise you, because I thought you’d be happy that I was staying a while.”

  “How…how long?” My mouth is desert-dry.

  “A month. It’ll be my base while I look at media opportunities in Jacksonville, Orlando, Daytona. I’ve got a property broker looking for a long-term rental here. In fact, I’m glad we’re not going to spend all night together. I need to get some sleep because I’ve got so much work tomorrow.”

  A week with him nearby will send me into a tailspin. A month will destroy me.

  10

  Tears and Memories

  I feel the blood draining from my face and hold on to the bureau to steady myself. “Here? In St. Augustine? I thought you’d only be here for a day or two.”

  He nods, my chin still in his fingers. He strokes my slightly moist bottom lip lightly with his thumb, which makes my clit pulse.

  “I have a suite booked, but I’m looking at renting a house longer-term. With a proper kitchen and dining room and bedroom. Perhaps I can make you arroz con pollo. You always loved my cooking.” He studies me with a smirk. “Oh, that’s right. You want to keep things professional.”

  My eyes cloud and flit around the room. “I think I should stay away from you during non-working hours. I’ll see you at the paper tomorrow.”

  He sighs, a big, exaggerated sound. “You know, Justi, maybe you’re right. But for the sake of business, let’s try to make this work. You have a lot to lose, and I believe there’s money to be made here. Let’s put this night in our memories. Like we’ve done with everything else in our past.”

  When he releases my chin, I turn from him and hold the corner of the bureau with both hands.

  “How many papers are you looking to buy?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure. Maybe a few. That’s why I came here instead of my vice president. I’m considering a long-term investment strategy in hopes of owning media properties in every major market in the south and possibly looking toward the future at expanding nationwide. Like Warren Buffet has. I thought it would be worth scrutinizing your assets to see if the Times fits my future portfolio. After what I saw today, I’m not sure it does.”

  Oh God, this is the worst possible scenario. I’m shaking now, and I squeeze my eyes shut. I can feel him come closer, and his warm lips brush my forehead. His mouth in that spot is familiar and tender and also terribly bittersweet. I scowl.

  “Sweet dreams, Justi,” he whispers.

  I sink onto my sofa with a cup of chai tea and sniffle, finally calming after a solid, fifteen-minute crying jag. I haven’t been this overwhelmingly upset in years.

  Thank God I didn’t let Rafa see me cry. I’d been close to melting down when he’d stared at me with hatred in his eyes, kissed my forehead, and stormed out of the house.

  I thought I was over him. I thought our love was firmly in the past. I thought I’d moved on.

  But I was so damned wrong about it all.

  I shiver when I think of his hands twisting in my hair, his lips burning on my neck. The feel of his breath on my skin lingers. Having sex with him would have been a disaster. A beautiful, Category-5-hurricane type of disaster. No, it’s for the best that I stopped before things careened too far out of control.

  Even if he’s ready to dive into bed, even if every molecule in my body wants him, I must not blur the lines between a personal and professional relationship. Because if I sleep with him, I’ll fall for him again.

  I can’t afford that. I’m a grown woman with a business now. A rational woman who lives in a small town and not in Miami. And he’d never fit in here—he’d never want to.

  But dammit, I need his company to help me. I wipe a fresh pool of tears out of my eyes.

  It might be too late for help, though. Have I screwed things up by teasing him, then rejecting him? I swallow a lump in my throat. My tea is lukewarm, and I set it on the coffee table. It tastes entirely too saccharine for this moment, and I want something bitter to match my mood.

  I groan out loud and think about calling Diana. It’s too late, though, and I don’t want to tell her that I’d practically pulled Rafael into bed, then kicked him out of my house. Instead, I drink the tepid tea and ponder my bleak options.

  What should I do now? Have I screwed things up beyond repair, like I have with my business?

  Newspapers across the country are changing for the worse, and the Times is no exception. If Rafael and his company don’t offer funding, I’ll be forced to let go all one hundred of my employees, many of whom I’ve known since birth. I’ll be out of a job. Stopping the presses at the Times will mark the first time on the East Coast that a city is without a daily newspaper.

  And if any place needs a newspaper, it’s St. Augustine. The sheriff’s office is corrupt, the city council is sketchy, and the business community apathetic. Citizens need the paper, even if they don’t always know it. Or pony up the cash to subscribe.

  I don’t want the paper to close on my watch. Ink is in
my blood, and I’m fighting like hell to rescue my family’s legacy.

  Rafael’s my last hope.

  I guess I’ll have to pray he helps me. Hope he doesn’t hold tonight against me. Because if I refuse his help and tell him to return to Miami, I’ll have to file for bankruptcy.

  I curse out loud and shut my eyes, flopping back against the pillows.

  Why can’t I be one of those women who fucks a guy and doesn’t get attached? Why couldn’t I have enjoyed myself tonight in bed with Rafael and then met him in the office with a knowing wink and a handshake tomorrow? Why did I think I would get attached if I spent one short night with him?

  With aching joints, I rise and head for the kitchen. I pour myself a glass of scotch and answer my own question.

  I knew from the moment I saw Rafael fifteen years ago that he would get under my skin, work his way into my soul, embed himself into my consciousness.

  Not one thing has changed. I plod back into the living room, sinking again into the sofa, remembering our first date, our first kiss, the night we first slept together.

  And I cry.

  “You’re gorgeous in that dress, but you’re going to have to take it off.”

  “W-what?”

  Rafael grinned. “You should see the look on your face. I’m not asking you to strip for me. We haven’t even kissed, silly. You’re going to have to wear something else because I have a motorcycle. You can’t wear a dress on a bike. See?”

  He walked to my window and pointed down to the street. I stood next to him, feeling the heat of his body, staring at the black-and-blue motorcycle parked below. He was the first guy to actually pick me up on an old-fashioned date. Even guys in high school never had, preferring to meet somewhere and hook up. Rafael had this old world quality about him, a formality, even though he was only twenty years old.

  “It’s a Honda CB 125,” he said. Like that meant anything to me.

  “I’ve never been on a bike.”

  He rested his hand at the top of my back and circled his thumb on my bare skin.