Crave

by Jennifer Dawson

Unable to resist, I arch, my legs parting of their own volition. I stare fixedly at the board of breads in front of me, but my rapt attention is on him.

  He stops.

  I bite my lip.

  He toys with the lace edge of my tights, running his thumb along the edge. I shift again. Urging him to go farther. It’s been so long. So incredibly long since I’ve done anything like this, and only now do I feel the depths of how much I’ve missed it. How much I need it.

  His hand squeezes my leg, goes a tiny bit higher, and then retreats to a respectable level.

  I want to scream.

  He does it again.

  I clench my teeth to keep from moaning.

  And again.

  Sweat beads my back. I’m mentally willing him to go higher. To, please, touch me.

  But he never does.

  He just makes me want. Need. Crave it like the addict I am.

  After what feels like an eternity, the waitress finally finishes her speech and leaves.

  I fight to keep from panting like a dog in heat.

  His hand falls from my thigh, and I have to stop myself from crying out in disappointment. He reaches for a slice of bread then covers it with a creamy spread. He holds it out to me. “Here, you’ll like this.”

  “What is it?”

  He gives me his most evil grin. “Weren’t you paying attention?”

  I snatch the bread from him. “Don’t be cute.”

  He knows just what he’s doing and it both irritates and enflames me.

  He laughs, the sound wicked and amused, and it rolls through me like a wave.

  To keep from saying something stupid, I take a bite of bread, which turns out to be pretzel bread topped with something laced with honey, and is utterly divine. I moan in pleasure as I chew slowly and deliberately, savoring every bite. It’s like I’ve woken up from a long famine and I’m tasting everything for the first time. Which, actually, isn’t that far from the truth.

  He laughs. “Thank god you’re not one of those girls who hates to eat.”

  I take another bite of the bread and close my eyes in pure bliss. “No way.”

  I look down at my plate; while caught up in my food porn, he’d put another one of the breads in front of me. I hurry to take another bite. This one is as good as the last and filled with cranberries and nuts mixed with something sweet.

  I’m suddenly starving, for the food, for him, for life.

  I’m as greedy for information about him, as I am for the food in front of me, and I ask, “Why were your parents horrified about you being a police officer?”

  He studies me and when I start squirming, a smile ghosts his lips. “Because the Banks are investment bankers. That’s the family tradition, unbroken for generations until my sisters and I came along.”

  “Goes with the name, huh?” I laugh and it occurs to me it sounds almost natural.

  He picks up my martini glass. “Have another sip.”

  It’s too delicious to refuse, and I drain the rest of what’s left of the drink, licking the mystery-flavored sugar from my lips.

  His gaze darkens while his hand slips under the table to rest on my thigh.

  I have to force back the gasp at the contact and quickly say, “So your sisters aren’t investment bankers either?”

  “My sister, Sara, her husband is a partner in my dad’s firm, but she stays at home with my niece. That’s as close as my dad’s going to get with this generation of rebels.” He strokes the inner part of my knee with slow deliberateness. “Jillian is an artist. Or at least that’s her claim this month.”

  The touch is innocent, but oh so distracting. I long to open my thighs wide in invitation, but tonight, I’m like a schoolgirl on her first unchaperoned date. Every move and action seems portent with meaning and innuendo. “Is artist better or worse than law enforcement?”

  His hand leaves my leg, picks yet another piece of bread, and slathers it with a brownish dip before handing it to me. “I suppose it depends on who you ask on what day.”

  “Does it bother you?”

  “Nope. They’ve forgiven my choice of profession. Sure my mom gets scared and my father worries about how I’ll get by on less than three hundred thousand a year, but it’s just normal parent stuff.” There’s no bitterness in his words, actually he sounds downright good-natured about the whole thing.

  I take the flat bread, and bite into some sort of balsamic and truffle bruschetta, which is as divine as everything else I’ve tasted tonight. “Three hundred grand, huh?”

  “Sometimes I want to take him into the middle of a high-crime, poverty-ridden area and drop him off for a few hours so he can gain some perspective.” His tone is a mixture of exasperation and amusement, and I’d bet money that they have a solid relationship.

  I chew slowly and when I swallow, I ask, “How’d you discover you wanted to be a cop?”

  “It was a fluke. I had a football scholarship to University of Pennsylvania. I was enrolled in all the standard business classes, ready to walk in my dad’s footsteps, and I took a law enforcement class on a whim as an elective.” He shrugs, picks up a lock of my hair and twirls it around his finger. “It was love at first sight.”

  “You played ivy league football?” He’s big enough, and smart enough, but it’s so hard to imagine him as an eighteen-year-old kid roaming the campus quad.

  “Yeah.” He leans close to whisper, “You’ve stopped flinching when I touch you.”

  Faint heat fills my cheeks, and I say as lightly as I can muster, “I didn’t realize I did.”

  As if to emphasize his point, he strokes a path over my jaw. “Only when you weren’t expecting it, but you’re getting used to it now.” He brushes a kiss across my lips. “Progress.”

  When he pulls away I fight the urge to chase after him. “Is that why you keep touching me? To get me use to it?”

  “I touch you because I like touching you. Your skin is soft and your hair feels like silk.” His eyes darken. “But mostly I like how you respond, the little gasps of surprise, how you shiver in excitement, how your pupils dilate when I wrap my fingers around your throat.”

  My blood heats at his words.

  He rubs a finger over the pulse picking up considerable speed in my neck. “Like right now, you’re that perfect mixture of terrified and aroused.”

  I swallow, my thighs clenching. I know what that look does to someone like him; the same thing being called a good girl does to someone like me. Instant hunger.

  Our waitress comes over with another platter of food, breaking the spell. She puts down a plate of ahi tuna made three different ways, explaining them to us in a hurried manner that makes it clear she realizes she’s interrupting.

  Michael is nothing but gracious, thanking her, before ordering us another round of drinks.

  After she leaves, he takes a fork and cuts into the seared fish and holds it up to me, his gaze hot on mine. “Take a bite.”

  It’s an order, delivered softly, and with no particular significance, but an order all the same. My brain wants to resist, but my desire for him overrides it. I open my mouth, and he slides the fork between my lips. The hard crunch of the sear gives way to tender flesh that melts over my tongue. “It’s good.”

  He picks up another piece and takes his own bite. “Yeah, it is.”

  I move to grab my fork but he covers my hand and shakes his head. “No. I’ll do it.”

  My fingers move relentlessly over the tines, but I nod. He spears the next piece and holds it out. Our eyes lock as he places the cool metal against my lips. “Open.”

  I obey.

  “Take it slowly with your tongue.”

  My whole body flushes, even as I inwardly cringe at what he wants. Being fed by someone is an intimate act, especially the way he’s doing it with that look in his eyes, and we’re in the middle of a crowded restaurant.

  I give in to natural instinct and shake my head.

  “Yes.” That’s all he says. No bark of command, or infl
ection in his tone. Straightforward. Simple. Impossible to ignore.

  The waitress returns, and out of the corner of my eye, I see her put the drinks down in front of us.

  My cheeks burn, certain she knows everything that’s going on, but Michael’s gaze does not waver from mine.

  “Do you need anything else?” The server’s voice is hesitant.

  “No.” Michael’s answer is clipped and she moves away. He motions with the fork, but says nothing else.

  I swallow hard. I’ve engaged in my fair share of sexual activity back in that underground club, done things that would give most normal people pause, but since John died, this is my first real submissive act. Everything else, even at its roughest and most extreme, was play-acting. Trying to get my fix in the safest way possible. I haven’t risked anything.

  This one simple gesture, taking a piece of food off Michael’s fork, will be the first risk I’ve taken since I walked into that alley and my life changed forever.

  I’m terrified.

  He nods. “You can do it, Layla. You want to.”

  He’s right. Beyond the fear and anxiety, I’m beyond excited. Wet and hopeful, filled with that indescribable exhilaration I thought I’d never experience again.

  I take a deep breath and do as I’m told.

  As my tongue curls around the fish, Michael’s own pupils dilate. “Good girl.”

  Although I’m sure it’s delicious, I don’t taste it, as my insides have turned to mush. Molten lava. My breath catches in my throat.

  He leans in.

  My lips part. I want this kiss. I need it.

  “How is everything?” A female voice breaks the spell and the entire restaurant rushes back.

  Michael jerks back and glares at a wide-eyed, innocent Gwen.

  “Fine.” The word coming out like he chewed it between his teeth first.

  The mood shatters and I straighten in my seat to say politely, “Everything is beyond fine. Your food is incredible.”

  “Thank you.” She beams at me, and then her smile shifts to something sly as she turns to Michael. “Are you bringing Layla to Jillian’s birthday party?”

  I tense, all that languid heat cooling as I look at Michael in horror.

  Michael covers my knee with a hand. “Go away, Gwen.”

  She huffs, but I can see her amusement. “Is that the thanks I get?”

  “Goodbye, Gwen.”

  She tosses her hair. “No biggie, I’ll just go call Jillian for a chat.”

  I can’t help the smile that tugs at my lips when Michael waves her away. “Have fun.”

  He shakes his head. “Did I mention they’re a meddlesome bunch?”

  “So far, the food has been more than worth it.” I shrug, watching the gorgeous Gwen disappear between double doors. I can’t help being the tiniest bit curious. I say in a light, breezy voice, “With her culinary skills, I can’t believe you haven’t swept her up long ago.” Not my most subtle inquiry.

  He laughs. “Jealous?”

  “Of course not,” I say primly. “Merely curious, she’s quite beautiful.” Which is actually an understatement.

  “She’s also a pain in the ass.” He sighs. “But, truth be told, we did secretly go out on one date.”

  A lump forms in the pit of my stomach. Why did I ask? “Secretly?”

  “At one point, our families were really pushing us, and it made sense, I suppose. So one night, drunk on too much tequila we agreed to go on a date, just to see.” His fingers trace a slow path over my knee, as though he’s not talking about some other woman. “Yes, she’s beautiful, as my friends routinely inform me, but I don’t know. I watched her grow up; she’s my baby sister’s best friend, and I could never work up any enthusiasm for her. But, I decided what the hell.”

  His hands inched up my thigh and I can’t deny I want to spread for him, regardless of the subject matter, but my legs stay firmly clasped like any good, normal girl. “So what happened?”

  “We had fun, but I have more chemistry with dirt. We actually made fun of it the entire time.”

  I’m a lot happier than I should be, but tried to put on a sympathetic face. “That’s unfortunate.”

  His hand slips another inch up my thigh, thankfully still covered by my thick tights. “Not really, even if we had chemistry it would have never worked out and we would have ended up ruining a good friendship.”

  “Why’s that?” My muscles tremble from the exertion of staying shut.

  “Well for one, I’m a cop, and she’s a restaurant owner. Between the two of us it’s a scheduling nightmare.” His gaze drops to my lips then raises back up to meet my eyes. “But more important, she’s not submissive.”

  The word hangs in the air, flustering me as nothing else could have. Which is ridiculous since it’s been between us from the beginning. I can only sputter, “How do you know?”

  His fingers creep higher, until he hits the wedge of my clasped thighs. “Same way you do, sugar.”

  Like attracts like, without fail. Every time. I know this, so I can’t explain why I say, “I don’t know what you mean.”

  He squeezes my leg. “Open.”

  My legs stay firmly shut.

  His attention locks on me. “That night we met, I watched you searching, sizing everyone up, before dismissing them. But the second our paths crossed, you knew. How’d you know, Layla?”

  I swallow hard. Sixth sense. “Instinct.”

  “Exactly.” His fingers dig hard into my flesh, until the pressure and need to obey becomes too much. I relent, and open. His hand relaxes and stays right where it is, frustrating me when I want him to go higher.

  But, of course, he doesn’t, and I know why, because he wants his victory to sit between us.

  My throat is dry, and my body on fire. I need it. I need him. Need that indescribable feeling of being controlled. So I open my mouth and say the stupidest thing I could to a dominant. “I’m not really that submissive.”

  He laughs. “Call it whatever you want. It’s all semantics.”

  I experience a vague sense of disappointment, and realize too late I’m baiting him, wanting him to show me how wrong I am. I lick my lips. It’s stupid of me, because it will surely backfire, but I’m unable to stop the path I’m on. “I’m just trying to explain I don’t like all that lord, master of the underworld, scene stuff.”

  “I already know what kind of girl you are, Layla. And I sure as hell know what you need.”

  My chin tilts as a distinct surge of defiance pulses through me. “I hate all that Dom stuff, all those rituals and protocol.”

  He raises a brow, but says nothing, and my mouth runs away from me.

  “You might know the basics, but I yield for no one.” I hold my breath. I’m playing with fire and I want to get burned.

  The waitress comes to our table with another plate. Michael waves her away. “No explanation is necessary.”

  She doesn’t even hesitate, just turns and scurries away.

  He shifts his attention back to me and pins me with a stern look that has me sitting straighter in my seat. “I know what you’re doing, and it’s not going to work.”

  Petulant, I cross my arms over my chest. “I’m not doing anything.”

  “You’re impatient, and trying to force me to exert my dominance over you.”

  Shit. I’ve tried too hard and overplayed my hand. My only excuse is I’m out of practice.

  “You need to understand two things: My control over you is already firmly in hand.” His hand slides up the length of my thigh, to rest on my overheated bare flesh. “And I’ll fuck you when I’m damn well good and ready and not a second before.”

  I stare down at my plate, chastised and wanting. It’s hard to explain to someone who doesn’t have my tendencies what a statement like that does to me. How the reprimand mixes with anger and humiliation, becoming a powerful cocktail of arousal. How it both puts me in my place and makes me wet and free. It’s what I need, what I’ve been longing for
all this time. Unbearably missing since John died.

  The memory of what it was like whispers over my skin, light, but achingly familiar. I’ve tried so hard to forget, so hard to resist, I’d almost forgotten the most important part.

  When I finally surrender the battle, I am free.

  He strokes my thigh. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  I take a deep breath and tell him the absolute truth. “This is real.”

  His hand falls from my leg before he slides an arm around my shoulder and tugs me close. He plants a kiss on my head then whispers in my ear, “Yes, Layla, it is.”

  “I don’t know if I can. Not anymore.”

  He cups my jaw and forces me to meet his gaze. “All you need to worry about right now is dinner. That’s it. Nothing else. We’re going to eat and talk. I’m going to touch you. I’m going to kiss those lips that drive me crazy whenever I want. I’m going to play with you and make you wet. And I’m going to learn you. That’s all. It’s that simple. You can do that.”

  There is nothing simple about it. I can only turn pleading eyes on him.

  His thumb brushes over my mouth before he leans down and licks my lower lip. “I know what you want, sugar, and I’m going to give it to you. I’ll fuck you hard and rough. I’ll take you. Possess you. You’ll fight me and I’ll win because it’s what we both want. But tonight, right now, here in this restaurant, I’m going to be soft. Because, even though I know you don’t want it, I think you need soft.”

  My throat closes over because he’s so perfectly described all the frantic, mixed-up emotions running rampant in my brain. It makes me think of John. How it really was between us, not the bastardized version in my head. That mix of hard and soft. The gentle danger. It’s a part of me I’ve only shared with John and as much I want to, I’m not sure I can with anyone else. I croak out, “That belongs to him.”

  “Yeah, it does.” Michael brushes my cheek. “Giving it to me doesn’t negate that.”

  Of course, the tears come. I can’t stop them; no matter how hard I try. “He didn’t like to share.”

  A smile flickers over Michael’s lips. His cruel, beautiful mouth I want more than I want my next breath. “I can’t imagine he did. We’re alike that way. I don’t share either.”