Constant Craving

by Tamara Lush

  I pressed my chest into his and whispered in his ear.

  “I like the idea of being your submissive. Would you tie me up? Hit me? Spank me? Punish me?”

  I tilted my face up so that we were inches apart. His eyes glittered, and I was breathing hard from thinking about the possibilities. We’d been trying new things in bed lately, different positions and a little role-playing. Things I’d read about online.

  “I don’t know. I wouldn’t want hurt you in any way, Justine. Would you want me to hit you? Spank you? Would you want to be tied up?”

  “For you, Rafa? Yes. I’d try anything.”

  Later that night, after he’d tied my hands to our bedposts with my silk scarves, I begged him to slap me. He did once, across the cheek, softly. He muttered something about how he couldn't keep slapping me on the face, so he undid the binds and flipped me over. He spanked me more. Harder. And harder. The sting and the pain made me feel joy. Made me feel alive. I twisted my head to look at him, and his eyes burned. His face was focused, intense in a way I’d never seen it before, and I knew then we were inseparable.

  “Rafa,” I whispered. “Again. Please.”

  He caressed my ass. “I don’t understand why you like this. Or why I like it, for that matter.”

  “Please?”

  “Anything for you.” He hit me once more, hard. My eyes watered from the sensation.

  "Pull my hair." I shuddered when the sting pricked my scalp and cried out as he fucked me from behind. He changed the condom and that's the first night we had anal for the first time, with him whispering wicked words in Spanish and me making noises like an animal.

  Once he gave me what I wanted that night, and many nights after, he turned into something different—a man with edge, something I became addicted to. He was the perfect combination of rough and gentle.

  And he was mine.

  33

  Crawl

  The days drag and the nights fly, careening toward our inevitable end. By our third full week together, we’ve settled into a routine that looks strangely like how it used to, except with a thick layer of luxury and more expensive booze. Work. Cooking. Sex. Laughter. Rough sex. We sing along to old Elvis Costello songs and decide to start watching a new vampire show.

  “You didn’t used to love sci-fi or paranormal stuff.” I pause with the remote in my hand as we’re on the sofa. Who is this man, and how did I become so compatible with him? And if we’re embarking on watching an entire series together, that must mean we’re staying together, right?

  “Neither did you.” He slings an arm around my shoulder and pulls me close.

  When Rafa works from the villa or goes to daytime appointments with other media properties in the area, he texts me. My heart leaps just reading his words.

  Chica, I’m ordering from your favorite pizza place and getting a bottle of wine. What would you like?

  I’m waiting for you so we can go jogging together.

  I’m in the conference room. Meet me at the front of the building so we can take a break. I want to buy you lunch.

  So domestic it’s almost sickening. So domestic that I begin to fantasize a future with him, something I’d expressly forbade myself from doing.

  I kiss the bridge of his nose every night before we go to sleep and in the morning when he wakes up. And one night, I’m not sure if he whispers three words to me in the middle of the night or if it’s only a dream.

  Now it’s Friday afternoon and we need to get on the road to Orlando. I’m giving a speech to a newspaper convention. Rafa’s coming with me, of course. As usual, he’s calmly in control and has delegated tasks to his minions in Miami, it seems. His mind is on me, and my mind, for the moment, is on my work. We’re both in my office.

  “Babe?” he asks.

  I look up quizzically and push my glasses up my nose.

  “Maybe we should go to a water park this weekend in Orlando. That way I can see you in a bikini all day,” he says.

  I tap my finger with my chin. “Hmm. I’d rather to go to Animal Kingdom. I’ve heard there’s a baby giraffe.”

  He grins. “Animal Kingdom, it is. Let me see if I can arrange a private tour.”

  “You’re a doll. Would you mind getting me a tea? I’ll be done soon, okay?”

  “Absolutely.” He grins and leaves.

  We’re acting like a couple. Like we used to. Better than before, even. Rafa walks out, and I heave a sigh, overwhelmed at all the work I need to do. We’ve got a couple of hours before we have to leave, and I’m frantic—reviewing new ad rates for the paper, taking another look at the Sunday immigration story that Rafael worked on, and going over my speech.

  I lose myself in the immigration story, stunned at how well it came out. I’m so absorbed that I barely notice when Rafael walks in with the tea.

  “This story’s incredible.” I reach for my drink. “Without you, we’d have nothing. God, you got such detail about these kids. How they’ve gotten sick from the pesticide. How the parents fear being separated from them if there’s an immigration crackdown. We’re giving you a double byline, probably a first for a private equity finance guy.”

  He grunts, and I look at him. He doesn’t have the same easy smile as when he left a little while earlier. Huh. I wonder why.

  “Thanks for the tea, Rafa.

  He smirks. “Mark says hello.”

  “Hmm,” I respond absentmindedly.

  “He said he’s looking forward to going out to dinner with you.”

  I look up, startled. “What?” Then I pause and wave my hand in the air. “Oh. Yeah, he’s been asking for a while.”

  I return to the story, line editing as I go. As publisher, I shouldn’t be this involved with the daily copy, but this article’s so good I can’t help myself.

  Rafael clears his throat, and I look up, expectant.

  “I need to take care of some things from the house. I’ll pick you up at three.” He reaches for his wallet and takes out a stack of hundred-dollar bills.

  “Here,” he said, tossing what must be a thousand dollars on the desk in front of me. I gape at him with big, confused eyes.

  “What’s this?”

  “I was walking by that lingerie store the other morning and thought they had beautiful things. Buy yourself something for this weekend. Don’t bother with the white lace. I’m sick of the purity act. Make sure it’s extra slutty.”

  My jaw drops, and he walks out. Well. What was that about? I return once more to the story and shrug. Probably he’s upset about something to do with some Miami deal. He could always be moody if things didn’t go his way. I shrug it off, mildly annoyed that he’s given me one more thing to do in a jam-packed afternoon.

  “How did I do? Honestly?” I ask Rafa as we enter the elevator of the Waldorf Astoria. He leans against the back wall as we ride up.

  I’d just given a speech to three hundred newspaper publishers in the hotel’s ballroom in Orlando about open records laws. Using my own paper’s award-winning series on the corrupt police department as an example of what a small paper can accomplish, I’d talked about the need for news organizations of all sizes to undertake ambitious investigative reporting projects to keep public officials in check. The crowd had applauded enthusiastically, which left me flushed and excited. More than one old newspaperman came up afterward and said my father would have be proud of me.

  But I’m eager for only one man’s approval.

  Rafa smiles, his lips tight. “You did great. You’re quite the public speaker. I remember when you were nervous about going on interviews for the school paper and talking to strangers. Tonight, you were confident. Graceful. You sounded brilliant.”

  I beam and press myself against him. I inhale his scent and tilt my face toward his so he can kiss me. My body molds into his, but for some reason, he’s not returning my affection.

  “Thanks,” I whisper.

  I expect to feel his lips on mine and his arms around my waist, but Rafa keeps his hands buried i
n his pockets. He hasn’t tried to touch me all night, which is odd. Usually when we’re in public together, he attempts some sort of intimate, yet hidden, caress. Or sometimes a not-so-hidden caress. Come to think of it, he’s been cold ever since the afternoon and practically silent on the drive to Orlando. His mind’s still probably on all of his investments and real estate deals. He’s spending long hours on me and the paper, and I know he’s preoccupied with a new building going up in Miami.

  We arrive at our suite—Rafael paid extra for us to stay in the luxurious space, sparing the newspaper from the cost—and we each make a beeline for the separate bathrooms. I emerge and sink into a tufted, silver velvet sofa. It’s a relief that the night is over and we can finally relax for a weekend without work. I scan the room, with its clean, gold-and-cream-colored palette, and yawn. The speech had gone so much better than I’d hoped. Because I’m younger than most other newspaper publishers, and one of the few women in the position, I constantly feel as though I need to work twice as hard as my peers. And even then, I wonder if the entire newspaper industry can see that I’m an imposter, a reporter trying to be a businesswoman.

  I shut my eyes, inhaling the faint vanilla-green tea scent of the room. Staying here is a far cry from where I normally bunk during journalism conferences. I’d stayed at a low-budget motel the last convention and nearly giggled out loud when I recalled the young guys who’d asked me if I wanted to “party” as they smoked weed in the parking lot. The Waldorf-Astoria is way better.

  I open my eyes. Rafa’s at the wet bar and fiddles with the suite’s stereo system, tuning it to a hip-hop station. An odd choice, since we’re winding down after a long evening and he usually prefers Latin jazz.

  He mixes us each a drink and wordlessly hands me a glass.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “Gin and tonic.”

  “You didn’t ask me what I wanted,” I tease.

  Rafa shrugs and sits in a chair across the room from me. “What you want tonight isn’t my concern.”

  Well. I tilt my head and raise my eyebrows. “You don’t want to sit next to me?” I pat the sofa.

  He shakes his head. A sip of my drink turns into a longer gulp. I reach to slip off my three-inch black heels.

  “No. Keep them on.”

  Flashing a glance at him, I sit back into the sofa and drink more. What is up with him tonight? I notice him smirking, staring at me, so damned handsome in his tuxedo shirt and pants. The jacket and bowtie are off, tossed over the bar counter. He’d been the hottest man at the event, and more than one woman had given me a pointed, envious stare as we’d circulated during cocktail hour.

  He drains his gin and tonic and glares into it. Holding his drink toward me, he raises an arrogant-looking eyebrow and rattles the glass, the ice cubes colliding against each other.

  “Make me another.” His voice is a low simmer.

  I rise and slowly walk to him. It’s a good thing I didn’t imbibe during the dinner, because I don’t hold my liquor well. With just one drink, I’m already inclined to retort with something snarky.

  Still. I love being ordered around by him under certain circumstances. Most circumstances, really. Our eyes lock on each other’s, and I feel little waves of desire as I mix him a cocktail.

  “Gracias,” he says, taking it from my outstretched hand. A song by a famous Miami rapper comes on.

  I roll my eyes. “This song. God. I haven’t heard it in a long time, thankfully. I can’t stand this rapper. I saw your photo with him in a tabloid. You two were all smiles in the front row of a Miami Heat game. He seems like the biggest pig.”

  A smile crosses his lips. “He’s a good guy. He gave a lot of money to my charity last year.”

  “He sings about women’s asses, bottle service in clubs, and his tongue. And the city of Miami still gave him the key to the city. Typical South Florida.”

  Rafael shrugs, says something under his breath in Spanish, and drains his drink. “Whatever. I want you to do something for me, Justine. Go over and stand in the middle of the room. Dance for me. I want to watch you.”

  I shoot him a withering smirk. Is he for real? I laugh. “Did you know that the singer says the word ‘ho’ sixteen times in this song? I read that in an article about the most sexist rappers.”

  “I don’t need an explanation of feminist theory this evening. Get over there. I want to objectify you for a few minutes. Respectfully.”

  My mouth drops open. “You want me to dance to this? Funny. I thought we were at the Waldorf Astoria, not some Miami strip club.”

  He laughs, the sound hard and brittle. How much has he had to drink? No, alcohol isn’t the source of his attitude. He, too, only drank water with dinner.

  “You always liked that about me, didn’t you?” I ask, walking to a spot in the middle of the room.

  “Liked what? Your dancing? I do like your dancing. You’re sexy as fuck when you dance.”

  “No. The way I can be conservative and innocent and a feminist in public, but when we’re together, when it’s only you and me, it’s like I’m your little whore that you can order around. You still get a thrill out of that.”

  “You do know me well, Justine. I’ll give you that. Now, be a good girl and dance sexy for me. Come on.”

  Closing my eyes and turning away from him, I sway, the gin coursing through my veins and relaxing my inhibitions. I’m wearing a conservative dress that I’ve had for years. I’d bought it from Brooks Brothers back when my father was alive, when I thought my family still had money. It’s black, belted, and very staid, but it shows off my figure while appearing classy and professional.

  Now facing him, my eyes flutter nearly to a close as I move my hips and shoulders in time with the music.

  “Take off your dress. Let’s see your expensive lingerie.” His words sound clipped and cold, which gives me pause. And yet, I’m eager to be completely submissive to him.

  A small smile plays on my lips as I undo the belt and the four buttons. I turn my back to him again and tease him by slipping the fabric off my shoulders slowly. Glancing over my shoulder with a seductive glance, I see that his lips are parted and his eyelids are heavy with desire. I allow the dress to slip into a pool of silk at my feet. I shake my ass like a stripper, grinning at the wall.

  Indulging his desires always makes me wet, and tonight I’m practically a waterfall.

  Rafa sucks in a breath, and I twirl slowly, feeling a little drunk with desire and the thrill of showing him how sexy I look in my new lingerie. I’d chosen a bodysuit that made me look like a 1970s porn star, in my opinion. It’s a sexy black thing with lace straps crisscrossing my chest, breasts, and stomach, showing as much skin as it does delicate fabric. While it offers an underwire, lace demi-bra cup, it also exposes my nipples—something I’ve been painfully aware of all evening, especially as I gave my speech. Each time my nipples brushed against my dress, I’d been turned on.

  The bodysuit is from the Agent Provocateur label and had cost close to eight hundred dollars. No doubt, it’s a sexy piece of fabric, if not darkly slutty. The price makes me uncomfortable, and my sensual mood quickly grows despondent thinking of how Rafa threw the money down in front of me earlier that day.

  His low voice interrupts my thoughts. “Your hair. Undo it. I want to see it all messy.”

  Hips circling, I unpin my hair, letting it cascade over my shoulders, surprised at my willingness to want to please him while he’s being so icy. I toss it dramatically, licking my lips, assuming the exaggerated, crass movement will elicit a grin from Rafa or an encouraging grunt of pleasure. Instead he chews on a cube of ice and stares at me with hard eyes.

  “Come here,” he orders.

  I take a step and grin seductively.

  “No. On your hands and knees.” Pointing with his finger, he makes a downward motion.

  34

  Submission

  I have no idea what this is leading to and am not sure if I should be excited or hesitant. Normal
ly he’s happily turned on by me, whereas tonight he’s seething. Another rap song with vulgar Spanish lyrics that I hate comes on.

  Rafael sings along under his breath.

  I sink to my knees on the plush, champagne-colored carpet. With defiant eyes, I stare at him.

  “Crawl,” he commands.

  I lean forward on my hands. Tilting my back to allow for a sensual curve, I seductively move toward him, my eyes framed by loose, wavy hair. I crawl only a few feet, but by the time I reach his legs, I’m breathing heavily from excitement and my knees burn from contact with the carpet.

  There’s no warmth or affection in his eyes. My stomach twitches with anxiety.

  I run my fingers up his shins and over the tops of his thighs. Rafa seems vaguely disgusted, and a bolt of fear goes through me. What am I doing wrong? What’s happening?

  He repeats a few words in Spanish from the song. One in particular makes me wince: mentirosa. It translates loosely to “liar,” and I wonder why he’s fixating on this word.

  I run my fingers along his tuxedo inseam.

  “Is this how you talk to your women in Miami?”

  “No. Only tonight and only with you.”

  What the hell? We’ve been getting along beautifully until today. Why has he suddenly changed?

  Running my hands to the junction of his thighs, I’m satisfied that at least one part of him is aroused and happy. I rub my palm up his erection. My fingers itch to undress him, and my hands go to his fly.

  I’ve decided to ignore his mood and skip right to sex when he leans forward. In a flash, he gathers a fistful of hair at the back of my head and pulls enough so I feel a sting. I gasp and grin, because he knows I’m turned on by rough play.

  But my surge of desire quickly evaporates when I see him sneer.

  “Why do you not want to honor the details of our agreement?” He releases his hand from my head and sits back. I rest on my heels, stunned.

  Furious, I stand, placing a bare knee on his thigh and my hands on the chair’s arms. I lean toward him, ready for confrontation. Our faces are only inches apart as we glare at each other. He’s never raised a hand to me or tried to touch me in anger, and I’m not about to be intimidated by him now.