Constant Craving

by Tamara Lush

  I tilt his face upward. “Are you okay with being a father?”

  “Are you crazy? I’ve never felt more… I don’t know. Proud? Virile? Masculine? This…” He sweeps his big hand over my stomach. “This is mine. Because of me. And you. Our love. Our passion.” He sucks in a breath. “Are your breasts getting fuller? Dios mio. You look so insanely sexy.”

  “I’m glad you think so. Because one of the side effects of being pregnant is an increased libido.”

  I lean into him, cupping his face in my hands and pressing my lips to his and consuming his mouth. Rafa breaks away, hesitant. “Justine, I don’t want to do anything to hurt the baby. Maybe we should hold off.”

  “I have a brochure for that,” I say, turning to the file on the bed and extracting a pamphlet.

  SEX AND PREGNANCY, it reads. Rafa takes it in both hands and becomes absorbed. I climb on the bed and squeeze him from behind, pressing my cheek to his back.

  “‘You won’t hurt the baby by making love,’” Rafa reads aloud.

  “Mmhmm,” I mumble, nibbling on the back of his neck and rubbing his muscular shoulders. “Even with my previous miscarriage, the doctor said it was so long ago that I should be okay now.”

  “‘Most women who are having a normal pregnancy may continue to have sex right up until their water breaks or they go into labor,’” he murmurs.

  “Good to know,” I breathe into his ear, taking his lobe in my teeth, my long hair spilling onto his skin.

  “‘Sex during pregnancy is the absolute last thing on some women’s minds. Other women, however, may crave sex in pregnancy.’”

  My nipples pebble against his bare back. I take the brochure from his hands and toss it on the floor. He turns to face me, and I caress chest while staring into his eyes. “I think you have some husbandly duties to perform.”

  Rafa eases me gently onto my back with a long kiss.

  “At your service, Señora Menendez.”

  * * *

  THE END

  * * *

  Want to read more about Rafael and Justine? Read Constant Craving from Rafael’s point of view, exclusively on the Radish Fiction app.

  Read on for a sneak preview of TELL ME A STORY by Tamara Lush!

  TELL ME A STORY

  CHAPTER ONE

  I wanted him the second I looked into his steel-blue eyes.

  “How much?” he asked. It was a sexy voice, a deep voice, and I smiled—a smile that alluded to everything but promised nothing, aware of appearing coy and knowing and not-too-eager.

  I was in the mood to flirt.

  Before I could answer, my friend Sarah broke in. “It’s two dollars a minute. Two dollars, one minute of reading. Half goes to charity, half goes to the writer. But you can negotiate with the writer, if you know what I mean.”

  The man smiled and ran a thumb over his full bottom lip as he looked me up and down.

  Sarah laughed and wiggled her dark brows. “That’s why I called it Story Brothel. It’s between the reader—” she clapped him on the shoulder “—and the writer. God, I love this. I feel like a madam. Like the Heidi Fleiss of Florida fiction.”

  She reached to squeeze my arm, then leaned into me and lowered her voice playfully. “Remember: half for charity. No skimming.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Like I’d do that.” Sarah stood on her tiptoes and kissed me on the cheek.

  “He looks rich. Maybe he’ll pay you extra so you can save the bookstore,” she whispered.

  I scowled, not wanting a reminder of work. This was my rare night out, a time when I wasn’t buried in orders or paperwork or my writing. It was when I transformed myself from serious shop owner into romance writer, like some pulp fiction superheroine. Glasses off; wild, curly hair down; blood-red lipstick staining every napkin and cocktail rim in my path.

  And maybe this man’s mouth in a short while. I was long overdue for male attention. At least, that’s what I told myself as I took in his charcoal suit, his crisp white shirt, and the platinum glint of a wristwatch dial. I hadn’t been kissed in a long time—not well, at least. And not by a man this interesting looking.

  An unfamiliar song came on, some Arabic-lounge groove with strong, heavy drums. It was how my heart felt against my ribcage. Sarah moved into the crowd. I kept smiling. So did he.

  “Story Brothel,” he murmured in a voice so low I could barely hear the words. Because he was tall, he had to tilt his face and his gunmetal-blue eyes downward to look at me.

  I shook my head dramatically and clicked my tongue against the roof of my mouth. “You don’t seem like the type of man who’d come to an event like this.”

  “I don’t?” His eyes glittered and teased. They were such a gorgeous hue that popped against his long, dark lashes. He wasn’t the most handsome man I’d ever seen, but he radiated confidence and sensuality. His features—high cheekbones, a slightly big nose, a strong jaw—wouldn’t have stood out on their own, but the combination was irresistibly masculine. Intriguing. Fuckable.

  “No. And I’ve never seen you here before.”

  “This isn’t a one-time only thing?”

  “It’s a monthly thing, for the Orlando Literacy Council.”

  “So you’re an experienced…story…?” He motioned in a half-circle with his hand, and a salacious grin crept on his face.

  “Whore?” I offered with mock innocence.

  “You said it. I didn’t.”

  That made me giggle.

  “What’s that quote about writing and prostitution?” he asked.

  I tilted my head, and a grin the size of the Everglades stretched across my face. It was impossible not to react because his question surprised me. Even though I owned a bookstore, meeting well-read, hot men was a rare event in my central Florida city, which was better known as the home of a giant cartoon mouse.

  “Writing is like sex. First you do it for love…”

  He chimed in. “…then you do it for your friends, and then for money.”

  We both laughed, then he held up one finger and opened his mouth. “Who said that? Do you know? I know.”

  Enjoying the banter, I answered right away. “Everybody thinks it’s Molière, but it was Hungarian playwright Ferenc Molnár.”

  “I’m impressed. Let’s see…when was the last time I talked with a woman about Molière? Or Molnár?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me.”

  The edges of his eyes crinkled, and he took a sip of the amber liquid in his glass. “So. What does a Story Brothel attendee look like?”

  That smirk on his face. How I’d love to kiss it away.

  “Well, for one, they usually drink two-dollar drafts, not Maker’s Mark, neat. They haven’t shaved in weeks. And they don’t wear bespoke suits with ties.” I pointed with my nose to the smattering of hipsters at the bar, most in Star Wars T-shirts or ratty, thrift store Hawaiian button-downs, awash in carpets of facial hair.

  That earned me a cocked eyebrow. “You noticed my drink.”

  “I noticed everything. I was standing next to you when you ordered.”

  “I know. I saw. You’re the only woman here who’s not in cargo pants and flannel. I like your dress.”

  I was wearing a red vintage dress with a sweetheart neckline and a full skirt. His gaze flashed to my chest, then raised to my mouth, then slowly skipped to my eyes.

  He had to be at least forty, which would put him at seven years older than me. His short, dark hair was going a little silver on the sides. I loved older men. They’re sexy as hell. Not older as in early-bird-buffet-older, but old enough to give a shit about the important things in life. Like good booze, working cars, and clean sheets.

  It was already obvious that this guy had mastered at least one of those skills. Maybe by the end of the night, I’d find out about the rest.

  “Thank you. You’re…let me guess. A businessman?”

  His hand went to his dark-gray tie, and I stared, captivated. The tie was almost the same color as his eyes. Although my
own style was retro-rockabilly—vintage glam, I called it—I have a bit of a thing for conservative-looking men in suits.

  The trouble was, most guys with that aesthetic were already married or were juggling custody of kids. Some weren’t interested in women like me. Which category would this intriguing stranger fall into? Because with my luck, he surely belonged in one.

  “Yeah, you’re right. I am a businessman. Damn, I didn’t even bother to take this off. Usually I’m still working at this hour.”

  It was eight o’clock on a Wednesday, and usually I was, too. It was a pleasure to watch him undo the top button of his shirt and fiddle with the knot of his tie. Somehow the fact that he loosened it yet didn’t take it all the way off made him look sexier.

  His eyes settled on my mouth. “My sister and I work together. It’s her birthday, so I took her to dinner. Told her I’d bring her anywhere she wanted afterward.” He took a sip and tipped his glass to the corner of the room, where a tall blonde with sharp cheekbones spoke animatedly to Sarah. “She’s got a crush on your friend.”

  “Good. Sarah needs a girlfriend. She’s been alone for too long,” I said, wondering if he lived in the city. Maybe he was like me, a rare Florida native, not a dissatisfied wanderer from the north or a tourist who decided to relocate on a whim after a magical theme park vacation.

  “And how about you? Does your husband or boyfriend know you read stories to strange men at bars?”

  So blatant and clever, his way of asking me if I was single. I beamed wide. “No boyfriend, no husband. And even if I had one—or both—they wouldn’t tell me where or when or to whom I could read.”

  He grinned, tilted his head, and cocked his eyebrow. “Oh, really?”

  “Yes, really.” I paused to watch him. His bottom lip was slightly fuller than his top, and the sides of his mouth curled up. Little half-circle lines hugged the corners, as if he’d smiled a lot in his life. I liked that. But I couldn’t decide if he looked adorable or arrogant when he smirked. The combination, though, made my heart race in a way it hadn’t in a long time.

  “I’m Caleb,” he said, extending his hand. “How rude of me.”

  “Emma. Not rude at all.”

  He did that thing where he looked straight into my eyes while shaking my hand firmly, for a second longer than necessary. His hand was deliciously large and swallowed mine. I felt my face get hot, and I wished the fan overhead worked as fast as my heartbeat. We kept shaking.

  “So what will you read to me this evening, Emma?”

  The way he drew out the syllables in my name made me hyperaware of how my nipples brushed against the lace fabric of my bra. Did I detect a whisper of a Southern accent in his voice? Maybe he was a Florida native. This made me happy. Maybe we’d have something in common.

  I laughed because I’d been waiting for his question. “Normally at Story Brothel, I read my steampunk romance stories. But I think tonight I’m going to try out something different. Something I recently wrote.” I lowered my voice to a dramatic tone. “It’s erotica.”

  Our hands held each other in mid-air, sparks passing back and forth, my nipples shriveling to taut, tight points. He nodded slowly, and his smile faded to something more serious, something feral. A hungry, hard look.

  “I chose well, then.”

  “You have good taste,” I murmured, dropping his hand. “Oh—and will your wife or girlfriend mind if you pay a woman to read sex fiction to you?”

  A low, suggestive laugh erupted from his chest. “No girlfriend, no wife. And if I had one, I wouldn’t be here, paying you to read sex fiction.”

  He sounded sincere. He sounded single. But then again, I wasn’t the best judge of that, considering that the last intriguing businessman I’d fallen for—Eric, over a year ago—had a wife and kids in Fort Lauderdale and had neglected to reveal those details for the entire time we’d dated. Well, neglect was kind of a weak word. Concealed, hid, and lied were better descriptors.

  “Oh, really?” I flirted.

  Caleb paused for a beat. “No, if I had a girlfriend or wife, I’d make her read to me.”

  A rush of liquid heat went straight into my core, and I rested my fingers on the back of a nearby bar chair to calm my rubbery legs.

  “Oh, you’d make her, would you?”

  “Absolutely.”

  I grinned stupidly at Caleb and thought about how incredible his big hands would feel on my naked body. How his lips would feel. How his tongue would torment me. My skin sparked just thinking about it. He slowly licked the corner of his mouth, as if he could read my mind.

  “Welcome to Story Brothel!” Sarah shouted and clapped three times, standing at the front of the room on a small stage and fumbling with a microphone. Her loud voice jolted me out of fantasyland, and I turned to look at her. I stood shoulder to shoulder with Caleb. Not touching, but close enough to feel his warmth and to realize that, even in my three-inch heels, he was a hell of a lot taller than me.

  “We’re going to have an introductory reading, and then writers and listeners will go to their respective cabanas,” Sarah continued, pointing behind her to double doors leading to the bar’s courtyard, where ten cabanas were draped with gauzy curtains of varying colors.

  It was decorated to look like a Moroccan-themed lounge, and normally I chose the cabanas with the chairs when I read snippets of my work during Story Brothel. I usually wanted distance between me and the person paying to hear me read. Previously, a good night would mean not getting beer spilled on me by a nervous bearded guy, selling a couple of my steampunk paperbacks, and handing out business cards for the bookstore.

  Tonight would be different, I hoped. I wanted less distance and less business.

  Sarah continued introducing the speaker. It was a professor from a local college. I tuned him out and shifted a half-inch closer to Caleb.

  He lowered his head so his lips were close to my ear, his nose in my hair. I stilled, breathing in his scent. It was intoxicating and heady, with hints of vanilla and oak and mint. Never had I smelled a man so delicious, and I took a couple of deep breaths.

  “May I buy you a drink?” he asked.

  I nodded, then turned my head, noticing that he’d offered me his ear. “Please. Gin martini.”

  “How do you take it?” His voice rumbled through me, and I grinned.

  “Dirty,” I whispered into his ear, laughing and unable to help myself.

  He chuckled. “Good choice.” The heat of his breath lingered on my ear in his absence. I tried to focus on the man onstage. He taught English at a local college and talked about word etymology. My mind was on my own story, and I was thinking about which passage to read for Caleb when I honed in on what the professor was saying.

  I giggled softly, covering my mouth with my hand. Caleb returned and handed me my drink.

  “What’s so funny?” His mouth was back at my ear.

  “You weren’t listening?”

  “No. Was trying to make sure the bartender used Bombay Sapphire and not some well crap.”

  I embraced a Mona Lisa smile and sipped the piney, cold drink. “Thank you for the cocktail.”

  “You’re welcome. Tell me, what’s the guy talking about? What’s so funny? You have a great smile, you know that?”

  I leaned closer to Caleb, inhaling before I spoke. He stretched his arm around my back and rested it on the bar. He didn’t touch me even the slightest, but the movement was just as intimate as if he had. His body was so big and solid that he looked like he would swallow me if he were to fold me in his arms.

  “He’s talking about the etymology of a word.”

  “What word?” he murmured. I didn’t look at the professor, who had launched into a free-form retelling of a class he’d once taught. Others in the room were laughing, so it must have been funny. I wasn’t in the mood for funny.

  My eyes rested on Caleb’s powerful-looking hand that held his drink. I twirled one of my curls in my finger, idly wondering if it was something primal, someth
ing biological, that made me so attracted to men with thick, brutal-looking hands. I turned to his ear, my lips grazing his skin.

  “Fuck. The history of the word fuck.”

  Read TELL ME A STORY now for free!

  CRAVING MORE STORIES?

  Did you adore CONSTANT CRAVING? If so, you’ll probably love Tell Me a Story!

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  About the Author

  Tamara Lush was born in California and raised in Vermont. She graduated from Emerson College with a degree in broadcast journalism. For the last several years, she’s worked as a reporter and is currently a correspondent in Florida with The Associated Press. She lives with her Italian husband and two dogs on the Gulf Coast.

  She was one of 24 writers chosen for the Amtrak Residency program in 2016.

  Tamara is a fan of vintage pulp fiction book covers, Sinatra-era jazz, 1980s fashion, tropical chill, kombucha, gin, tonic, beaches, iPhones, Art Deco, Spanish telenovelas, coloring books, street art, coconut anything, strong coffee and newspapers.

  She loves connecting with people on social media. Sign up for her newsletter if you’d like details on new releases, exclusive content and adorable photos of her dogs.

  To say hello:

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