Crave

by Jennifer Dawson

He smiles. “Six-five.”

  I’m five-seven, hardly short, but I feel positively tiny next to him. “That’s tall.”

  “Yeah, it is.”

  John was an average five-ten.

  What would it be like to have Michael’s big body moving between my legs? His size alone is enough to threaten. Intimidate. My thighs squeeze involuntarily as the image fills my head. I should be thinking of John, not Michael. I glance down at my coffee, staring at the creamy leaf design made from skim milk by the barista, bleeding into the darker liquid.

  “What we’re you thinking, just then?”

  I shake my head. No way will I make that confession.

  He chuckles, the sound low and sexy, sending goose bumps racing over my skin. “All right, sugar, I’ll let you have your secrets.”

  Since my panic attack has worn off, and I’ve recovered, all of my physical responses are flooding back. Somewhere, I find a bit of defiance hidden in some secret reserve. I cup my hands around the warm cup. “This is a one-time thing.”

  “No, it’s not.” There’s still none of that cocky arrogance I’m used to hearing from guys like him, Instead, he states everything as fact, as though I have no say in the matter.

  Of course, that the presumption flips my switch, as much as it irritates me, is just another example of life’s twisted sense of humor. I take a deep breath and try to get this situation under control. “Look, thank you for helping me, and I’m sorry I freaked out on you, but I don’t see people outside the club. Not now. Not Ever.”

  He leans back in his chair and I try desperately not to stare at the expanse of his chest, or the flatness of his stomach. Even through the thick cotton of his black shirt I can see how hard his muscles are. How defined. “I don’t doubt that’s true, but you’re going to be seeing me outside of that club, so you might as well get used to it.”

  “No.” I shake my head, scowling. “You don’t understand.”

  “I understand more than you think, Layla.” The chair squeaks across the floor as he leans over the table. “I told you, warned you, that first night, we’re not playing by your rules.”

  I straighten, snapping back, “What makes you think you have a say in what I do?”

  His jaw hardens, transforming into that stubborn line that sends my blood racing. “Coyness doesn’t suit you.”

  “I’m not being coy.”

  “Bullshit.” His gaze narrows, turning dangerous and mean. The air practically sparks with electricity. “I might not know much about you, but don’t kid yourself into thinking that I don’t know exactly how you’re wired.”

  I can’t figure out if I’m plain stupid or insane, but I find I want to push him. I tilt my chin high in the air. “You don’t know the first thing about it.”

  A muscle in his jaw jumps and those hazel eyes flash. He flexes both hands. “I can’t wait until I take you over my knee. Because I am going to smack the hell out of you.”

  My whole body flares to life like a match. I gulp.

  He leans closer, and my breath stops. “Maybe I should take you into the bathroom and do it right now, just so I can get it out of my system.” Another flex of those long fingers.

  Yes. I shift, already able to feel his palm on my skin. The pain and searing heat of that first strike. The image is so vivid I can almost feel the wetness that would trickle down my thighs as I pray for him to stop, and beg for him to continue.

  It’s been so, so long since I felt that indefinable it. Since I wasn’t going through the motions like I was doing penance.

  His gaze dips to my mouth. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You can already feel my hand on your ass.”

  I have no words to speak. I’m completely mesmerized. My nipples pull into tight peaks and that slow, insistent ache fills my lower belly.

  I want him. So badly it terrifies me.

  He gives me a slow, wicked once-over that feels like a tease against my skin. “I’d take you by the hair and force you to watch every single reaction in the mirror.”

  My pulse pounds. I want, no…need, everything he’s describing. I lean into his words as my fingers grip the ceramic mug hard enough to shatter.

  He pulls back, reclining lazily in the chair. His expression turns arrogant, sly. “Yeah, I don’t know shit, do I?”

  I grit my teeth to fight against a wave of frustration that makes me want to scream I hate you at the top of my lungs. I force the words back into my throat and purposefully relax my hold on the cup, and say flippantly, “Nope, nothing at all.”

  He laughs, an amused, hearty, good-natured sound. That one response says so much about him. It tells me that he doesn’t take himself too serious. That he’s confident in his control. And most importantly, that he can handle someone like me, who will never follow every command, even if I want to.

  The struggle is part of my nature, it’s always been that way, and I don’t expect it will ever change. I need dominance. Need to be controlled and forced. But sitting at some guy’s feet, serenely staring into space as I wait for my next order is never going to be my thing. I will not go gentle into that good night.

  I blow out a breath I hadn’t realized I held. Part of me hoped for a different response, one that would make him less irresistible, but I can see nothing with Michael will be easy.

  He grins, and it transforms his face into something rakishly charming and equally lethal. “You know, Layla, you don’t have to angle for a spanking.”

  I get a quick flash of what it would be like to be with him. Really be with him. He’d be fun, infuriating, intimidating and always get his way.

  Not happy I can see it so clearly, I frown. “I’m not!”

  His grin grows even wider, and his attention drops to my lips. “Give me what I want, and I’ll give you what you need.”

  “What do you want?” I cringe, hating the desperation in my voice.

  “You.”

  That’s what I was afraid of. Because he doesn’t mean my body, he means me, stripped away and raw, completely exposed. And that’s something I can’t ever give him. I shake my head. “You don’t even know me.”

  “Maybe not yet,” he says, and that sureness I hate, but need, is back. “But I will, soon enough.”

  I have no idea what to do. I’m totally lost. I can’t put him back into a box. He’ll never be contained, and I don’t know how to resist him. I only see one option—to tell him the truth. To lay myself bare for one fraction of a moment so he’ll see, and rightly leave.

  My throat constricts and I force myself to meet his gaze even though I can already feel the welling in my eyes. “You don’t understand.” My voice cracks. “I am a total, fucked-up mess. Sometimes I can barely make it through the day. I have nothing to give.”

  His jaw hardens, and he places his elbows on the table and leans close. “What happened?”

  I have to tell him at least the bare minimum. “My fiancé died three weeks before our wedding. The grief…” I swallow; my throat so full it feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton. “I’m having a hard time moving on.”

  It’s enough to scare most people away. To make even the most tenacious think twice.

  His expression turns suspicious and I have no trouble picturing him as the cop he is. “There’s more.”

  I don’t want to continue down this path. “Isn’t that enough?”

  He focuses on me so directly he may as well have pinned me to the chair. “I’m a homicide detective; you don’t think I recognize the signs of trauma when I see it?”

  I flinch, suddenly cold. I pull my trench coat from the back of my chair and wrap it around my shoulders.

  “What happened?” he asks, continuing ruthlessly.

  I press my lips together not wanting to speak the words, but knowing I have to, as surely this will make him drop it. “He was murdered.”

  Michael’s eyes turn a cold shade of greenish gold. “How?”

  The alley. The blood. John’s head in my lap. My restrained wrists. The cold co
ncrete. The pain. It all flashes through my mind in nightmarish vividness. “I don’t want to discuss it.”

  I see the exact second comprehension dawns. He shakes his head as though filled with disgust. “Fuck. You were there, weren’t you?”

  He doesn’t need to know the rest, that’s enough for any sane man to run for the hills. I curl tighter into my coat, my chill bone deep. “I don’t want to discuss it.”

  Michael studies me for a long, long time, then reaches across the table and takes my ice-cold fingers in his.

  His hand is warm, almost hot. Big and strong and oh so capable. The veins weave an intricate path under his skin and I long to trace them, to know him. His fingers are long, his nails blunt and clean. He has the kind of hands that makes a girl feel safe. It makes me all the more vulnerable as I desperately miss feeling safe. My own fingers twitch, I want to take hold and never let go, so I force myself to remain limp.

  “I’m not going to push you tonight, Layla.” His voice is achingly soft. “But someday, you’re going to tell me.”

  I can see it. See how he’d wrap his arms around me and keep the nightmares away. I shake my head. “That day will never come.”

  He shrugs, and squeezes my fingers. “I’m not going to waste my breath arguing with you when I know I’m right.”

  Why is he so damn sure? Why can’t he see I’m too broken to ever be put back together again? I pull my hand away and shove it under the table where he can’t reach me. “What do you want from me?”

  “I want to know you.”

  “There’s nothing to know.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  I blow out a breath of frustration. “There are a million girls out there, ones that will give you want you want without any trouble or complication at all.”

  He smiles. “If I didn’t like complication, I’d have gone into finance like my dad wanted me to.”

  My head snaps back, so taken aback by this slice of normalcy I ask stupidly, “You have a dad?”

  He laughs. “Of course. I also have a mom and two sisters.”

  “You do?” I don’t know why this astounds me. What did I think, that he was hatched? It just seems so…ordinary.

  “I get up, put my pants on one leg at a time. I hang out with friends, work too much, and go to my parents’ house for Sunday dinner.” He leans forward and says in a mock whisper, “I even have a dog.”

  “Really?” In my head I’ve built him up into some sort of rogue fallen angel sent from hell to torture me.

  “Really.” He takes a sip of coffee before reaching into his jean’s pocket and digging out an iPhone. He works his thumb across the screen then hands the phone to me. “An eighty-pound mutt who thinks she’s a lap dog.”

  I stare down at a picture of one of the ugliest dogs I’ve ever seen. Big, with mangy fur of black, brown and white, the dog sits with its head resting on its paws, looking up into the camera like the most pitiful creature ever. The image is calendar-worthy adorable.

  “I found her scrounging through my garbage one morning near starving.”

  I give him back the phone. “She’s cute.”

  He grins, his expression one I’ve seen my brother-in-law wear when looking at his daughters. Complete, blind devotion. “She’s a total con artist.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Belle. Amy, my niece, named her. Belle is her favorite princess.”

  He even has a niece? I can only blink at him, amazed. Not sure if I’m terrified or happy to find out he’s human after all.

  He holds his hands wide and shrugs. “See, I’m just a regular guy.”

  I want to shove him back into the mold I cast for him, but I can’t. Instead, I can’t stop picturing him with that mangy-looking, adorable dog sitting on his lap.

  He leans back on the chair, completely relaxed. “What about you?”

  I’m so taken by this domestic image of him, I have no idea what he’s talking about. “What about me?”

  “Do you have family?”

  Off in the corner, the guitarist strums the first few notes of Here Comes the Sun and a chill races down my spine. He needs someone perfect to complete the image, but it’s not me. I long, more than ever, to be that girl I once was.

  I push a lock of hair off my cheek. “You should go find yourself a nice girl.”

  “I don’t want nice,” he says, his voice dropping an octave. “I want you.”

  “You don’t know me.” Attempting to appeal to his logic. “It’s the chemistry messing with your brain.”

  “I will know you.” He gives me a lazy smile. “And don’t knock it, mad, crazy chemistry doesn’t come along very often, which is why it’s impossible to ignore.”

  I fight the urge to slip into normal girl mode and pretend, if even for a second, but I can’t. It’s too dangerous. And he’s too tempting. “I’m damaged.”

  “Yeah, I know,” he says, like it’s no big deal.

  Suddenly, I remember his story of how he came to own his dog, and I bristle. “Is that your thing? Rescuing strays? Because I want no part of it.”

  “Yeah, I know that too, you’d rather wallow in it.” There’s no softness or apology in the words.

  I’ve become so use to people tiptoeing around me, I snap back as though he’s slapped me. “Fuck you. You don’t know the first thing about it.”

  I am not wallowing.

  My outburst doesn’t appear to faze him because he looks as calm as ever. “It’s not going to work, Layla.”

  “What?” I’m so stung with hurt I can barely croak out the question. It’s so easy for everyone to say, but they don’t have to live with it. They can escape, forget, pretend but I don’t have that luxury.

  “You’re not going to scare me off,” he continues without mercy. “You, your story, whatever happened to you, it does not scare me. I see horrible, inhumane shit every day. I’m not squeamish. So you’ll have to think of something else to push me away.”

  I feel beaten, bruised and so damn fragile I want to scream. I stare into the coffee I haven’t touched and whisper, “I want to go home.”

  I need to curl up on my comfort couch.

  I steel my spine, waiting for an argument that doesn’t come. “All right, I’ll take you home.”

  Because I’m twisted, and clearly insane, bitter disappointment stings the back of my throat. I shove my arms in my coat. “No thanks, I’ll find my own way.”

  “You will not.” That hard, determined do-not-fuck-with-me tone.

  “I will.” It’s bad enough he knows my name; I can’t let him see where I live.

  “Layla, look at me.” He’s speaking in a voice I can’t resist.

  That part of me I’ve never been able to understand, is compelled to respond. I obey, but make no effort to hide my defiance with a sullen twist of my lips.

  “I’m bigger than you, and stronger,” he says in an implacable, reasonable voice. “I will pick you up and carry you over my shoulder to the car if I have to and no one will stop me. Now are we going to do this the hard way, or the easy way?”

  I am at his mercy. I want to be strong and walk away, or at least try, but deep down I know the truth. As furious as I am, I don’t want him to let me go.

  It kills me to admit, even to myself.

  I throw up my hands, trying to save face and snap, “Fine, but don’t touch me.”

  An amused chuckle, that sounds like nails on a chalkboard, even as it heats my belly. “Done.”

  I blow out an exasperated breath. “You are so twisted.”

  “Sugar, you have no idea.”

  Twenty minutes later, I’m standing in front of my front door irrationally irritated I’m untouched. The tension between us is pulled so tight it might snap at any moment. I spent the drive home in a state of deranged flux, ranging from bursting into tears, starting world war three, or climbing on top of him and begging him to fuck me.

  He, on the other hand, couldn’t have seemed more relaxed. He’d kept the conv
ersation light and easy, sticking to banal subjects like the weather and the current political scandal. He didn’t seem like he struggled at all to keep his promise.

  Which, of course, just makes him all the more irresistible.

  I fumble for my key, silently swearing. I want him to force me. Force his way into my condo, into my bed, and into my body.

  Into my life.

  But he won’t. And I hate his ironclad control almost as much as it excites me.

  I slip my key into the lock and twist, opening it a fraction of an inch, before he covers my hand and pulls the door shut.

  My heart starts to pound. I’m no longer strong enough to deny him. I want his mouth on mine. My head tilts, and my loose hair spills to the side, exposing my neck. Breath stuttering, I close my eyes, almost able to feel the first brush of his mouth on my skin. The heat of his body warms me through my coat and I have to lock my legs to keep from leaning back.

  That’s all it would take. One. Lean. Back.

  My lids snap open and I rush back to reality when he presses a small card into my palm. It’s a department-issued business card with all his information on it. It has his work number, cell, and in black ink written in strong, bold script is his home number.

  He braces his hand on the side of my doorframe, crowding me without laying one finger on me. “If you need to reach me.”

  “I won’t,” I say automatically, but take the card anyway.

  “You will need me,” he whispers, raising the fine hairs along the nape of my neck. “But I know you’re too stubborn to call.”

  “Then why give me your numbers at all?” I close my eyes again, not wanting to go inside and end this yet, but I’ll have to soon enough. Selfishly, I just want to enjoy this, his body close, the desire and anticipation zinging between us, if only for a second.

  “Because, I hope I’m wrong.”

  “You’re not.”

  “I know.” He presses closer, but still manages to keep the smallest of space between us.

  It’s so frustrating I could scream. If I just lean back, he’d take it as the surrender it would be. But, as he already explained, I’m too stubborn for that.

  It’s why I need to be taken and forced in the first place.