Crave

by Jennifer Dawson

  “How?”

  His tongue flicks over my lower lip. “They’re going to question you, right? Regardless?”

  I nod, not understanding where he’s going with this.

  His fingers slip over my throat and I can’t help the shiver that speeds through me. “Well, I don’t want you alone when they do. Period. End of story.”

  Stunned, I blink up at him. I’d forgotten what it was like to be protected. All my anger drains away, replaced by a new kind of warmth. “Oh.”

  “You’re not alone anymore,” he whispers then kisses me.

  Lashes drifting closed, I melt into him, forgetting the people milling around us.

  Because, for the first time in eighteen months, I actually believe it.

  After the pleasantries were over, and we’re settled into a booth at Joe’s Stone Crab, the four of us stare at each other in the loud restaurant. My sister’s gaze sharp and speculative on Michael and me.

  Derrick clears his throat and offers his trademark smile. “So, Michael, how did you and Layla meet?”

  Anxiety zings through my blood, making my heart beat fast. I tense, my mind an utter blank for a proper answer. All that comes to me is the truth. Under the table, Michael puts a hand on my leg, his fingers gently squeezing my thigh in reassurance.

  In direct contrast to my bundle of nerves, he is completely relaxed. Dressed in a charcoal V-necked sweater, with a white button-down underneath, that he’s rolled up to his elbows, exposing his powerful forearms. I focus on the way his muscles flex under his skin. Remembering how those arms held me down while he’d brought me to orgasm three times before we’d left for dinner. Powerful, forceful orgasms that ripped through me and left me exhausted. A relaxation technique, he’d told me later with a grin. It worked, for at least the cab ride over.

  “We met at O’Malley’s a couple of weeks ago,” he says, the lie effortless on his tongue.

  I instantly ease, catching my sigh of relief just in time. Of course, he wouldn’t out me. Or himself. The fear that he would is irrational, but in my experience, fear has no rationality.

  Derrick nods and takes a sip of his Scotch, ordered neat. His drink of choice. He darts a glance in my direction. “I’m surprised. Layla hasn’t been very social lately.”

  A subtle ploy to see how much Michael knows of my past. The tragedy nobody talks about, but hovers over us like a dark cloud.

  Michael shrugs, and his fingers stroke over my thigh, just below the hem of my tights. Another distraction technique. He offers a charming smile. “It wasn’t an easy chase.”

  My sister seems to come to life at that moment, taking her attention off me and putting it onto Michael. “What do you do for a living?”

  Michael turns his direct gaze on her and says in a steady voice, “I’m a homicide detective.”

  April gasps, her hand fingering her necklace. “I see.”

  I know what she’s thinking. How tangled and twisted it is that Michael’s profession is so closely tied to John’s death. A violent, dangerous profession. The kind I should stay away from. The kind that should make me run, but that would mean running from him, and that’s no longer an option. I can’t explain to my sister his real draw or make her understand why that makes his profession a moot point.

  I can see her sizing Michael up, trying to figure out how this man across from her would possibly hold an attraction to me. I get it. And it’s not that Michael isn’t a gorgeous man, because he absolutely is. He’s tall and broad, with a face carved from stone. He has a powerful, magnetic presence that, after spending the day with him in public, isn’t lost on the female population. It isn’t his looks.

  It’s that subtle, indefinable sense that there is something different about him.

  On top of that, he’s nothing like John, who might as well be Michael’s polar opposite. John was cute, affable, and charming. Everyone loved him and with his relaxed, easy manner he could put anyone at ease. Nobody would have ever guessed how he was in bed. The things he liked to do with me. But there is no way to explain to April that beyond the surface, John and Michael share one thing that is like crack to a girl like me.

  Derrick tilts his head to the side. “Interesting. How did you get into that?”

  Michael tells him the story of his Ivy League school and how he fell into law enforcement. And, in turn, asks Derrick about his job. The two men fill the awkward silence between my sister and me. Of course, the conversation turns to football and they are off, engaged in an in-depth conversation about this year’s Bear’s team.

  The universal conversation filler between men who are strangers.

  In the meantime, April and I face off across the table. My shoulders tense, my teeth grit, and I fiddle with the napkin on my lap. I have no idea what to say to her.

  This beautiful sister of mine, whom, after we got through being teenage girls together, used to be one of my best friends. There never used to be silence between us. We used to spend endless days together.

  Once upon a time, she helped me pick out the items on my registry, after John begged off when I was unable to stop agonizing over what china pattern to pick. Looking back, I can’t believe how silly I was, worrying over plates that would have most likely sat in a cabinet, rarely used.

  My sister and I would make a day of it, and she’d laugh, good-natured and understanding, as I suffered terrible indecision over which placemats to choose. Back then what placemats would tie my table together was my biggest worry. Somehow, it never occurred to me during those endless hours that I could just go out and buy a second set once I grew bored. But April and I had loved every minute of our days together. We giggled and laughed our way down Michigan Avenue, stopping for tea, and then drinks as we talked houses and babies. Like regular people.

  At the memory of us combing the streets of Chicago, it crystalizes, the problem between us. The gap that divides us so completely. She’s still that regular girl.

  I’m not. And I probably never will be again.

  I resent her for asking it of me. Of wanting it. But I’m jealous too. I can feel it, twisting and turning, just below the surface.

  She’s the lucky Hunter girl.

  Everything she’s wanted has come true. She got it all. The great husband, the adorable kids, the dog, and the McMansion in the suburbs. She gets to spend her days going to the gym, attending playgroups for the twins, and planning her next tablescape with her perfectly coordinated placemats.

  She has all the things I believed I was entitled to. That I took for granted.

  And I hate her for it.

  Like most of life’s revelations, my understanding doesn’t float over me like a gentle breeze, but more smacks me in the face, sucking the air right out of my lungs. This whole time, I’ve been blaming her for the distance in our relationship, but really it’s me. I’m to blame.

  Through no fault of her own, I’m furious at her. An angry, ugly fury that she got everything I wanted. That she’s living the blessed life that’s supposed to be mine.

  I swallow the lump in my throat, and blink back the sudden tightness in my throat. And here I thought today would be the first day I didn’t cry.

  Don’t count your chickens before they hatch, Layla, as my mom used to say.

  I had. I’d made that mistake with John. Thinking we were on the path to that perfect life. I’d been so cocky and sure, and I paid the price for my arrogance.

  The thoughts become tangled in my head.

  The what-ifs that all lead back to me. So many of my choices and decisions that led us to that dark alley. There are things I can’t even think of, and hundreds of inconsequential things too. Like the cancelation of another wedding that had opened up our dream venue. What difference did a week make? But if we’d gotten married just a week earlier, like we’d originally planned, we’d have been on our honeymoon, and he’d be sitting here with me right now.

  The notion disorientates me, because Michael has been consuming my thoughts and body all day.
/>   I don’t know which I want more. John or Michael. It’s a terrifying thought.

  And I feel it. The first swells of a panic attack. My heartbeat starts to pound furiously against my ribs. My head swims as an icy sweat breaks across my temples and down my back.

  There’s a shift in the air, sudden and swift, like a summer storm blowing in from out of nowhere.

  Michael breaks off mid-sentence, and pins me with his stare. His hand slips from my leg to curl around my neck. “Layla.”

  I clutch my napkin in my clammy hands.

  April leans against the table. “Layla. What’s wrong?”

  Michael’s strong fingers squeeze my neck. “Look at me.”

  Like I’m drowning, I do, clinging to his steady gaze like a lifeline.

  “You’re okay. You’re safe.” His voice soft and sure. So steady and calm. “Breathe, girl.”

  It’s an order. I suck air into my lungs as the adrenaline speeds through my blood.

  “Slower.” His thumb strokes over my rapid pulse. “Nice and easy.”

  I do as I’m told, slowly breathing in and out, my gaze locked on his. I don’t know how long we stay like that, the table silent, but the panic finally recedes to a low-level hum.

  When I’m once again centered in reality, I bite my lip. “I’m sorry.”

  He shakes his head. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry about, sugar.”

  I’m embarrassed, and I turn to find April and Derrick gaping at us with wide, stunned eyes. April is clutching her husband’s hand, her knuckles white and I know I’ve scared her.

  “I’m sorry, I’m okay. I just…” I trail off, unsure what to say.

  April’s mouth curves into a deep frown. “Maybe we should go to the bathroom.”

  Before I can speak, Michael says, “No. She stays here.”

  I stare down at my lap; unable to process that he’s being so overt. John wasn’t like that, anytime we were with friends and family our power dynamic was very undercover.

  “She’s my sister,” April says, the words a hiss of indignation.

  “Honey.” Derrick pats her shoulder.

  Expression set in a stubborn line she shrugs him off. “No. Something is wrong with her. I don’t know this guy, and we’re her family. Not him.”

  The adrenaline exiting my system has left behind an undercurrent of nausea. I take a sip of my water, the condensation on the glass cold on my overheated palm. I manage to mutter, “I’m okay.”

  Michael shakes his head. “I apologize if this is a shock to you, I have two sisters I’m fiercely protective of, so I understand. I can only promise you I have Layla’s best interest at heart. But, I’m afraid I can’t let her out of my sight until I’m assured her panic attack is under control.”

  April’s expression turns hostile, and she opens her mouth, but then her face twists into concern. Her gaze flies to me. “You have panic attacks?”

  Oh no. She knows now. I’ve been hiding them all this time and now she knows. Soon my whole family will know. I will be forced to deal with all their questions. I need to make light of it, and I shrug. “Sometimes.”

  Michael gives me a sharp, narrowed glance. “You never told your family?”

  I shake my head.

  “Oh Layla,” April says, her eyes filling with tears.

  Derrick puts an arm around his wife’s shoulders and hands her a napkin.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, ashamed I’ve once again managed to ruin everything.

  Michael sighs, and turns to my sister and brother-in-law. “After what’s happened to her, panic attacks are common, hopefully they will get better over time, but there’s a possibility she’ll have to deal with them long term.”

  April’s brows rise up her forehead as she delicately wipes under her lashes. “You know?”

  Michael nods. “I know.”

  There it is. The truth. My hidden panic attacks. The lies I tell my family. The truth of who Michael is, and what he means to me. It’s all out there in the open for them to see.

  And I feel…relieved. Blessed liberation.

  There, under the last remnants of the panic attack, all my worries and fears, another broken piece of me falls into place, and heals.

  “You’re staying with me.” It wasn’t a request. It was a statement.

  We’re in front of my building, and Michael’s parked in a loading zone. I look out the car window and stare at the front door leading to my condo.

  It’s been a strange evening. After the panic attack, the night had calmed down. Derrick and April’s shock had worn off. My sister stopped watching me with wary, concerned eyes. I relaxed. Eventually, the awkwardness ebbed as the men in our lives kept the conversation light and engaging.

  To my surprise, we’d gone on to have a good time. We ate too much food, drank too much wine, talked a little too loud.

  And I laughed. Real, belly-clenching laughter that made my cheeks ache.

  I pretended not to notice the flickers of relief on April’s expression, and she pretended not to notice that it had been far too long since she’d heard me sound happy.

  As the evening wore on, I watched my sister and brother-in-law fall hook, line and sinker for Michael. All his brains and charm. His easy confidence. The way he handled me. By the time dinner had ended, Derrick and April looked at him the same way I did, as my salvation.

  It makes me nervous. Wary. If I let him, Michael would slip effortlessly into my life. Staying with him again only makes it that much easier.

  I’m at a crossroads. Or, at least, that’s the way it feels.

  Even without looking at him I can feel his heat. His power. And I want it so damn bad I can taste it.

  I swallow hard. “I don’t think I should.”

  A beat of silence. “Why’s that?”

  Because I want to, far, far too much.

  If it was just for the sex, that would be one thing, but it’s not. It’s what I want after my insatiable craving for him is satiated that frightens me. I want to curl up on his couch. I want to pet Belle while her head rests in my lap. To laugh at bad TV, his arms wrapped around me. To drink coffee in the morning, the sun streaming through the windows as we talk.

  I want the little things. The normal, couple things I’ve only done with John.

  But I can’t say this. Instead, I lie. “I have a headache.”

  He doesn’t speak for a moment, and the air grows thick. “Let’s go upstairs.”

  It’s not a concession, but I take it. It seems the safe choice. I nod my agreement and we climb out of the car.

  On the sidewalk, he takes my hand, and I don’t pull away.

  He leads me inside and while we’re waiting for the elevator he looks down at me. “You survived dinner.”

  “I did.” My fingers clench on his. I don’t want to let go.

  “And I was right, about being there, wasn’t I?”

  My brows knit, unsure of where he’s going with this. I shrug. Of course, he was right. It was better.

  The elevator chimes.

  His grip tightens. “Answer me.”

  My throat tightens even as my belly heats at the command. I bite the inside of my cheek. “It was.”

  I can’t lie. Not about this.

  “I’m right about this too.” The doors open.

  I press my lips together. I have no argument as we enter the car in silence.

  The second the elevator closes he’s on me, pushing me against the wall, his mouth on mine.

  His kiss. It’s like nothing I can even describe. Hot. Consuming. It obliterates all my worries and fears. It makes me forget everything and anyone but him.

  It’s all I want. He’s all I want. His control. Possession.

  His tongue sweeps along my lips, demanding entrance.

  I don’t resist.

  He twines his fingers with mine, then raises our clasped hands above my head, his large frame immobilizing me.

  Yes, yes, yes. I bow my back, arching to meet him.

 
; He kicks my feet apart, his powerful thigh slipping between my legs, before he tears his mouth away. “You don’t have a headache.”

  He presses against my clit, rotating his leg to increase the pressure.

  I moan at the friction. I need his mouth on me. Need to be swept away. I tilt my head up, offering my lips, but he doesn’t give in.

  He pushes me harder against the panels. “Tell me.”

  The dominance. The force, it only increases my need. I shake my head. “No, I don’t.”

  “You want to stay with me, don’t you?” The cadence in his voice a warning not to evade.

  “I can’t.” It is the truth. Just not the explanation.

  “That’s not the question I asked, Layla.”

  I stare at him, stubbornly unable to admit how much I want to sleep in his bed. My reaction is why he’s so dangerous. Why I must say no. I take a deep breath, desperately trying to figure a way out of this. My mind so filled with the truth, evasion escapes me.

  And then, the elevator saves me.

  It shudders to a stop and Michael pulls away as the door slides open. One of my elderly neighbors gets on. Sure my mouth is as swollen and wet as it feels, I flush from embarrassment. My hair is most likely a mess. My eyes glassy. I say primly, “Good evening, Mrs. Klosen.”

  Her eyes widen at the sight of Michael before shifting back to me and going as big as saucers. “Hello, dear. How are you?”

  Michael works his way under the hem of my sweater, and strokes across the base of my spine. I shiver at the contact. “Good.” I clear the sex from my throat. “Where are you off to so late?”

  “Shirley Hanson in 15B is having a midnight tarot party.” She casts a sidelong glance at Michael; the question as clear as day. She was one of the first neighbors John and I met when we moved in. She welcomed us with homemade cherry pie that John ate off me later that night.

  “Sounds fun.” I squeak as Michael’s hand slips down my skirt and his fingers brush the crease of my ass.

  Something flickers across the older woman’s face and then she turns pointedly to Michael. “I’m Iris Klosen.”

  Smooth as silk, he holds out his free hand. “Detective Michael Banks.”