Crave

by Jennifer Dawson

  I pick up my napkin and dab under my eyes, hoping I’m not ruining my makeup. I laugh, and it’s brittle and bitter. “This is some date, huh? Isn’t this what every man wants? A girl crying all over him because of her dead fiancé.”

  “Hey,” he says, his voice hard. “Stop that. I’m exactly where I want to be. I knew what I was getting into, Layla. There are no surprises. And I’m a patient man.”

  “I can’t give you what you want.” I wave my napkin at him, agitated now.

  “What do you think I want?”

  I raise my gaze to meet his. “You want me to open up and bleed for you and I can’t do that. Not now. Not ever.”

  He is silent for a very long time, his expression unreadable. His hand drops away and I miss his heat. He scoots back, putting distance between us, and places his arm on the back of the booth, not touching me. He juts his chin toward the entryway. “Walk away, Layla. You can forget all about me and go back to your safe, grief-stricken bubble where you’ll never be hurt ever again.”

  My heart starts to slam in my chest, pounding in my throat. Panic washes over me, so fierce my vision dims.

  Ruthless, he points to the door. “You keep saying you want me to let you go, that you can’t, so here’s your chance to run. Leave. I’ll never bother you again.”

  My hands curl into fists as I blink at the door. Patrons are pouring into the already crowded restaurant while only a few strays venture out into the cool Chicago air. I bite my lower lip. I can’t.

  As much as I know what I am supposed to do, as much as I need to stay true to John, I can’t pry myself out of this seat, even if he came in and sat down next to me. I start to cry and I shake my head, unable to speak.

  Michael once again slides close and pulls me into his chest. “You’re afraid, and overwhelmed, but you don’t want to leave. Can you at least accept that?”

  I’m trembling; I tilt my face up to his.

  He rubs his thumb over my lower lip. “Trust me enough to keep you safe. Will you do that?”

  I think of endless nights stretched out, lonely and without him, as I troll through the club, punishing myself with random acts of cruelty. I can’t go back. I don’t want to. I want what Michael is offering. I nod. “Yes.”

  This isn’t about sex. This is about surrender. To him. To myself. To the possibility of what we may become.

  The rest of the night had played out exactly as he’d said it would, but he hadn’t touched me since we’d left the restaurant. I knew why. Sex and tension pulsed between us like a heartbeat, threatening to consume us.

  And now I stand at the edge of Michael’s king-size bed, my gaze darting nervously around the room, looking anywhere and everywhere but at his headboard. An intricate, iron scroll pattern that, combined with the rich, velvety chocolate-brown comforter, gives the bed a medieval flair.

  All that iron. All those different ways to tie a girl up.

  Jealousy storms inside me as I imagined the women he’s laid across that bed, arms stretched wide, wrists manacled to the iron. Pale skin against cool metal.

  And I wasn’t just jealous of their existence, but that they’d had what I never could. My fingers play over my wrists as images of that night flood into my memory. Assaulting all my senses, overtaking me.

  The rush of terror pulls me into the abyss so quickly I’m powerless to stop the onslaught. There’s no chance to calm my breathing. To count.

  In a flash, I’m back in my own private nightmare.

  The darkness. The duct tape cutting into my skin. My smothered screams. My helplessness as I watched John’s battered body slip to the ground, his blood slowly seeping out as his life drained away.

  The panic storms relentlessly over me, and my breath becomes a rapid shallow pant as blood pounds through my ears and my vision blurs.

  The alley.

  The shadows.

  The damp smell.

  The rusty taste of blood.

  It’s all I can see. All I can hear, taste, and feel.

  “Layla!” A sharp, male voice behind me.

  I don’t respond. I’m paralyzed. The fear a hard, angry vise that won’t let go. My heart rages in my chest, threatening to burst. Adrenaline is a hot rush along my skin.

  I can’t breathe. I’m going to die.

  “Layla.” Strong hands clasp my waist, turning me.

  I scream.

  “Layla.” The utter calm of my name on Michael’s lips shakes me from the memory.

  Reality floods back and the vision fades, leaving behind a metallic taste in my mouth. Covering my face with my hands, I fight to remember my breathing exercises as my heart races, not cued into the fact that I’m not in danger.

  Count.

  I’m supposed to count.

  Palm on my belly to regulate my breath.

  Inhale.

  Exhale.

  Michael pulls me close and I sink into his hard chest, closing my eyes. His hands stroke my back. He murmurs nonsense, soothing me with his hands. I lock on to his voice, the slide of his palm on my back, until my breathing slows. I have no idea how long we stand like that; it could have been five minutes or five hours, but finally my heart rate calms and the panic retreats.

  I shudder from the leftover anxiety and swallow hard.

  I don’t know how to do this anymore. But I can’t let him go. I clutch tighter. “I’m sorry.”

  “Sshhhhh, you have nothing to be sorry for.” His voice is so soft and warm I want to curl into it.

  “It’s getting worse instead of better.” I’d thought the panic attacks were the one thing I had under control, but I was wrong.

  He traces a finger over my jaw before gripping my chin and raising my gaze to his. “Since you met me?”

  Unable to speak, I nod.

  His unusual hazel eyes steady me. Calmness settles inside me, and my muscles ease.

  He toys with my hair, his other hand still skimming over my back. “Have you considered it’s because you’re not repressing your emotions?”

  It’s what Dr. Sorenson had said. “Yes.”

  “Sit down on the bed.” He gently lowers me to the mattress and I cling to his arm, not wanting to let him go. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  I reluctantly release him, wrapping my arms around myself in a hug as I shiver.

  He walks over and picks up a chair that’s sitting in the corner, pulling it over to the bed where he sits in front of me. He takes my hands, rubbing my ice-cold fingers between his hot palms. We sit like that, knees touching, fingers clasped for a long time until all my vital signs return to normal and my core temperature warms.

  Finally, he asks, “Better?”

  I nod.

  He squeezes my hands. “I need to tell you something, but you’re not going to be happy about it.”

  Alarm bells clang in my head again, I try and pull away, but he doesn’t let go. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing is wrong.” His expression is a hard line of concern. “I didn’t want to bring it up tonight, but I see now I don’t have a choice. I only hope you’ll understand.”

  I lick my dry lips and look at him expectantly. “I’m listening.”

  He takes a deep breath and slowly exhales. “I read your case file.”

  It’s like a slap in the face. My head snaps back and I jerk my hands away. This time he releases me. He has those images of me in his head now. It’s the last thing I want. Betrayal rings clear in my tone as I ask, “How could you?”

  He rakes a hand through his hair before putting his elbows on his knees and placing his open palms on my legs. “I understand you’re not happy and I don’t blame you, but I didn’t read it to appease my curiosity. I had to know, because you’re not ready to talk about it, and I couldn’t risk triggering you.”

  I look down at the floor. He knows. Only the doctors, the police, and Dr. Sorenson know the whole truth, but they don’t count. They aren’t part of my real life.

  Gently, he runs his thumb over my wrists. “I wo
n’t tie you to the bed, Layla. I won’t restrain your wrists in any way, not even with my hands.”

  Tears slip down my cheeks and I nod, my throat too tight to speak.

  “Is that the worst trigger? Or are there others I should know about?”

  I sit in silence for a long time but finally I manage to strangle out the words. “I don’t like anything tight on my waist.”

  “Okay,” he says, his deep voice soothing. “What about your throat?”

  I swallow. “That’s okay.”

  “Your mouth?”

  “I don’t know. My mouth has always been off limits.” They covered my mouth with duct tape so I wouldn’t scream, but the thought of Michael covering my mouth makes me shiver in awareness. Since it’s always been one of my rules I’m not sure how I’ll react.

  “We won’t test it out now.” He presses foreword, his knees bracketing mine. “I will be very careful, Layla.”

  I can only nod. In this, I trust him. He’s proven he’ll care for me, that he has my best interests and wellbeing at heart. My hands curl into fists and I bite my lip. I need him to be careful, but I don’t want him to be.

  That he understands this speaks volumes.

  He continues, breaking through my thoughts. “You’ll stay here with me tonight, that’s not negotiable. But if you’re not ready, sex is off the table.”

  Hanging my head, I close my eyes. I take a deep breath and admit the truth. “That’s not what I want.”

  “And what do you want?”

  “You. Tonight. Now.” Something deep inside me needs to feel whole again, and he can give me that.

  He reaches for me, and tilts my chin until I meet his gaze. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” And when he doesn’t look quite convinced I add, “I haven’t been this sure of anything in a very long time.”

  The concern clears from his face, but he remains serious. “I violated your privacy and I’m sorry.”

  I wait for a bit…but he doesn’t offer an additional excuse. I blink the tears from my eyes. “I didn’t want you to know.”

  He smiles, all warm and tender. “I think, deep down, you know that’s a lie. Because you have to know, sooner or later, I would have gotten the truth out of you.”

  It’s true. He’s not the kind of man that let’s secrets go. If I spend enough time with him, eventually, he will know everything about me. I nod again.

  “And just because I know doesn’t mean you don’t have to talk about it. We will talk about it.”

  “Why? It’s the past and I can’t change it. I can’t go back.”

  He reaches out and touches my jaw before tucking a lock of my hair behind my ear. “It’s time to start healing, Layla.”

  “Do you think you can rescue me?” I believed I couldn’t be saved, but now I am not so sure, because with him, anything seems possible.

  “No, I think you will rescue yourself.” He leans forward and brushes his lips against mine. “I’ll be there to hold your hand, but the hard work is up to you.”

  The words make me stronger somehow, more in control. “I don’t understand what personality defect you have that makes you want me. But, tonight, I’m glad you do.”

  He laughs, shaking his head. “This is a real thing for you, isn’t it?”

  I shrug, not wanting to admit the truth. It is a thing for me, I keep waiting for him to figure out I’m not worth it. That I’m too much effort and not enough reward.

  He sighs and once again clasps my hands. “I’m not an easy road kind of guy. I never have been. When you meet her, you can ask my mother, but the easy way is not in my nature, much to her distress. Even when I was a kid, when my friends and I would climb a tree, my friends would climb the easiest path, but I’d stand back and figure out the hardest way and take that route. When I played football my coaches would get pissed because I’d try and plow through the swarm of uniforms instead of taking the hole up the right side. When I could have followed in my dad’s footsteps, I became a cop. I could have gotten a job in his firm, with a nice plush six-figure salary the day I graduated, but I couldn’t do it. Even though every person I knew tried to talk me out of it. The easy way has never interested me.”

  “So I’m a challenge?” When I ceased to be so, would he let me go? The thought scares me more than I can admit.

  “God yes,” he says, squeezing my hands. “But it’s more than that. I want you like I’ve never wanted anything in my life. There is something about you that reaches inside and won’t let go.”

  It’s the exact words I’ve thought about him. No matter what, I can’t seem to turn away. And I’m exhausted keeping up the façade that I want to. I swallow hard. “In the restaurant, would you have really let me go?”

  His hands slide around my waist. “No.”

  He spreads my knees and lifts me, pulling me on top of him. My dress slides up to rest high on my thighs, and I wrap my arms around his neck.

  “But, I’ll confess, it was easy to make the offer, because I knew you couldn’t leave.” Hands gripping my hips, he tugs me forward so I rock against his erection.

  I bite back a moan at the friction.

  I’m instantly hot, all his teasing at the restaurant rushing back. I admit something to him I’ve barely been able to admit to myself, and my voice cracks. “I’ve never felt like this before.”

  His big hand slides along my neck. “I know, sugar, me either.”

  My fingers tangle in his hair, and I press closer, whispering my secret in a trembling voice, “I need you. I’m afraid of how much I need you.”

  His free hand moves up my thigh and settles on my hip. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  I rock into him, circling my hips so I rub against his cock. He squeezes my ass, hard, and it ignites me to instant, greedy lust. Then he tugs at my dress and says in that voice that drives me mad, “Lift your arms.”

  I do and he peels my dress over my head and it falls to the floor. A second later my bra follows. His gaze locks on mine as his fingers hook into the sides of my lace-trimmed panties.

  Anticipation roars through me as he pulls at the strings at my hips, his eyes never leaving mine.

  The fabric snaps.

  That special brand of electricity we generate fills the room. I lick my dry lips, unable to look away.

  With one hand still on my hip, he gathers the bit of silk and lace, then tugs, so the material slides over my ass, before dragging over my clit. I shudder, clenching my jaw at the torture. He tosses the scrap of cloth on the floor.

  I’m naked, except for my boots and thigh-high tights, while he’s completely clothed.

  Maybe a normal girl would be embarrassed by the vulnerability, but I’m not normal, and sitting here like this has me so aroused I might spontaneously combust.

  The vulnerability, the disparity, is part of the allure.

  He hisses out a breath, drinking me in. He rubs his thumbs over my nipples.

  I gasp as it shoots straight to my clit.

  “Fucking gorgeous.” His voice is a low guttural growl. He pulls me closer and his lips claim mine.

  And this kiss, it is a claiming. Pure, primal possession. His tongue sweeps in, demanding everything, and I don’t resist. No, I just surrender to the force of him, the chemistry, and to my own desire.

  Our breaths quickens as our mouths turn frantic. Hot and hungry. Unleashed with the passion that burns between us. His hands cover my breasts and he plucks at the sensitive buds. Needy desperation takes over, clouding any and all thought. My hips circle, riding his cock through his pants, wanting closer.

  He pulls away, his lips gliding down my neck, pausing to scrape teeth against my pounding pulse, before he continues on, still lower, until his mouth covers my nipple and he licks.

  There is no buildup. It’s just instant overload.

  “Michael.” I grip his hair, pulling him close as he tugs at my swollen flesh. It’s been so long since I’ve been touched like this, and only now do I realize how desperate I�
��ve been for it. How much I’ve missed it.

  His lips move to my other breast, treating it with a type of gentle brutality, as his fingers move over my exposed wet nipple.

  Blood pounds in my ears in rhythm to my demanding desire, and I wantonly start grinding against his erection.

  He lifts his head and puts his hands on the curve of my hips, stilling me.

  I blink at him, dazed and uncomprehending.

  His hazel eyes have that look now, filled with power. He slowly unbuckles his belt and my fingers twitch, but he shakes his head and I swallow hard. Knowing something is about to happen, that he won’t allow a simple bout of sex.

  No, he’ll make me work for it, because it’s what we both need.

  He unzips his pants and nods at my arms. “Put your hands on my knees.”

  With that voice, I don’t even think about disobeying.

  The action thrusts my breasts out, and he palms my nipples. “I want to watch you come.”

  His hands drop from my breasts, and he shifts his body, just enough to pull his pants and underwear down, and for his cock to spring free.

  My mouth actually waters as the sight of him. Hard, long and thick. All I can think about is how much I want it. I can practically feel it filling my throat, hot and slick.

  He growls, grabs a fist full of my hair, and jerks my head up, covering my lips with his. His tongue enters my mouth with a demanding thrust, but as soon as I move my arms, he pulls away. “Don’t move.”

  I freeze, my breath fast, my excitement building to an impossible pitch. He grips my hips and yanks me forward, shifting until his cock rubs my clit.

  I tremble, gasping as pleasure races along my skin.

  He reaches between us, spreads me wide, and I think he’s finally going to fuck me but instead he positions his shaft flush against my swollen, wet center.

  I look at him, expectantly.

  “Make yourself come, just like this. I don’t want your hands to move.” That control he’s been containing all night is now thick in his voice, thrilling me.

  He grips the back of the chair, lacing his fingers along the legs, making it clear he’ll offer no assistance. His expression is hard, the dominance that rolls off him in waves, amplified.