[Addicted To You 01.0] Crave

by K. M. Scott

  Crave

  ADDICTED TO YOU #1

  K.M. SCOTT

  I want her. I crave her. She’s my addiction.

  The world knows me as Ian Anwell, New York Times bestselling author, but Kristina makes me want more.

  Much more.

  I need him. I love him. He’s my obsession.

  Everyone thinks they know Kristina Richards, but I’m more than what they see on the screen.

  So much more.

  I’m his muse, and this is our story.

  Crave was previously published as SILK Volume One.

  Crave is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to events, locations, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  2017 Copper Key Media, LLC

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright © 2017 Copper Key Media, LLC

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  Published in the United States

  ISBN-10: 1-941594-66-2

  ISBN-13: 978-1-941594-66-7

  Cover Design: Patricia Maia at Maya’s Teasers & Designs

  Adult Content: Contains graphic sexual content

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  Click on the covers below to learn more about the series:

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  About the Book

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  About the Author

  Books by K.M. Scott

  Books by Gabrielle Bisset

  CHAPTER ONE

  Ian

  A warm puff of air against my cheek rouses me from my sleep, reminding me that no matter how sunny it seemed as I looked out my window a few hours ago, fall has arrived with a vengeance. I roll over onto my back and stare up at the ceiling as the forced heat now blows over my head. The floor in my living room pushes hard against my back tonight. I should be used to the feeling, but I’m not and I wince from the pain shooting up from the base of my spine.

  To my left on the floor next to me stands a half-empty bottle of twelve-year-old scotch, my companion tonight. Standing guard even as I dropped off, it waits for me to remember how much I love its contents.

  Grabbing the neck, I cradle the bottle to my chest as I contemplate getting up and away from the air heating my head. I own a five million dollar apartment in New York City, and I spend my nights getting blasted and ending up on the floor. My neighbors would never imagine that’s who I am. New York Times bestselling author Ian Anwell, author of historical fiction bestsellers Caligula’s Dream and Nero’s Nightmare and favorite of readers worldwide, a fall down drunk and forever recovering heroin addict.

  My publisher keeps the whole addict thing carefully under wraps. Completely hush-hush. All I have to do is keep clean and continue writing one book a year for them, and they’ll keep paying me the ridiculously large advances I’ve grown accustomed to. The problem is that keeping clean means something must replace the smack, so that’s where alcohol comes in and why it’s my nearly constant companion.

  But I’ve grown tired of waking up on the floor in a drunken haze lately and the itch to go back to my old ways gets stronger and stronger every day. I’m an addict before I’m anything else, and I need a new fix.

  My phone rings, so I make my way to the couch to answer it. Swiping the screen, I see it’s my agent, Sheila Rogers. A likable woman, if not appealing, she seems to have been able to overcome what nature or God, depending on your beliefs, forced on her looks-wise to become a successful literary agent. Absurdly tall for a female, she reaches nearly my six foot two inch height, and on some days when she does her hair in this upswept thing she likes for formal affairs, she towers over me like some Amazon woman.

  I’ve known tall women, but they’ve all been models. Poor Sheila could never be mistaken for a model, though.

  Not that I give a fuck about what she looks like. I don’t want to fuck her. I just need her to keep doing the bang up job selling my books she’s always done for me. But I do wonder sometimes how a woman who looks like she does got past her appearance to get where she is today. An almost grotesquely tall woman with gangly limbs and a plain face isn’t exactly what anyone imagines when they think of a successful woman, but she’s achieved what others haven’t and I’d be lost without her, at least professionally.

  I answer the call and her one true blessing comes through loud and clear. Sheila’s voice is what I imagine an angel’s voice would sound like. Not too soft, not too rough, and smooth as silk, it’s what’s usually called a radio voice.

  “Hi, Sheila,” I croak out before I clear my throat.

  “Ian, please tell me I didn’t wake you up. It’s not even eight o’clock on a Tuesday night. Are you okay?”

  I want to say something about okay being relative, but that will only make her nervous and she’ll call again every night until she’s convinced I’m not filling my body full of shit again.

  So I lie.

  “I’m fine, Sheila. What are you doing working so late?”

  “I have good news. I think we’re close to selling the film rights to Caligula’s Dream. I’ve gotten the deal to be as sweet as I think it can be, but you’re going to like it. They have big plans for the film, and as you demanded, they’re willing to let you be an executive producer and the main writer on the project.”

  “This is good news. I knew you’d get them to come around. You always do. You’re my secret weapon, Sheila,” I say, my words slurring slightly.

  In all honesty, she’s my only weapon since the agent I used to have for film deals dumped me after my last stint in rehab. Sheila stepped in to help without one complaint, like the savior she is.

  “Ian, you sound wrong. Are you really okay?” she asks in her angelic voice I hate lying to.

  “I’m fine. Well, maybe I’m coming down with something. You know how it is when the seasons change. I think I’m going to hang out on the couch and nurse myself through whatever this is.”

  “Please promise me you’re not planning on doing anything to derail your career, which I’ve so assiduously worked to make the stunning success that it is.”

  “I promise. Don’t worry, Sheila.”

  She remains silent for a long moment, as if she’s assessing the truthfulness of my words, and then finally changing the subject, she asks, “Have you gotten any ideas for your next book? They’ve already asked a few times.”

  They is my publisher, and I knew they would be. Nero’s Nightmare soared up the charts, hitting the number one spot on the Times list the first week it was out. They’d be fools not to want to continue our relationship. But I don’t have any ideas for the next book, even though they think asking me repeatedly will make the ideas come faster.

  “I know, but you can’t rush this kind of thing.”

  The truth is I haven’t even tried to work in weeks. I simply have no ideas for what to do next.

  “I understand, and you know how I appreciate the artistic temperament. I’ll tell them you’re working on ideas and put
them off for a few weeks more. Just tell me you’re going to work on it, Ian.”

  “I’m going to work on it,” I lie.

  Other than drinking, I have no plans to do anything except watch movies alone in my apartment, unless I can count craving the worst thing in the world as work.

  “Okay. I’ll check on you next week. You know you can call me whenever you need to, right?” she asks, omitting the other words she wants to say. I hear in her voice her fear that I’m about to turn back to the life she’s had to rescue me from far too many times before.

  “I know, and thank you, Sheila. Have a good night.”

  “You too, Ian. And congratulations again on Nero’s Nightmare. You deserve it. That book’s the best one yet.”

  “Thanks, Sheila. Goodbye.”

  I toss the phone on the couch next to me and lean back to close my eyes. She’s right. Nero’s Nightmare is my best work yet, but I want something different. My brain craves something new, something challenging. I’m sure I could find that if my brain could just let go and allow the ideas to come, but the scotch isn’t doing the job.

  A sharp craving stabs at me, and for a moment all my brain can think of is how to score. I have to fight the desire, but it’s like second nature and my body wants it. My limbs ache as the phantom feeling of getting high flows through my mind. Just a little is all it would take.

  Grabbing the remote, I turn on the TV and hope I can find something to take my mind off what I want more than anything at the moment. Clicking through channels, I see nothing to distract me. A thousand channels and nothing but shit.

  Then I see her.

  Long brown hair the color of cocoa, the truest brown I’ve ever seen. That’s the first thing I notice about her. The camera moves in and I see her eyes, blue like the flowers on my mother’s Corningware casserole dishes she had handed down to her from my grandmother. My eyes travel down to the woman’s mouth with its full, deep pink lips, and I watch them as she speaks, not giving a damn about the words leaving her mouth but intensely focused on how it moves so seductively, like every word she utters is sexual and alluring.

  Who is she?

  I press the Info button on the remote and quickly scan the details about the film, my gaze coming to rest on her name.

  Kristina Richards.

  Kristina. I say her name, loving the feel of my tongue as it caresses the back of my teeth to form the second and third syllables. Kristina. I repeat it over and over until she’s all I can think of.

  The camera pans back and for the first time I can see her completely. She’s thin but not sickly looking like so many skinny Hollywood actresses whose faces look beautiful but when you look below their necks their bodies are all sharp edges and boniness. She’s standing next to some man who at the moment I want to kill I’m so jealous.

  I watch the rest of the movie, unable to focus on anything but Kristina. When it’s finished, I go back to where I began and watch it all over again. And again. And again five more times. Yet I have no idea what the film is about and I don’t care.

  All I care about is her.

  At two a.m., I realize that I haven’t touched a drop of scotch in hours. I pour myself a glass and set it on the coffee table in front of me as I return to studying Kristina Richards. I feel the obsession beginning and let it take me over, feeling it course through me. I’ve always loved the moment when what I’m addicted to begins to become part of me. The moment it becomes necessary to who I am. History. Writing. Heroin. Alcohol. The rare girlfriend or two I can truly say I cared for.

  And now Kristina.

  I wonder how it’s possible I’ve never seen her before. As someone who spends the majority of his days in his home, I watch more television and movies than anyone else I’ve ever heard of, and yet she’s eluded me until now.

  The film I’ve found her in—a remake of The Misfits, I think—might be good. Not that I care. She’s all I’m interested in. After I’ve watched it eight times, I need more, and with just a few clicks of my remote, I can watch every film she’s ever made.

  Netflix is like an addict’s worst nightmare or best friend. I guess it depends on how you see people like me. I scroll through the choices and decide to start at the top. By the time the city below begins to come alive for another workday, I realize that I’ve seen some of these films but never saw her.

  That’s how it is with addictions and obsessions. One day something means nothing to you, and then the next day it’s all you can think about.

  By the third day, I need more. I’ve watched all her movies, but that’s not enough. I want to see her in person. Thankfully, my success comes with certain perks that have nothing to do with being able to afford expensive things.

  I can get things other people can’t.

  A quick call to my publicist will do the trick. Albert is night to Sheila’s day. Where she’s sweet and I think genuinely worries about me, he seems to be rushed and disinterested nearly all the time. His lack of appreciation for what I do irritates me too, but in this case, I’ll tolerate him if he can help me get what I want.

  “Ian Anwell, how the hell are you?” Albert asks in his hurried way that tells me this is a rhetorical question. All the better. I’m not interested in talking about how I feel.

  “Albert, I want you to set up a meeting with Kristina Richards.”

  “Who?”

  “Kristina Richards, the actress. I want to meet her, so do your magic and make it happen.”

  He’s silent for a minute and then says, “Okay. What should I tell her manager you want?”

  The thought of what I want from her races through my mind, making my cock stiffen, and I lick my lips in anticipation. “Tell her I’m a fan. Tell her I’m interested in speaking to her to research my next book. For fuck’s sake, Albert. I’m a New York Times bestselling author of four books.”

  “Actresses don’t usually read much historical fiction, Ian.”

  Albert’s place in my world seems to be to keep me humble. He’s doing a hell of a job too. “Fine. Tell her I’m a huge fan.”

  “Okay, I’ll see what I can do. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  I throw the phone away from me, disgusted by my publicist’s humility refresher. I would have asked Sheila to do it, but that caring for me thing she does is a double-edged sword. She can’t seem to keep good news to herself. At least Albert can, which is why I always ask him to do things like this.

  Like when I needed to speak to a world-renowned expert on Roman sex practices and couldn’t get past the man’s officious secretary. I never did figure out why she took such a disliking to me from just one phone call, but she wasn’t going to let me get to speak to him come hell or high water. Just one call from Albert, however, coupled with a bouquet of flowers and suddenly she couldn’t have been more accommodating.

  Things like that are the reason I don’t fire Albert and look past how little I like him. But if he doesn’t succeed with Kristina’s manager, I might have to consider finding a new publicist.

  I return to watching her movies, preferring not to research anything about her online. That might seem somewhat ironic considering what I do for a living, but as much as I love the idea of stalking someone on the Internet, I find it unfulfilling in practice. So what if I can learn every little thing about a person courtesy of nosy websites and hacks masquerading as journalists? That kind of research lacks vigor, lacks flesh and blood.

  If I could learn about ancient cultures by living among them, I would. Instead, I’m forced to research in books and secondhand sources. Finding out about someone living now shouldn’t be relegated to stalking from afar, hidden behind the anonymity of the Internet. That’s the coward’s way.

  No, I want to meet Kristina in person. I want to look into those blue eyes. I want to listen to her soft voice as she sits just inches away from me. I want to smell her perfume and the scent her shampoo leaves in her hair. I want to feel the softness of her skin on mine. I want to taste her and savor the de
licate flavor of her body on the tip of my tongue as I tease her just before I bury my face in her pussy.

  I fantasize about how incredible it will be when I slide my cock into her until my phone ringing disturbs me from my daydreaming. Looking down at the screen, I see it’s Albert.

  “Ian, I was wrong about actresses not reading your stuff. Seems you have a fan. She’ll be at Jax’s at seven tonight. I figured somewhere hidden away would be best. Her manager said she knew exactly what you look like. Thank God I convinced you to change that terrible light grey suit to the black one for your book jacket picture.”

  “Yeah, thanks Albert. Good call.”

  “Good luck, Ian.”

  Albert’s good news spurs my creative juices, and I hurry over to my laptop to seize the moment before it leaves me. Sitting down, I begin to tap out whatever pops into my head, and in just minutes I sit amazed at the words on the screen in front of me. Instead of brainstorming for my next historical novel, I’ve written out the bones of the first scene of something far more erotic.

  I let the words flow from my fingers, not caring that I don’t usually write in this genre or that I can’t imagine how Sheila would react if she found this in her inbox. I lose myself in the story of a woman who uses sex to keep her from her heroin addiction. It’s smut, pure and simple, and I can’t believe how much I like it.

  By six, I’ve written four pages of my fantasy but it’s time to get ready to meet Kristina. After a quick shower, I stand in front of the bathroom mirror checking out my look and questioning whether this meeting was a bad idea. My dark hair hangs in my eyes, and even when I push it back off my face, it still doesn’t look right. I give myself a good, close shave, but the face that stares back at me still isn’t convinced.

  She’s a movie star, Ian. If this is all you’re bringing, it’s not much.

  Pointing at the mirror, I push back against that little voice inside my head. “Shut the fuck up. Don’t start that shit.”