Constant Craving

by Tamara Lush

  A half-hour of fitful sleep leads to me to a dream state in my dark bedroom, a light sheen of perspiration on my skin. My need for Rafa is unbearable, almost as if he’s in bed with me, yet slightly out of reach. I imagine how he’ll devour my mouth with his kisses, like he used to, in the middle of the night. How he’ll tell me to get on my hands and knees, then take me from behind, his hand pulling my hair until my scalp sparks with pain and pleasure.

  My arm stretches out toward the empty side of the bed. I haven’t stopped reaching for him in the dark since we broke up, and each time I do, it makes me feel more alone. Even when I was with Jared, there’d be that half-second where my sleepy mind would trick me into thinking I was touching Rafael.

  My hand slides between my legs in an attempt to take away the edgy yearning that’s invaded my body. As I run a finger over my slick labia, I imagine his full, sensual mouth near mine, exhaling to my inhale. The way he’ll pin my arms above my head, his index fingers nestled in my palms. How his hand will grip the back of my neck when I’m on top of him, drawing me near.

  Soon he’ll be next to me, ready for the taking whenever I want. However I desire. If I want his body in the middle of the night, I have no doubt he’ll allow me to do whatever I need.

  I’ll also submit to his demands, just as I used to.

  And if I want to snuggle against his chest or sleep in his arms, he’ll be inches away, ready and waiting. At least, I hope he'll want those things, too.

  It’s that intimacy, not the sex, that’s the dangerous part...

  17

  Wicked Game

  It’s seven-forty-five and dark, the air taking on a crispness that makes everything go silent in Florida. Rafa knocks on my door, probably thinking that arriving early will throw me off-balance, that I won’t be ready. But tonight, I am.

  I fling open the door and grin at the look of surprise on his face.

  “Well,” he says, walking in and glancing down at my two suitcases. “I think this is a first, you being ready on time. Are you really all packed, or is there more?”

  “I am, and there’s not,” I reply triumphantly.

  He stuffs his hands in his jeans pocket and inhales big. I suspect he’s trying to control his urge to touch me. I’d purposefully put on my most formal, sexy dress: a black strapless number that wraps me tight. It’s not too risqué—I’ve never been one to dress too provocatively outside of the bedroom and prefer leggings and long tunics—but it does show off my curves if I do say so. I’m also wearing the black heels again and am hoping those will come off first because my feet are beginning to resemble ground hamburger.

  Although, if I know Rafael, he’ll want me to keep them on.

  I look him up and down and scowl. “You told me to dress up, and you’re in jeans, a T-shirt, and a leather jacket.”

  “I changed my mind about going out to dinner. We’ll eat at my place.”

  “You cooked? In a hotel? How?”

  “I’ve got a few other surprises for you.”

  He grabs my hand and draws me close, sending my heart rate spiking. His nose presses against my neck.

  “Tell me the surprises,” I demand, pretending to squirm away. He pulls me closer, and I hum and buzz like a bee finding a flower for the first time.

  “You’ll see. Dios, you’re wearing the perfume I love. What’s it called? Cake? Sugar? Pie? I haven’t smelled it in years. I want you to wear this from now on. I might have to buy you an extra-big bottle so you don’t run out.” His nose is now next to my cheek, and I grin.

  “It’s called ‘Let Them Eat Cake.’ I’m glad you still like it. I’m going to change into something more practical if we’re not going out.” Here I give a little snort. Why should I torture my feet when he’s totally comfy in sneakers?

  He hugs me even tighter, and his hands drift to cup my ass. “No. Don’t change. I want to look at you for a few hours in that dress before I take it off.”

  I sigh dramatically, but inside I’m thrilled. Sometimes our push and pull frustrated me, but tonight, it’s turning me on. I point to my bags. “Fine. There’s my stuff. I’m going to sit in the car.”

  I hand him my keys and stalk out of the house. It’s finally turned cold for Florida, and I shiver as I settle in the passenger seat of his Tesla sports car. The car is fast, expensive, and electric. Kind of like Rafa himself.

  It now feels like second nature to sit in the Tesla, and I have to warn myself to not get too accustomed to this luxury.

  I idly wonder when Rafa started caring about the environment enough to buy an electric car.

  My teeth chatter. I’m such a Floridian, unable to handle any temperatures that dip below seventy degrees. But I’m not about to put on a jacket, even if I am wearing a skimpy dress. I look good, hotter than I have in months. Years, even.

  Rafa scowls as he slides into the driver’s seat, then shrugs out of his jacket.

  “Here. Put it on.”

  “We’re only going a few blocks. I’ll be fine.”

  “I’m not starting this car until you put it on. It’s cold.”

  He’d always chided me for underdressing in cold weather. Arguing with him now will get me nowhere. I wrap myself in his jacket, inhaling his scent. I’m suddenly slippery in between my legs. Oh hell, who am I kidding? I’d been wet since he walked in my door.

  “Speaking of familiar smells, I notice you’re still wearing Balenciaga.”

  He nods and wears a self-satisfied grin as we drive the short distance to his hotel, his hand on my knee the entire time. My body thrums with pleasure and anticipation of what the rest of the night will bring, while my mind is filled with doubts. How can this ever work? How soon will he make love to me? How can I keep my cool and not plead with him to stay with me the rest of our lives?

  I’m startled when, instead of turning on the hotel’s street, we pull into a section of the city known for its gorgeous, historic architecture. He makes a right into the driveway of a mansion, stops the car, and takes out his phone. He taps on the screen and the iron gate opens.

  I gasp. This is one of the biggest and showiest Mediterranean revival mansions in the entire downtown area.

  A Spanish palace fit for a pirate king.

  “What’s this?” My voice is incredulous. “What happened to the hotel suite?”

  Rafael stops the car. “I felt like renting something a little more luxurious. I was driving by the other day and noticed it was for sale. No one’s shown any interest in buying it, so I made the owner an offer and gave him ten thousand for the entire month. I thought it would better suit my needs. Our needs.”

  Our needs. His words reverberate through my body.

  “It was already staged for show, fully furnished. All I had to do was show up with my suitcase. Wait till you see it.”

  As I step through the heavy wood door into the courtyard, I realize what he’s doing: he’s forcing me to play house with him, forcing me to see what life would have been like if I’d stayed with him. My heart slams against my ribcage, not from desire, but from fear.

  This is a cruel game.

  My hesitation is temporarily overtaken by awe of it all: the beauty of the arches and columns, the waterfall flowing into a sparking pool, the separate hot tub flanked by palm trees. Expensive-looking rattan patio furniture dots the large space, and tasteful lights illuminate the foliage, the arches, and the water. There are beautiful details everywhere, including tiled frescoes in blue-and-white Spanish porcelain, potted orchids, and on one wall, a cascade of jasmine that fills the air with a heady fragrance and tickles my nose. The waterfall reminds me of the two-week long vacation we’d taken our first summer together, one that I’d paid for with the money from my part-time job. (It had also been our first fight, because Rafa hadn’t wanted me to pay for anything. I’d ended up winning that fight.)

  It was the best vacation I’ve ever had; by day Rafa and I would sightsee and picnic at castles, and at night, we’d make love ravenously in small hostel bed
s, sweaty from the Spanish heat. Two weeks of bliss.

  “It’s like a little Alhambra in Grenada,” I whisper, walking over to the fountain. I sit on a tiled, raised border wall and run my hand through the water.

  “The Alhambra.” He smiles wistfully. “It’s true, Justi. I’ve never forgotten that trip, and that’s why I loved this house. I have half a mind to buy it as a vacation home.”

  My heart dances at the thought.

  Rafa sits next to me. “But I don’t know. I’ve already got places in Miami, Aspen, and La República Dominicana. Do I need another? When would I ever be here? And why?”

  My heart fractures in that moment, and I suspect it will be the first of several wounds to come. The cruelty in his words causes my chest to constrict.

  Why? For me, you fool. For us.

  He takes my hand and leads me into the house.

  “Look how beautiful and modern this room is, unlike the rest of the house, which is more traditional Spanish-Mediterranean,” he says.

  We stop in the living area, which is decorated sparsely, with only a low-slung, chocolate-colored sofa facing a fireplace and a few other small tables. Since when did Rafa appreciate minimalist décor? He never cared about this stuff in college.

  “We’ll get to the upstairs bedroom soon enough. For now, sit here,” he points to two white floor cushions set on either side of the low wooden table in front of a stone fireplace. “I’ll serve you dinner.”

  He flicks a switch, and the gas fireplace roars to life in the hearth.

  I stare at him blankly.

  “What?” he asks.

  “I’m just shocked by it all. Maybe shocked that you made dinner. It wasn’t exactly something you did often when we were together.”

  His smile deepens to a grin. “Well, I actually ordered out.”

  “Figures.” Back when we lived together, right after graduation, I hated that we’d fallen into traditional gender roles. It wasn’t what I’d expected of a relationship. But when he wanted, he’d made the most delicious Cuban food—shredded pork and plantains and flan. God, the flan. He’d been taught by his aunt, a restaurant cook in Miami. He’d lived with her and his uncle when he came to America.

  I’m thinking about the flan, and I realize that we’re now staring at each other. I expect him to step forward and kiss me and am surprised when he doesn’t.

  So I reluctantly slip off his leather jacket and hand it to him. I immediately miss his smell. He tosses the jacket on the back of the sofa and faces me, rubbing my bare shoulders. “Is it warm enough in here? I can turn up the heat.”

  I laugh. He does, too. It’s definitely adorable how he still flirts with me. I hope he’ll be like this all the time, instead of bitter and angry like he was the other night. I hope I’m wrong about this being a cruel game to show me what I missed out on. Maybe this will be a romp, instead. Something fun. Maybe he’s right—we’ll get our fill and end our relationship on a good note.

  I glance around. The house is quiet, too quiet. I expect the buzz of people, of help who are paid to handle the daily tasks of a tycoon. Surely he’s brought employees from Miami to assist with his busy schedule.

  “Where’s your staff?”

  He tilts his head. “Staff?”

  “I assume that you have housekeepers and chefs and such.”

  He shrugs. “In Miami, yes. I do.”

  “And why aren’t they here with you now?”

  Rafael pauses a second too long. “Because I want to be alone here. Alone with you.”

  I glance down at the table, not knowing what to say. Suddenly it seems too warm, devoid of air.

  “I’m going to get dinner ready,” he says in a quiet voice.

  I nod and study the table, where a red rose is in a crystal bud vase. A lone wine glass, napkins, and silverware sit precisely nearby. He’s trying to make an impression, that much is clear. I look around. My dilemma now is whether to perch on the pillow and eat in my tight dress or sit on the sofa. I steady myself on the fireplace’s stones and go to take off my heels.

  “No, Justine. Leave them on.” The room echoes with his deep voice, and he walks out.

  18

  Watching Me Fall

  I sigh, sinking to my knees onto the overstuffed cushion and tucking my legs as delicately as possible underneath me. My skin is warm and tingly. The gas fire behind me throws off a surprising amount of heat.

  Rafa returns after what seems like an eternity with an open bottle of wine and an oversized plate. He sets both on the table and drops to his knees on the pillow next to me.

  “Only one wine glass? Only one plate?” I ask.

  “We’re sharing. Abre tu boca.”

  I open my mouth, and he pops a chorizo-stuffed date wrapped in bacon onto my tongue. I roll my eyes in pleasure as I chew and swallow.

  We eat in silence for a few minutes, and then he flashes me a grin. “Let’s talk about our arrangement.”

  I greedily snatch an empanada off the plate and take a bite. “Oh God, it’s ground beef. Where did you get these?” I grunt a little while chewing and mention a Cuban restaurant in town. “Their food usually isn’t this good.”

  “I sent a plane to pick up food from Puerto Sagua.”

  I blink several times. “You sent a plane all the way to South Beach to pick up Cuban food?”

  He grins. “You loved Puerto Sagua.”

  I pick up a croqueta. “That’s not very environmentally friendly.”

  He pushes out an exaggerated sigh. “I know. But I wanted you to have your favorite. Figured you hadn’t in a while.”

  I’m too busy stuffing my face with the delicious Cuban food to do anything but moan in pleasure. “Fried plantains,” I murmur. He spears one and feeds me the caramelized fruit, and I hum.

  After several minutes of eating—with him mostly watching me, an amused and tender look on his face—I wipe my mouth on the napkin. “Um. So. Our arrangement. Are we going to have a written contract?”

  He grins, shakes his head, and sips from the wine glass.

  “No. The details are private. Between us. I do trust you to a certain degree, Justine. You wouldn’t tell anyone or leak this to the press, I’m sure of that. I know you’re like me, guarded with your own reputation, and I admire that.”

  I nod. My stomach feels heavy, possibly from all the food. He lifts a shrimp and dangles it in front of my mouth. I tease it with my tongue and bite it sensually while looking him in the eye.

  “Fine. And as far as the paper, we can do a story on Monday about the deal. I want to be as transparent as possible with the readers. I don’t want local bloggers finding out about this before my employees.”

  “As you like. Are there any other conditions you’d like to go over?”

  He feeds me another shrimp, and we stare warily at each other in silence as I chew.

  “Yes. I want to remain publisher.”

  “Absolutely. Although we might have to revisit that in the future if the paper’s not making money in a year or two.”

  I pour more wine into the empty glass. God knows I need a bit of liquid courage to get through this conversation. Will he fire me if the paper doesn’t make a profit?

  “What else, Justine? Any…personal conditions or rules?”

  I sip the wine and pause to consider his question. “No ménage.”

  Rafa rolls his eyes. “Coño. Of course not. You know how I feel about that. I don’t share myself or you. Especially not you.”

  That’s one thing I’d always been grateful for. Despite his ravenous sensual appetite and our mutual love of sex, he’d never once suggested a threesome. I’m glad that hasn’t changed. I have nothing against people who want threesomes and moresomes, but the thought of Rafa touching anyone else still makes me physically ill.

  “Okay. Good. So this is for a month? What if we want more?”

  His gaze turns firm, businesslike. “A month. That’s all. Only sex.”

  My heart sinks. Exactly as I thought
.

  “Let’s not crush each other’s hearts, okay?” I glance toward the fire, away from his suddenly sad eyes.

  “Way too late for that.” His voice is low.

  I straighten, and my voice takes on a clipped tone. “Right. What if I don’t feel like having sex one night?”

  “Justine, I’m not going to force you. I’m not going to make you do anything that’s repellent. I won’t ask you to do anything that we haven’t done a thousand times before. Or have you forgotten the things we used to do?”

  I shoot him a sharp look, and he laughs.

  “I didn’t think so. I want us to enjoy each other like we used to. I think you’re going to be very happy at the end of the month.”

  I arch an eyebrow.

  “Muñeca. What are you afraid of? You’re getting exactly what you want. Anyway, I’ll probably have to travel a few nights. You’ll get a break from me.”

  “Why? Are you planning on going back to Miami to screw a model or two? I find it difficult to believe you don’t have a girlfriend.” I gulp the wine.

  “I told you. I’m single. And to answer your question, I might have to go out of town on business. I have a trip to Europe coming up in a month, and I have things to take care of beforehand. Coño, don’t think the worst of me. I’m not going to screw anyone else over the next thirty days. And I am asking you not to, as well.”

  I open my mouth to ask him a question, and Rafa grins and stands up. He looks too damned sexy in in his jeans, simple T-shirt, and bare feet. “Hold that thought.”

  I stare into the fire as I wait for him to return. His words are so businesslike and cold, yet his eyes sizzle with desire. Truthfully, he still captivates me as much as he used to. Maybe more, because he seems so much more complex.

  “I made your favorite,” he calls out, padding into the room.

  “Flan? You did not make the flan.”

  “I did. It’s the one thing I made myself.”