Constant Craving

by Tamara Lush

  I step closer. “Tomorrow. Okay.” The old Rafael would’ve pinned me on the kitchen table and ripped off my clothes by now. My stomach plummets with disappointment.

  “Yes. I’ll pick you up at eight. Dress nicely, I’m taking you to dinner.”

  “Do you want me to suggest some restaurants in the area?”

  He shakes his head. “No. I’ll decide. We’ll go somewhere nice. Just look beautiful for me. That’s your only job.”

  “Fine. Eight.” I bristle a little at his domineering words, but I can’t deny that the sexual tension is thicker than the Florida humidity. I detect a flush of perspiration on the backs of my knees as I grip the edge of the door. Dammit, I want him to spend the night.

  “I’m going to have a nightcap.” My eyebrows plead the obvious question.

  He shakes his head, a sexy smile dancing on his lips. “You’ll have to wait one more night for me.”

  His words spark electricity through my body. I want to throw myself at him, violently kiss him, drag him inside and consume him until he begs for mercy. To say I’m sex-starved is an understatement. I am starved for good sex, passionate sex. Rafa sex. And now that I’ve gotten a little taste of him, now that I’ve acquiesced to his indecent proposal, I’m willing to beg.

  I step a little closer, and he braces his hands on either side of the doorframe.

  “I guess I can wait,” I murmur, my eyes sweeping down his bare chest. “You’re teasing me, though. I’d really like for you to stay with me tonight.”

  He laughs. “I know. But it’s better if we wait. Plus I have a couple more requests so you’re nice and ready for me.”

  What now? How much more can I give of myself? I look at him, incredulous.

  “I want you to gather your things. Pack enough for a few weeks, bring everything you’ll need. Clothes, makeup, books, whatever. If you have something formal, bring that because we might attend an event in Miami. If you don’t have anything appropriate, I’ll buy you something.”

  Is he for real? This is too much. I huff out a laugh. “I can’t go home for the next few weeks?”

  “Why would you want to? Why would you need to?”

  True, I have nothing to stay home for. Not a dog or a cat, not even a plant. I rub my lips together. “We can’t sleep here sometimes? This is my home.”

  “We’ll see. Perhaps. I want to be with you on neutral territory, and I think you’ll enjoy being pampered in various ways after work each night.”

  “Fine. But I do have obligations. Diana’s baby shower is in a couple of weeks. I have to go to that.”

  “You’re not a captive. You’re not my slave. Of course you can go to her shower. I have business to handle in Miami for a couple of nights, so our schedules might coordinate. You can see your girlfriends. But I want to end every day with my hands on your skin and wake up every morning with my lips on yours. I want to do what I used to with you and your body.”

  A hot shiver flows through me, and dirty images flood my brain. “You want to dominate me.” I say this as a fact, not a question.

  He nods.

  “So why aren’t we starting tonight?”

  The biggest grin spreads across his lips. “I love it. So eager. So willing. So different than the other night when you tossed me out of your bed. I guess money has a strange way of motivating people.”

  Now he’s being a jerk. “That’s so low. You know it’s not true. You know that I loved you when you had nothing—”

  “Shh. We’re not going to talk about the past.” He grimaces and rakes a hand through his short hair.

  I stifle a glare. If only he knew how I wanted both things in my life—my business and him—without complications, without deals, and definitely without time limits.

  “I’m not going to deny that it will be…” I hesitate, trying to ignore his cruel remarks. “…entertaining to enjoy some of your talents again.”

  Laughing, he reaches into his back pocket and takes out his wallet. He extracts a wad of bills, folds them, and hands them to me. I stare at the money, mute.

  “Here. Take this and go to the spa tomorrow. Hair, nails, whatever you want. Buy some lingerie. Also, get a Brazilian wax.”

  “Okay, wait a minute. You’re going a little far. Now you really are treating me like a…”

  “Like a what?” he asks. “Take the money. It’s a gift.”

  I sigh. This is part of his game. We’d played variations on it when we were younger, after we’d been together a couple of years. But the stakes were never this high. I take the cash in my thumb and forefinger, as if it’s covered in hot pepper sauce.

  “You didn’t used to think Brazilian waxes were sexy. You always liked me more…um, natural. Have you changed your preference?”

  Is he fighting back laughter? He is. Damn him.

  “Justine, I’ll be excited by you, with hair or without. I feel like giving you an order, that’s all. It’ll turn me on, thinking about you getting waxed and picking out lingerie just for me. I don’t want you wearing anything that you wore with any other man.”

  “But—” I was about to tell him that none of my lingerie—if you could call my two old pairs of lace panties, the boy shorts, and dozens of faded cotton bikinis lingerie—had been near anyone with a penis in a long time.

  He interrupts. “No. Please do it. You know what I like to see you in. Simple and sexy. Cotton. Lace.”

  I laugh. It’s difficult to deny that I’m still turned on by his commands, despite the gravity of what lies beneath. I shift in my boots, aware that my boy shorts are wet and my nipples tingly.

  If this is our game, I’ll have to be more than a participant. I’m going to play and fight and win. It matters little that I haven’t had sex with anyone in a while, unlike Rafael. Not only do I know how to push his buttons, but he’s the one man, the only man, who can fully please me physically. How can I not take advantage of that? If Rafael’s going to use me for sex, I’m going to use him right back. And enjoy every moment.

  Summoning my sultriest gaze, I lean forward so I’m about an inch from the rock-solid bare chest that taunts me from beneath the ridiculous pirate shirt. Standing tall, I bite my bottom lip and stare up at him coyly. I make a show of slipping the wad of cash under the elastic at my cleavage.

  “I don’t know that I’ll be as submissive for you now that I’m older,” I whisper.

  “Let’s give it a try.” His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows hard.

  “The problem is…” I trail a finger down his bare chest. “Right now, I feel like tormenting you a little.”

  “That’s nothing new,” he growls.

  I brush my lips over his softly, kissing his full mouth with tenderness. The faint stubble on his jaw feels dangerously rough when my fingertips explore his face, and he relaxes his muscles.

  My tongue finds its way into his mouth and touches his. He tastes like the spearmints he chewed repeatedly in the car. And he’s nervous. I can tell by the way his hands squeeze tight at my waist as he draws me near. My breasts brush his chest, and I wish we weren’t wearing clothes.

  I break away, and we stare into each other’s eyes. I feel my heartbeat, or maybe it’s his. Is he even breathing? Rafa doesn’t move a finger to touch any part of me but my waist. My God. He’s got a lot more willpower than he used to have. Maybe more willpower than I do.

  I kiss him again gently. Our tongues touch, and when I lightly suck on the tip of his, I note with satisfaction that he groans softly. My hand goes to his waistband and tugs with one finger, then I slide lower, over the fabric of his pants.

  I stop kissing him and smile while I palm his erection. As I do this, I nuzzle into his neck.

  “Fuck, Justine,” he says in a ragged breath.

  That’s when I stop stroking him and smile.

  “Sweet dreams, Rafecito.”

  And with that, I shut the door.

  16

  Slave to Love

  I lean against the wall in the da
rk, not moving, practically not breathing, until I hear his footsteps fade. When the sound of his vehicle is far in the distance, I sink onto the floor and my whole body deflates. The money he gave me is scratching at my breast, and I take it out and inspect it. A thousand dollars.

  Can I truly do this? Will I be able to spend a month with him and not get hurt? Can I really do this without losing myself or feeling like I’ve cheapened my soul?

  I rise, stiff in my joints. An hour later in bed, I’m still too wired to sleep. Every ten minutes I check my cellphone to see if Rafa has called or texted, and sigh every time I see he hasn’t.

  I scrunch and hug a pillow, then flop onto the cool side of the bed. Maybe I should turn down his offer of help. Let the paper fail, let my career fail, let everything crumble. Flee to some foreign country, take a job far from St. Augustine, go back to school, freelance… Anything to avoid the painful situation that’s bound to unfold.

  At least that way I might salvage my self-esteem and pride.

  But there had once been a time when I was completely unguarded with Rafa. When I'd given everything to him, without hesitation.

  My heart, my body and my soul.

  I gently placed the wrapped gift on the nightstand and slid under the sheets. Rafael’s body was both hard and warm, and I couldn’t wait to touch him. It was Christmas Eve, and he was sleeping in the guest bedroom of my childhood home.

  It was our first Christmas together. Rafael managed to get four days off from his job at the hotel, and I couldn’t wait to take him around St. Augustine to see the holiday lights and my high school and the old historic Spanish neighborhood that I knew he’d love because his grandparents were from Spain.

  I was also glad he was with me for the break; his aunt and uncle had flown to Cuba to visit family, and he’d refused to go, saying he didn’t want to visit the island because he hated the Castro regime. He said he’d never return to the island as long as it wasn’t free from communism.

  I was hoping a trip to my house would take his mind off all that.

  “Good morning, sweet boy.” I hugged him tight. I loved how his skin smelled in the morning. It was like pure sun, and I mashed my face into his chest and inhaled.

  Rafael slipped his arms around me, let out a sexy growl, and snapped his eyes open. “What are you doing? Your father’s going to kill us. He warned me last night not to sneak into your room.”

  “Don’t worry. He’s gone. He’s at the paper. He always has a big party for his employees on Christmas Eve. We’ll meet up with him later.”

  I moved on top of Rafa’s body, kissing his neck. Spending the night in the room next to him had been torture. Since we’d made love for the first time two weeks ago, we’d slept next to each other every night in my dorm room. I was just glad that my father had agreed to have him here for Christmas.

  “I missed you last night.” He hugged me tight.

  Of course my father wouldn’t let us share a bed. I hadn’t even bothered asking. Especially since my dad was uncharacteristically silent—sullen, even—around Rafael. Probably because he was my first boyfriend. My father would have to get used to the idea that his little girl was a few months from being twenty and no longer a child.

  “I think this is the best Christmas present I’ve ever gotten,” Rafael said, running his hands over my back, under my short robe, and squeezing my ass. I wasn’t wearing anything underneath, and my legs felt electric as they tangled with his. I’d made sure to shower and put on Rafael’s favorite vanilla cream perfume before waking him.

  “I have a present for you. I wanted to give it to you away from my dad.”

  I slid off him to sit on the edge of the bed. Reaching over, I grabbed the gift and handed it to him. It was wrapped in red paper and a perfect, silver ribbon.

  “You can’t show my present to anybody. It’s only for you.”

  Rafa sat up, grinning. He untied the bow and undid the tape.

  “A…book?” He turned the spiral-bound black tome in his hands.

  “Sort of.” I giggled, then kissed him. “Merry Christmas. I love you. Look inside.”

  He slowly opened the cover.

  Affixed to the first page was a picture of us, taken on South Beach one day when we’d skipped class together. He was so handsome, the salt-water drops clinging to his broad chest. I wore a pink bikini. Our arms were wrapped around each other, and we wore the biggest smiles against a backdrop of blue ocean.

  “I’ve never looked happier than in that photo.” I tapped on it with my index finger.

  He turned the page and sucked in a breath.

  I gestured to the page. “I took the rest of the pictures. For you.”

  His pupils dilated as he drank in the erotic images.

  “Dios mio, I’ve never seen anything more sexy. Not even in Playboy.”

  His surprise turned into a huge grin. He stared at a photo of me nude, silhouetted by a window. And another of my legs, wearing only calf-high socks. A third photo showed only my breasts. Each page revealed a more explicit, sensual picture. They were all in black and white. I grinned lustily, drunk with my own image and his speechlessness.

  “Remember that photography class I took? I learned how to use the time release on my old film camera. I tried to be artistic, not raunchy.”

  “You didn’t take these to a store to get them developed, did you?” He glanced at me with concerned eyes.

  I shook my head. “I locked myself in the old darkroom at the school paper one night when you were working and developed them myself. Old-school photography.”

  “Good.” He exhaled, then pushed the blanket away from his legs. “I wouldn’t want anyone but me to see them. They’re beautiful. More than beautiful. Stunning. Incredible. Fucking hot.”

  He seemed to be in a daze as he stared at one fully naked photo with my legs bent and slightly spread, showing everything in between. In the photo, my hair was wavy and hung over one shoulder and my mouth was turned up in a serene, sexy smile. It was the most explicit picture and the only one where I looked directly at the camera.

  The fabric of his boxers strained against his erection.

  I leaned in to kiss him, pausing near his lips.

  “Do you like them?”

  “Yes, so much,” he breathed.

  “You’re hard.”

  He nodded weakly. “How could I not be?”

  “Rafael, show me what you’ll do when I’m not around and you see these.” I kissed again, slow and teasing. I’d realized that I had a certain power over him, something I didn’t know a woman could have over a man. My fingers went to the elastic of his boxers and slid them down his legs. His erection sprang forward.

  I took the photo album and opened it to the sexiest photo. I took his hand and guided it to his cock, and he started to stroke slowly.

  “I love watching you do that,” I said. “You’re so crazy sexy.”

  His eyes flitted from the photo to me. By now, my robe had slipped off one shoulder, revealing my nipple, which was so hard it almost hurt. Unable to watch anymore, I closed the book and climbed on top of him, filling myself with his wide girth. I was mesmerized by the way his eyelids fluttered in ecstasy, at how his eyes rolled back ever so slightly in his head. Never had I imagined that I’d have that effect on anyone, much less a man as perfect, as loving, as carnal, as Rafael.

  He squeezed my hips with his hands and pulled my body toward his as he whispered soft in my ear.

  “I love you, Justine. I want to spend every Christmas with you forever. Can we? Please?”

  In the dark, I wipe my cheeks with my palms, but it does little good. The tears are uncontrollable when I remember how we used to be, and when I consider how much we've changed. How Rafa's changed.

  Why does he want to torment me? More importantly, why am I saying yes to his offer?

  Flinging off the sheet because my skin burns with heat, my heart flutters uncomfortably and I feel like I’ve drank five cups of espresso. Thoughts ricochet around
my brain. Will he make love to me like he used to, or will he be more controlled, more practiced, distant? Or is he too bitter? Have the years apart turned us into different people?

  It’s a question I have to consider. Since we split, I’ve worked hard to be a force for good in the world. I’d learned to rely on myself for my own happiness.

  I’d been a reporter before I took over at my family’s paper. I’d interviewed rebel leaders in Central America, seen mass graves after devastating natural disasters—hell, I was the one who’d found my father dead on the floor of his office a year ago. I was also the one who’d screamed in the car as my mother and brother took their final breaths.

  And I’d survived it all.

  I’d learned to fight for what I believed in, whether it’s the paper or my own sanity. Even dating Jared was part of that self-discovery. I’d been attracted to him because of his casual ease and quick wit—and because he was damned pretty. But I hadn’t loved Jared with the fervor or fever that I had with Rafael; in the three years I dated Jared, I’d never told him I loved him.

  I’d assumed a more tempered relationship was normal, rational, better. So Jared made sense, at the time.

  I check my phone again, my eyes burning from the harsh light of the screen. No messages.

  Damn.

  I know one thing: I’m still a slave to my passion for Rafael.

  Now that he’s back in my life, all of my tidy constructs have dissolved. Normally, I am strong and confident, ready to take on whatever obstacle or challenge with a sarcastic grin. Now, I’m unsure of everything.

  He’s the man who shared some of my most painful moments. And now he’s asking me to be his paid mistress.

  I know he doesn’t respect that kind of relationship; at least he didn’t used to. Maybe the moneyed Miami lifestyle has changed him. That’s my biggest worry, that he’s turned into a shallow, superficial person I would normally dislike—and one who would use money to prove his point.