Constant Craving

by Tamara Lush

He shrugs and huffs out a laugh. “Too late. You destroyed me when you left. I can’t be any more damaged.”

  “So you want to hurt me? Destroy me?” I turn away from him and walk to the kitchen’s café table, a black marble surface. My back to Rafa, I rest my palms on the cool stone to steady the shaking. Why can’t he understand what had happened between us? Hasn’t he matured any? My head droops, heavy, and I’m willing myself not to cry in front of him.

  Rafa stands close behind me. If he’s any closer, I might shatter into a thousand shards. “Don’t come near me. Please. I can’t handle the fight-fuck thing.”

  “That’s the problem, Justi. As much as I want to forget about you, I can’t. I can’t stop thinking about you, and the only thing I want to do when you’re around is touch you.”

  “Then touch me. But do it with love. Please?”

  I shiver from the feel of his warm breath on the back of my ear.

  He wraps his hand around my ponytail and pulls my head back and to the side. His mouth finds the skin of my neck below my ear, and he kisses it, roughly, while one hand slides around my hips and roams up my loose dress, all the way up to my breast.

  His breath is hot next to my ear. “Love? I don’t know what love is anymore. I blame you for that.”

  I squirm. “Why do we have to be so complicated?”

  His laugh is low and bitter. “I’m not sure. But I know one thing—you can’t punish me any more than you already have. Than you already are, right now. Your kisses are a punishment. Your touch is a punishment. It reminds me of everything I had and everything I lost.”

  Rafa bites and roughly kisses my neck. At first I try to wriggle away, but he holds me firmly in place and I melt into him. I can’t resist his touch or his mouth, and I moan in desperation, wanting him more. It doesn’t make sense, my need for him. His anger doesn’t make sense, either.

  “And you don’t think I lost everything as well?” I whisper.

  He doesn’t answer. With a precise push, he folds me forward over the table. He slides my short, black cotton dress up over my hips. I have on white, lacy bikini underwear and hear him inhale a long breath as he runs his fingers between my legs along the damp fabric. He grabs my ass with both hands and shoves my panties down to my ankles. I try to kick the underwear off and rise on my tiptoes, offering myself to him. My clit throbs.

  I feel a familiar caress on one of my buttocks. Because my body has a memory for his touch, I know what’s coming. Rafael smacks me, hard, and I cry out from the sting but also from the pleasure. He hits me again.

  “You still love that,” he growls.

  I do, and I’m so wet right now. But I won’t give him the satisfaction of a verbal response. I haven’t been spanked in years—I’d tried to get Jared to do it, and he’d bestowed a few halfhearted whacks and giggled nervously. Nothing more of a mood-killer than man-giggles. The whole episode had been so disappointing I’d never asked to be spanked again. Of course, I’ve never been able to get Rafael’s particular brand of loving dominance out of my brain.

  So you’d think I’d submit now in this kitchen. Instead, I want to taunt and torment him for more. I straighten a bit and twist my head, glancing over my shoulder.

  “Are you going to fuck me, or are you going to just slap my ass?”

  Rafa roughly folds me forward again. He laughs, a slow, wicked laugh, and I hear the rustling of fabric, the tearing of a condom wrapper, the sound of his shorts hitting the floor.

  I feel his hard tip enter me. My hips tilt so that he sinks fully inside. Rafa lets out a long breath and rests his free hand on the small of my back. I feel his fingers skim up my spine. He grabs my ponytail again and yanks. The sting makes me moan.

  “Hit me again, please?” I can’t help but beg for it.

  He smacks me again on my right cheek, and I yelp. I’m shaking now.

  “This is the only language we both understand, muñeca.”

  He presses my head on the table, my cheek flat against the wood as he thrusts into me. My ass stings from another blow, and it all feels exquisite. Eyes closed, I crash into an orgasm. The pleasure’s so intense that I feel lost and floaty. He withdraws abruptly, and my eyes snap open.

  “I can’t do it like this with you,” he whispers. “I need to see your face. Turn around and sit on the table.”

  I turn slowly, and he picks me up, roughly parting my legs. I stare into his tortured eyes as he enters me, and then I scratch and pull at him. Our sex is like our relationship. Pushing. Pulling. I sink my teeth into the space where his neck meets his muscular shoulder.

  “How can you ask me not to touch you?” he rasps.

  I wrap my legs and arms around him, drawing him near. Now that I’ve orgasmed, now that he’s been rough with me, I want to be as close as possible to his body. My lips press into his neck and lick where I'd just bitten.

  “How can you ask me not to care about you?” I murmur.

  He pulls my hair, yanking the tie free from my ponytail and cupping my neck and chin so he can kiss me violently. He’s fucking me, hard, and I’m panting. My nipples are pointed, rubbing against the fabric of my dress, and I can only smell the spicy, windy scent of his cologne.

  He rakes his teeth over the tender skin of my neck, then bites and laughs when I cry out. I pull his face up so he’s forced to stare into my eyes as he slams into me. This is rough, intense. I can't recall it being this angry between us before. While I’m holding his face, he shuts his eyes. I’m about to tell him to open them when I feel him grow fuller inside me.

  He’s coming. He wrenches out of my hands and throws his head back and groans, a primal guttural noise. Then he slumps forward and rests his damp forehead on my shoulder. We smell like us, a familiar, musky smell.

  He strokes my hair softly. “Justine?”

  I kiss his neck. “Mmhmm?”

  “Did you love him?”

  Still wrapped around his body, I frown into his skin. “Huh? Love who?”

  “Your ex-boyfriend.”

  I shake my head. “Compared to what we had? No.”

  He leans back and pulls out of me. “Then why—”

  “Rafa. Don’t. Just don’t.” I can’t have this conversation with him now, not after that angry sex, possibly not ever. I squirm and straighten to standing, pulling my dress over my hips.

  He steps away to remove the condom. He looks down at his cock. I do, too.

  “Oh, Christ,” I whisper. The latex is in shreds. We’d been too caught up in the intensity of fucking to even notice that the condom had broken.

  Rafael walks over to the garbage and evades my gaze as he opens the door to the garbage chute, deposits the condom, and slams it shut. The air is thick with everything that’s going unsaid. He turns to his wine and drinks. I continue gaping at him.

  “Don’t give me that look. The condom broke, Justine. Surely you’re on the pill.”

  I shake my head, mute.

  He shuts his eyes and winces, which makes my throat close up with tears. “We can go to the doctor tomorrow and get you a morning-after pill.”

  I blink at him with an open-mouthed incredulity. “Do you think after what happened to me—what happened to us—all those years ago, that I would take a morning-after pill if there was even a chance I was pregnant?”

  He shrugs, and I pick up my wine glass and seriously contemplate throwing it at him. “If we just conceived a child, would you want me to take a morning-after pill?”

  He glares at me. “Having a baby wasn’t part of my plan when I came here.”

  “So what would we do if…?” My voice softens.

  Rafael pauses and shrugs. “What would we do? One of two things. Either I would get full custody of the child because I have money and unlimited legal resources or…”

  My God. He must loathe me. “Or what?”

  “You’d have to come live in Miami near me.”

  My grip on the wineglass tightens. “Near you? Not with you?”

  He shrugs. “
Plenty of kids grow up in separate households.”

  “Bastard,” I hiss. He’s saying these things to hurt me. At least, I think he is. His hot-and-cold demeanor is pissing me off. I decide not to hurl the glass after all, then stalk out of the room.

  24

  Something Must Break

  I walk into my office—our office, now that I’m sharing it with Rafael—and take a deep breath. It’s Monday, and we’ve formed an uneasy truce since our fight in the kitchen. That truce came after a silent dinner and another round of angry sex. We also watched a movie in bed, and by the time we fell asleep, we were cuddling. It’s as if we’re reenacting our last weeks together, with rounds of fights, make-up sex, and glimpses of tenderness.

  All of our previous moments from before play in a loop in my brain. He doesn't want to talk about the past. It’s ripping my heart to shreds.

  Rafa looks up from a spreadsheet. One of his financial analysts from Miami is here, seated across the desk.

  “Hola, mi amor…” Rafa says, then abruptly stops. I shoot him a sharp stare, then look over at the analyst, a guy named David. He clears his throat and stands up, glancing uneasily at Rafa.

  “Well. I’m headed for lunch. Rafa, don’t forget that we have the conference call with the Venezuelans later today. And, Justine, thank you for having me this week. The inn you suggested was perfect. I’d like to bring my girlfriend back here. I think she’d enjoy it.”

  Smiling, I stand behind the desk, near Rafael. “I’m glad, David. I’d love to meet her. Oh, and before you go, I wanted to tell you both I found the information on the building’s property appraisal like you asked.”

  I set the blue folder next to Rafa’s arm and slightly lean over to open it. My long hair spills over my shoulder and brushes his forearm.

  He straightens his back and jerks his arm away. He’s back to being cold. I pretend not to notice.

  “Rafael, we have the meeting to make our announcement. Are you ready?”

  He nods and rises, clicking a pen twice. We head into the conference room, and I feel a pang of anxiety shoot through me. It’s never been easy for me to talk to the staff. It had been my dad’s job, and I feel like an impostor whenever I have to make an announcement. It’s even more nerve-wracking today because Rafael takes a seat in the front row.

  I stand behind a worn lectern that’s probably twice as old as me. “I have a couple of big announcements today. First, I would like to start off by saying that, like almost all of the other newspapers in the United States, the Times has gone through difficult days with ad revenue and subscriptions. Craigslist took much of our classified revenue. The recession nearly devastated us. But unlike other newspapers that have laid people off, we—I—are seeking a slightly different path as we move forward. A path that I believe will put us on firm financial ground. That’s why I’m pleased to announce that Rafael Menendez de Aviles now owns a seventy percent stake in the St. Augustine Times.”

  I never expected to utter those words in my lifetime.

  Murmurs ripple through the conference room, where about twenty-five editors, writers, and photographers are assembled. I swallow, hoping this first meeting with the editorial staff to announce Rafa’s investment will go smoothly. We have other meetings to attend with various departments: advertising, circulation, marketing and distribution. As a former reporter, I know how skeptical and cynical the journalists are and assume this will be the toughest crowd.

  “I’d be lying to you if I said this deal wasn’t bittersweet. My family has owned the Times for one hundred and forty years, and today is the first time an outsider has owned a stake in the paper. But although the investor isn’t family, he and I are very close.”

  Close enough that he’s left me speechless after devouring me for the last two nights.

  I’m not the kind of woman to blush, but I can feel my cheeks flash with heat as I extended a hand in Rafa’s direction. “Rafael Menendez de Aviles is a college friend. He’s a financier from Miami who has made his mark in South Florida real estate and other business holdings. He owns Florida Capital Group, a private equity investment firm, and he’s graciously offered to help the paper in its time of need and will be giving us—me—his business expertise over the coming months to help us become a profitable, stable business. He now owns a majority share in the Times.”

  His expertise includes his body. His beautiful, sexy, talented body.

  “So if you see Rafael around the building, don’t hesitate to chat him up. He’s Cuban-American, a Miami Hurricanes fan, and has been reading the paper closely every day. I’m sure he’ll have some thoughts on our operation. We’ll be putting an announcement in tomorrow’s paper about the deal. I hope you are all as happy as I am about this.”

  I smile at Rafael, who stands up and nods at the staff.

  “May I say something?” he murmurs to me, and I sweep a hand toward the lectern.

  “It’s all yours.” I take his place in the front row, sinking into his warm seat and scrutinizing him anew, as if we hadn’t spent all weekend inhaling each other.

  He’s in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit and hasn’t shaved that morning because, when we woke up, I mentioned that he looked dangerous and sexy with stubble. Laughing, Rafa had flipped me over, told me he’d keep the stubble for a couple of days, and proceeded to spank me and fuck me until I clutched at the sheets and cried out from a soul-shattering orgasm.

  I squirm in my seat as he speaks, my flesh still tender. I look around. The reporters seem perkier than usual, and they study Rafa and his dazzling smile.

  “The first time I walked into this newspaper was on Christmas Eve, fifteen years ago. Justine brought me to the newsroom’s annual holiday party. The staff was a lot bigger back in those days, of course, but then, as now, I sensed that this was a place where people worked hard. Where people fought for the truth. I’ll be honest with you: I don’t know much about journalism. Only what I know through my close friendship with your publisher. I don’t know if many of you know this, but Justine’s passion for your industry goes back to when she was in school. She fought hard to achieve what she has, sometimes at great cost to her personal life.”

  My mouth opens, and I hold my breath. Please don’t let him say any more about me. About us. Please. I don’t want to risk revealing any emotion or affection for him here.

  “I come from Cuba, a place where there is no free press. There, the literacy rate is nearly one-hundred percent, but there’s nothing for people to read because the government keeps a tight control on all printed material. My mother was a political dissident, and she put me on a boat. I sailed to Florida with my aunt and uncle and six others. I was just a boy, not even old enough for school. We were all searching for a better life. I found it, all because of this country and its love of freedom, and of course because US policy allowed Cubans a path to citizenship back then. Upholding the rights of free speech is a passion that’s close to my heart, and I’m proud to invest in such a historic paper.”

  Rafa pauses and I exhale. His words are not only making me admire him, but they’re a journalist’s wet dream. He’s so fucking sexy when he talks like this. I grin wildly as he continues to speak.

  “There’s a reason why the First Amendment is first in the Constitution. America values free speech and free thought, and should always value that above everything else. Democracy needs a free press.”

  My mouth hangs open, and I know I must look stupid. But I’m genuinely shocked at how passionate, how inspiring, he sounds. I’m trembling as I listen and watch him gesture confidently. From the tone of his voice to the way he’s seized command of the room, it’s clear that Rafael has achieved a level of success that even I hadn’t comprehended until this moment.

  He is captivating.

  “I do have some bad news, though. Things will probably change around here. Your industry is in flux, and I’m sorry for that. But I will try to help you as much as I can, so you can continue to do good work. Award-winning work. Work
that we’ll all be proud of. I look forward to seeing what we can do together.”

  Everyone applauds. As he grins rakishly at the assembled reporters and editors, I can tell that every woman with a pulse in the room is smitten. Probably a few of the men, too. Nothing turns journalists on more than talking about free speech. Although a few holdouts, including Ethan the managing editor, smirk. Many journalists believe that corporate takeovers of papers usually don’t end well—because they rarely do.

  Caroline is there, too, and she rises from her chair and walks to Rafael. Then she kisses him on the cheek and the room erupts in whoops.

  “Thank you for helping us. You are still such a handsome young man. Are you single?” she asks, pinching his cheek. He takes her hand and kisses her fingers in a gentlemanly way. Everyone roars with laughter; Caroline’s of the age where she can do anything and say anything. Even I’m giggling now and shaking my head.

  “Why? Are you?” Rafael flirts back.

  Rafa’s kindness to Caroline makes me swoon. I stand and move to Rafael’s side.

  “Thank you, everyone. I’m sure Rafael would love to chat later. I have some more good news. Today I heard from the Florida Press Association. The Times won six awards this year, including a public service award for our series on the city’s law enforcement corruption scandal.”

  The mood in the room has transformed almost to something akin to happiness, a feeling I haven’t detected in months at the paper. I list the awards and fight back a laugh when I catch Rafa’s eye. He’s smiling that amused, sexy smile.

  A wave of desire washes over me, but then I suddenly recall our fight and how the condom had broken. It’s a detail I’m trying to forget. Surely a woman in her mid-thirties wouldn’t get pregnant just like that, would she?

  My attention snaps back to the room, and I clear my throat. “Any other questions?”

  One reporter wants to know if there will be layoffs.

  “Not at this time,” I reply. Really, I don’t know. It will all depend on Rafael.