I’m totally confused, and I tilt my head. “But we only talked about that one night, and that was back when I was still adjusting my perception of you.” I squeeze his fingers. “In the story, Brandon never touched Carolynn.”
“I’m not saying this makes a lot of sense, because it clearly doesn’t, but Brandon had a basement, so I thought I could knock your capture fantasies, which you’ve had long before me, off the list. And I think I was starting to suspect that you were different, that I was starting to need you, so I convinced myself somehow if I treated you the same way I’d treated other women, that I was still okay. Still managing.” He drags his hand through his hair. “Pretty stupid, huh?”
“Yes.” I smile, and run a finger down his cheek. “Go on.”
His eyes flash, glint in that way that makes me shiver. He pinches me. “You do like being watched.”
I bite my lip. “I do.”
He kisses me. “We’ll see what can be arranged, but another man touching you is off limits. Deal?”
“Deal. I don’t want anyone but you. That night, it was all you, Brandon was incidental.”
He strokes down my bare thighs. “I freaked out, because when he went to kiss you, it all snapped into place. It just hit me like a freight train. How in love with you I was. How I was in trouble and in way over my head.”
He swallows hard and I can tell he’s fighting his emotions. “When my brother died, I shut off that part of me. I’ve never let anyone get close, but you did it, without even trying. I got scared. Because I can’t lose you, Jillian, I just can’t.”
I run my finger down his jaw, my eyes filling with tears. “It’s okay, I’m not going anywhere.”
“Someday though…” He trails off.
I nod. “Someday, yes, or someday, it could be you. But that’s life. And we need to live it. All of it. The good and the bad.”
“I know that now.”
I cup his cheek. “You need to talk to me. Tell me how you feel.”
“I will. I’m sorry.”
“And for the record, if you don’t want something and I do, regardless of what it is, we talk about it and come up with a solution that works for both of us. You don’t suffer in silence because of some misguided sense of responsibility.”
“All right. I promise. Are we good?”
We are definitely good. All the tension and sadness that had been burning a hole in my chest eases. Leo and I were going to make it. We are going to beat the odds. I don’t have a doubt in my mind. I smile. “You have the most gorgeous voice I have ever heard.”
He laughs. “You’re biased.”
I shake of my head. “Nope, Heather agrees.”
He strokes a path down my jaw. “I will do my best never to hurt you again.”
“I know,” I reassure him. It’s an impossible promise, but he means it wholeheartedly. At some point, we will fight, he’ll hurt me and I’ll hurt him. He’ll think I’m unreasonable and I’ll complain to my friends he’s being a jerk. After we get over our stubbornness we’ll make up, we’ll kiss and talk and forgive.
That’s life. Love. Commitment.
“I’m so sorry, Jillian. I love you so much.” I don’t doubt it for a second. I can hear it in his voice, see it written in his dark eyes.
“I love you too.” I slip my hands around his neck. “You can make it up to me.”
“Anything. I will do anything.”
I grin. “Anything?”
“Anything.”
“Will you sing to me every day?”
He rubs a hand over his chin. “I suppose that’s not too much to ask.”
“Will you take me to Italy on our honeymoon?”
He laughs again, shaking his head. “Yes, as long as you promise to let me be the one that proposes.”
I tilt my head as though I’m giving the point great consideration. “I think I can do that.”
He pinches me. “Anything else?”
I twine my hand around his neck. “Can I tie you up?”
He growls, leans up and kisses me hard on the lips. “Girl, don’t push it. I’m still in charge here.”
I don’t say anything. I just let him suck me into his strength and warmth.
There’s no harm in letting him think that, after all, we all know the truth.
Now don’t we?
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Interested in steamy contemporary romance? Try Something New.
Take A Chance on Me
The Winner Takes It All
The Name of the Game
As Good as New (Coming March 2016)
Can’t get enough emotional, erotic romance? Come Undone.
Crave
Sinful
A note from Jennifer:
Sometimes in life, things don’t work out as planned, and I’ve found that especially true in writing. I wrote Crave first, with no particular plan other than I wanted to tell Layla’s story. But once I started writing, Leo and Jillian practically begged me to write them. So while Sinful is the second book released, it actually takes place before Crave.
So, if you missed Crave, I have just the thing… Read on for the first two chapters of Crave, Layla and Michael’s story…
Eleven P.M.
Two months. Five days. Twenty-one hours.
It’s my new record although I have no sense of accomplishment. No, I’m resigned as I walk down the dark, deserted alley. The heels of my knee-high, black patent boots click against the cracked concrete in echo of my defeat. The distant sounds of the bass thuds in my ears in time to the heavy beat of my heart.
My own personal staccato of failure.
I’m not sure why it’s always a surprise. Maybe because, at first, my conviction is so strong. By now my pattern is long and established—I vow, I crave, I give in.
Rinse. Repeat.
But, like any good addict, I always swear this time is the last.
Of course, I try. My therapist has given me “management tools” to get me through the hard times, and like a good patient, I follow her instructions to a tee—I meditate, do yoga, and write all my crappy feelings in the journal she insists I keep.
Only, it’s backfired and become part of the ritual. When the cycle starts, it’s a matter of time before I end up here.
I’m sure when John brought me to this underground club the first time, he’d never envisioned I’d be back on my own, wandering through the crowds, looking for my next fix. The club reminds me of him, and I wish I could go somewhere else so I wouldn’t be confronted with my betrayal, but I don’t have a choice. There aren’t ads for places like this. Or maybe there are and I don’t know where to look.
Swift and sudden, anger clogs my throat, and for a split second I hate him for changing me so irrevocably, and leaving me so permanently. Fast on the heels of anger, the guilt wells, so powerful it brings a sting of tears to my eyes. In the pockets of my black trench coat, my nails dig crescents into my palms.
I push away the emotions. Exhaling harshly, my breath fogs the air as I spot a hint of the red door that signals both my refuge and my hell. I hear the muffled hum of music that will crescendo once I’m inside to pump through me like a heartbeat.
My pace quickens along with my pulse.
As much as I hate giving in, I can’t deny my relief. Once I step through that door, I don’t have to pretend. I don’t have to be normal.
The tension, riding me all day, distracting me in meetings, making me wander off in the middle of conversations, ebbs. A twisted excitement slicks my thighs as the bare skin under my skirt tingles.
I haven’t bothered with panties. It makes things easier, quicke
r. Less about getting off and more about taking care of business.
I have on my usual club fare: short, black pleated skirt that leaves a stretch of thigh before my stockings start. A sheer, white silk blouse that’s unbuttoned low enough to show the lace of my red demi-bra. My lips are slicked with crimson and my dark chestnut hair is a tumble of shiny waves down my back.
My outfit is carefully orchestrated. I leave as little to chance as possible.
No leather or latex. I’m not into bondage. Chains and rope do nothing but leave me cold. Once upon a time I loved to be restrained by fingers wrapped tight around my wrists, digging into my skin, but now I can’t handle even a hint of being bound.
I reveal plenty of smooth ivory skin, my clue to guys into body modification or knife play to stay away. I like fear, but not that kind. I want my bruises and scars hidden away, not worn like a badge of honor for the world to see.
My wrists and neck are free of jewelry so the Masters don’t confuse me with a slave girl. I tried that scene once, thinking all their hard play and intense scenes would focus my restless energy and make me forget, but there is no longer anything submissive about me.
I don’t want to obey. I want to fight.
The scream leaves my throat, echoing on the walls of my bedroom, as I start awake. I jerk to a sitting position, sucking in great lungfuls of air. Drenched in sweat, I press my palm to my pounding heart, the beat so rapid it feels as though it might burst from my chest.
I had the dream again. Not a dream—dreams are good and full of hope—no, a nightmare. The same nightmare I’ve had over and over for the last eighteen months. An endless, gut-wrenching loop that fills my sleep and leaves my days unsettled.
I miss good dreams. Miss waking up rejuvenated. But most of all, I miss feeling safe. I’d taken those things for granted and paid the price.
Lesson learned. Too late to change my fate, but learned none the less.
On shaky legs I climb out of bed and pad down the hallway of my one bedroom, Lakeview condo and into the kitchen, my mind still filled with violent images and blood trickling like a lazy river down a concrete crack in the pavement.
I go through my morning ritual, pulling a filter and coffee from the cabinets. Carefully measuring scoops of ground espresso into the basket as tears fill my eyes.
I blink rapidly, hoping to clear the blur, but it doesn’t work, and wet tracks slide down my cheeks. But even through my fear, my ever-present grief and guilt, I can feel it. It sits heavy in my bones, familiar and undeniable.
The want.
The need.
The craving that grows stronger each and every day I resist. That the dream does nothing to abate the desire sickens me.
I know what Dr. Sorenson would say: I need to disassociate. That the events of the past, and my emotions aren’t connected, but she can’t possibly understand. Throat clogged, I brush away the tears, and angrily stab the button to start the automatic drip.
My phone rings a short, electronic burst of sound, signaling an incoming text. I’m so grateful for the distraction from my turbulent thoughts I snatch up the device, clutching it tight as though it might run away from me.
I open the text. It’s from my boss, Frank Moretti. CFO is leaving to “pursue other opportunities”. Need to meet 1st thing this AM to discuss.
I sigh in relief. As the communications manager at one of Chicago’s boutique software companies this ensures a crazy day I desperately need. Frank will have me running around like a mad woman. I take a deep breath and wipe away the last of the tears on my face.
Salvation. I won’t have time to think. Won’t have time to ponder what I’m going to do tonight. I type out my agreement and hit send, hoping against hope I’ll be too exhausted this evening to do anything but fall into a bed, dreamless.
Too tired to give in to my drug of choice.
My morning is filled with back-to-back meetings and I don’t sit at my desk until eleven. On autopilot, I make my way through voice mails, jotting down the calls I need to return. All the while the all too familiar ache has only grown more insistent.
The morning’s pace has done nothing to ease the tightness in my chest, or curb the craving. Other than momentary periods of respite, it’s distracting me.
Reminding me in countless little ways I can’t resist.
My sister’s voice comes over the line, ripping me away from my thoughts. Tone light and happy, she tells me she’s looking forward to our lunch at noon. I dart a quick glance at the clock on my computer and groan.
April is the last person I want to see.
Not that I don’t love my sister, I do. She’s great. It’s just that being around her reminds me of all I’ve lost and how I’ll never be the person I was again. Today, I can’t bear to witness that look of expectation my family gives me, like they’re waiting for the Layla Hunter I used to be to show up. I hate the disappointment, the loss, shinning in their eyes when they search and don’t find her.
I don’t know how to tell them I miss that girl as much as they do.
This is not a good day to remember. Not when I miss John so much it’s a physical hurt. If he hadn’t died, I’d have been married a year and a half now, living the younger woman’s version of April’s life. Despite our dirty little secret, John and I were like every other couple we’d known in our late twenties, living in the city, having as much fun as we could before I got pregnant and we moved out to the suburbs to claim our white picket fence, four bedroom, and two and a half bath dreams.
Unlike me, my sister’s path didn’t deviate, falling perfectly into place as she’d planned all along. Her successful executive husband adores her; my twin nieces are right out of a stock photo they’re so cute. Beautiful, golden-haired angels that break my heart every time I see them they’re so precious. April even has my dog, the Golden Retriever John and I said we’d get the second we moved out of the city and had a yard.
His memory is close today, and with April’s call, I can see it—that charmed, blessed life I’d believed I was entitled too. A life where the evils of the world were so out of my hemisphere I’d never dreamed they’d happen to me.
Obviously, I was wrong.
Panic fills my chest, breathless in its intensity. I look down to realize I’m clicking the button on the top of my pen over and over. Stilling my restless fingers, I take a deep calming breath. Counting to twenty as Dr. Sorenson has taught me.
I can’t go to lunch with April. Not today of all days when I need so badly what John used to give me that it’s a dull, persistent ache.
I dart a quick glance at the clock and pick up the phone. I might be able to catch her. But then I recall I canceled on her two times before. My sister might be a happy little homemaker, but she’s no pushover, if I cancel again, she’ll come drag me to lunch by my hair.
I swallow all of my turbulent emotions threatening to bubble over and drop the receiver back into its cradle. Resigned.
I spot April already waiting for me in the little French bistro two blocks away from my work. She wears a worried, uneasy expression as her gaze darts around the room. As soon as she spots me she beams, flashing her trademark, million-dollar smile.
My stomach tightens as I walk toward her. She looks gorgeous and the sight of her makes me feel like a poor carbon copy of my former self.
While we have the same clear, sky-blue eyes, she’s a California blonde to my brunette. Today she’s wearing a casual dress the exact color of red autumn leaves falling to the ground outside. The simple cut, and jersey fabric, skims her body kept toned by walks and grueling sessions of hot yoga. It highlights golden skin, sun-kissed from her recent four-day jaunt to Naples, Florida, for a little alone time with her husband, Derrick. She radiates good health.
In essence, my complete opposite.
She throws her arms out in greeting and I begrudgingly step into her embrace.
“You look wonderful,” she says, squeezing me tight.
Liar. I look horrible. Lifeless
and flat in the light of her glowing, earth goddess warmth.
“So do you,” I murmur back, except I mean it. I suck in her scent. She smells like flowers and sunshine. Achingly familiar, so reminiscent of a time hovering out of my reach, I want to stay in her embrace forever.
But, of course, I don’t. I break away and step back. Her lightly raspberry-stained mouth tucks down at the corners, her hands still resting on my arms as though she means to pull me in for another hug.
I tug away, retreating to the safety of my seat.
Her lips press together, but then she flashes me another brilliant smile, and settles into the chair across from me. She lays her crisp, white linen napkin daintily across her lap before looking at me. And I catch it, the hope shining in her eyes.
I pick up the menu resting across my plate and stare at the words without reading. An awkward silence, which never existed between us before, fills the empty space.
April clears her throat. “How are you?”
“Good.” Another lie. Today, I am drowning. “Work’s crazy.”
“I’m glad you were able to get away, you need a break, Layla.”
I put down the menu. “I’m fine.”
I want to reassure her. If we have a good lunch, she’ll be able to report back to my mother that I’m making progress. Peace might elude me, but I want it for them.
The frown makes another appearance, but before April can say anything, our waiter comes over and places a big bottle of sparkling water down on the table. Young, with a mess of golden-streaked hair, and the chiseled bone structure of a model, he’s all fresh-faced innocence. “Can I get you something to drink?”
Sinful (Undone) Page 25
