CRAZY FOR YOU: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (Material Girls Book 3)

by Sophia Henry

  Zayne’s being kind and understanding, but he probably thinks I’m a complete idiot. After all the kind things he’s said about me, this is probably such a disappointment. And disappointing another person I love and having them toss me away is something I can’t handle.

  It’s exactly what Zayne was talking about—the darkness and secrets hidden in my heart—are still blocking me from really having a connection.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Zayne

  DETROIT

  The plane hasn’t even landed yet, and I feel the wound ripping open. Just the thought of being back in Detroit has awakened anxiety I’ve been able to hold at bay for years. Despite falling in love with the city when I lived there, I never imagined going back. There are too many demons that trigger my depression there.

  The stages of grief are a cycle, but I thought I’d go through the cycle once and be done. But it doesn’t work that way. Grief is ongoing. Every time I’m in a situation that reminds me of who I was—or what I had—I go through the stages again—maybe not all of them, but enough to be brought back to the moment and relive the experience without ever confronting it.

  Amber booked us at the Foundation Hotel downtown, which is perfect because it’s only a few minutes away from the tattoo shop Emily will be at this week. But it’s also close to the Ambassador Bridge, and that’s what’s making my chest sting with sharp pains.

  She must notice a change in my demeanor because when the pilot announces our descent, Emily clasps my hand. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m good.” I bring her hand to my lips and kiss it, hoping some of the universal energy from the mandala inked on her skin transfers into me. It reminds me that I need to find a yoga studio stat.

  “You wanna go to a yoga class with me?” I ask. “Practicing in the hotel room isn’t cutting it with all this travel. I need the vibe of a class to ground me again.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Awesome,” I say before taking a deep breath, trying to settle in my racing heart. “We can drop our stuff off at the hotel, fuck, and find a studio.”

  “What was that now?” Emily slaps my thigh.

  “You heard me.” I lean closer, dropping my voice and whispering, “I bet you’re already wet.”

  “Wanna check?” She asks.

  Checking won’t be hard since she’s wearing the ridiculous skirt that barely covered her ass that she had on the first time I met her at Ambassador’s headquarters. The intricate ink on her thighs has been on display the entire flight, which has had me hard for the last hour.

  I reach down, grab my coat from the floor, and drape it over her lap. Then, I lean over her, stopping when my face is inches from hers. “Kiss me,” I command.

  She obeys without hesitation, grabbing my face and pressing her lips against mine. I slide a finger into her pussy at the same time I slide my tongue inside her mouth. Both are warm and wet.

  “Fucking commando,” I say into her mouth. I have to back off to regain control. “What in the world are you doing to me?”

  “I want you to remember how wet I am for you, so the only thing you can think about all day long is fucking me.” She squeezes my finger, pulling me inside.

  “It’s all I’ve thought about since I met you,” I admit without thinking. Now that we’ve opened up to each other, I’m having trouble holding back. Especially as I’m sliding a second finger inside her and remembering how she took all five of them last night. “Fuck! You’re so wet.”

  She nods, taking her bottom lip in her teeth as her chest heaves. Fantasies of having her again flow through my head. I want to take that lip in my mouth. I want her mouth on my cock, spitting on it to get it wet so she can jerk me off as she sucks me dry. I want her to ride my fucking face, so I can lick and nibble her clit until she comes hard and covers my chin with her juices.

  A flight attendant comes by with a trash bag, and I pull my hand out quickly like we just got caught doing something wrong. Emily gasps, but the attendant doesn’t give us a second look. I wish I would’ve thought of doing this at the beginning of the flight, instead of waiting until the end. I don’t have enough time to get Emily off right now.

  She laughs and presses her forehead against my shoulder. Neither of us can keep the smiles off our faces.

  I put my fingers in my mouth, making sure I lick every ounce of her. “You taste amazing.”

  Her eyes go wide, and I’m hoping she thinks it’s as sexy as I do. If not, I guess I’ll know for future reference.

  She must because she presses her lips on mine and slides her tongue into my mouth. It’s so fucking sexy that she wants to taste herself. I put my fingers between our mouths, so we’re kissing, licking, and tasting her together.

  “That’s so hot,” she says breathlessly pulling back.

  “Fuck, yeah it is,” I agree.

  She closes her eyes and leans back in her seat, her chest rising and falling in long, deep breaths. While she’s trying to regain control, I’m spinning out of it. It’s been years since I let someone in and it’s scary as fuck especially as we fly above the city that broke me.

  “I may need your strength this week,” I whisper.

  Emily turns to face me, grabbing my hands with both of hers and bringing them to her chest. She doesn’t hesitate or ask why. “Absolutely. I’m yours, Zayne. Take whatever you need.”

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

  I thought I was ready to be in Detroit again. Thought I could handle the memories. But as the plane descends, my stomach rolls and I start sweating.

  The old saying, “time heals all wounds” isn’t wholly true on its own. No matter how much time passes, wounds won’t heal until we face them, forgive, and allow ourselves to let go. Only then will we be free of the fear and the hold it has on us.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Emily

  I’ve never been to Detroit, nor do I know much about the city other than what I’ve seen in documentaries I’ve watched over the last few years, but all the images I’ve had in my head about what an old, industrial city in the North might be like are confirmed on our drive from the airport into downtown. It’s dirty and desolate in places. Many of the houses visible from the highway are boarded up or crumbling down.

  The difference between the neighborhoods on the outskirts of downtown Detroit and the center city area is night and day. It looks like a metropolis rose from the ashes of burned down buildings along the Detroit River and hasn’t spread west yet.

  The rebirth, rebuilding, becoming something from the ashes like a phoenix from the flames.

  Zayne pulls up in front of a beautiful building with four huge arches housing double brick red doors under each.

  “Welcome to the Detroit Foundation Hotel,” a dapper gentleman greets me as he opens my door. When I step out, he shuts the door behind me, then hurries to grab our suitcases out of the trunk.

  “Holy shit. This place is amazing.” I can’t take my eyes off the gorgeous architecture. To the right of the valet stand there’s another set of doors surrounded by beautiful, intricate stonework. On a ledge above, angels on each side hold up a stone badge with the letters DFD. “Fire Headquarters” is inscribed below the ledge, just above the black doors. “Was it really the fire headquarters?”

  “Yes, ma’am. It was used in various ways by the fire department from 1850 until 2013,” he says proudly.

  “That’s so fucking rad,” I whisper.

  Detroit is the exact opposite of Charlotte. Though I love the city where I was born and raised, the attitude about old buildings pisses me off. Instead of keeping the building, and the history and character of it, they tear it down and build something new. Not saying some structures aren’t renovated—but for the most part, developers love the wrecking ball.

  Detroit might not be as economically stable as Charlotte, but at least it has character. There’s evident pride in the city’s history and a motif of rebuilding something beautiful from the ashes.

 
I haven’t even been in the city for an hour, and I’m already jonesing to tattoo a phoenix on someone. Fingers crossed I get to do it. Maybe I’ll suggest it to a client who asks for a recommendation.

  “Good pick?” Zayne asks, palming the valet money and taking wheeling two suitcases into the hotel. I grab the bag I keep my equipment in and follow him.

  “Heck yes! Well done, Z.”

  A plush, red, Persian rug with gold details guides us from the door straight to the reception desk. Though the lobby is small, the walls are original yellow-beige subway tile, which is spectacular. Zayne leans against the mahogany reception desk, which reminds me of the antique buffet Daddy’s grandmother gave us before she passed away. I love all the interesting details that set this hotel apart from a chain brand.

  “Good afternoon! Welcome to the Detroit Foundation Hotel,” the attendant at the desk greets us with as much enthusiasm as the valet did.

  “Good afternoon,” Zayne responds. “We have a reservation for Ambassador Ink.”

  “Of course! It’s wonderful to have you with us, Mr. Vitale.” The man clicks at his keyboard. “I’ve got you in two rooms. Is that correct?”

  “That’s what we originally reserved, but our travel plans changed and we only need one room. Is the Commissioner’s Suite available?”

  We hadn’t talked about being in the same room, but the fact that Zayne wants me in his space all week makes my heart speed up. I know I’m smiling like a freaking maniac, but how could I not? It’s the final week of a phenomenal tour, and I’m staying in this gorgeous hotel with a wonderful man who understands how my head and heart work. I can’t stop thinking about how easy it was to let him in, and how hard it’s going to be when we have to part ways.

  The man leans in and smiles at Zayne as if letting him in on a secret. “The Commissioner’s Suite is already one of your rooms. Would you like me to cancel the other one?”

  “Perfect! Yes, please cancel the second room. Thanks.” Zayne turns to me as the man works on his computer. “This place is phenomenal isn’t it?”

  “Yes! I can’t wait to see the rest. I feel like there’ll so many details to discover.”

  “Totally agree. We’ll have to do some exploring later.”

  While the front desk attendant gives him the information we need to check in, I peer into the next room. It’s a huge bar area. I’m so excited about how fantastic this hotel is. It’s funny because this is the city that everyone told me would be an absolute shithole, yet I find myself surprisingly pulled to it.

  “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  “No, I’m good,” Zayne says. Then he turns around as if remembering something and says, “Can we walk to Almost Coney from here?”

  “Let me check for you, sir.” He types something into his computer, scrutinizes the page, then looks up at Zayne. “It’s a pretty far walk, but it’s only about ten minutes by cab. You can also take the Q Line if you’d like. It’s only a few blocks away from the Woodward and Erskine stop.”

  “Thanks,” he says. Then turns to me and asks, “Ready?”

  “Absolutely!” I say, spinning to follow him to our room.

  When Zayne unlocks the door to the Commissioner’s Suite, I’m absolutely blown away.

  “Doesn’t this seem a bit excessive?” I ask, looking around the grand room which got its name because it was the fire commissioner’s office at one time. “There’s only two of us.”

  “True, but I plan on fucking you on every surface,” he responds, grabbing my hips and pulling me into him. His erection presses against my stomach, causing a delicious sensation between my legs. “I needed a room with a lot of options.”

  “You’re so hot, Zayne. Everything you do. Everything you say.” I wrap my arms around his neck. “I appreciate every moment with you.”

  “Where should we start?”

  “I thought you were starving?” I ask, remembering how much he bitched the entire car ride.

  “I am.” He buries his face in my neck, grazing his teeth against my skin. “I’m absolutely starving.”

  My hands slide to his face, holding it level with mine. “Let’s go grab some food then.”

  “There’s only one thing I can think about eating right now,” Zayne whispers in my ear. He slides his fingers under my skirt and into me. There’s zero resistance because I’m always wet and ready for him.

  “I’m hungry for this,” he pumps his fingers in me faster and harder, hitting that sweet spot that made me scream out and have the best orgasm I ever had last night. “I need to taste you again. I can’t get enough.”

  He walks us backward until my butt presses against something hard. A glance over my shoulder reveals a huge, mahogany pool table. He removes his fingers, grabs my thighs and lifts me up.

  “Should we put a sheet down?” I say, eyeing the dark blue felt on all sides.

  Zayne lifts my shirt and presses his lips to my bare stomach. His fingers curl around the stretchy waistband of my leggings, and he slides them down my thighs. Lust swirls in his eyes, as he grabs my thighs and pulls my pussy to his mouth.

  A sharp, feral moan escapes my lips as his plunges his tongue inside. Then I feel his fingers, working in tune with his tongue.

  “Touch yourself,” he commands.

  Without hesitation, I reach down and rub my clit hard and fast, the way I get myself off. “Fuck, Zayne.” I writhe against his face, grinding down as he devours my pussy.

  “Don’t hold back. I want everyone in the lobby to hear you scream for me.”

  Evidently, the food Detroit is famous for is called a Coney Dog—a hot dog covered in chili, mustard, and onions. Sounds pretty gross, but Zayne tells me he heard about a new restaurant that’s supposed to make an amazing vegan version. I feel like if I’m in a city that’s famous for a food, I have to try it. It wasn’t the Russian Dining Room, but it was pretty good junk food. I could pass on having the Coney Dog again, but the cheese fries were ridiculous. I need to know where they get their vegan cheese sauce.

  After dinner, Zayne wraps an arm around me, holding me close as we walk to the Q Line train that will take us to the hotel. We pass a weathered sign in front of a huge, red brick house that reads: Tarot and Palm Readings with Madonna. I stop in my tracks.

  “Zayne,” I say, patting his arm. “Madonna does tarot readings! I knew she was from Michigan, but I didn’t realize she came back here between albums to do psychic shit.”

  “I wasn’t aware either.” Zayne rolls with my teasing.

  “We should do it. How many people can say they got reading from Madonna?”

  He grabs my waist, laughing as he pulls me to him. “You’re crazy.”

  “Crazy for you,” I tease, fluttering my eyelashes before leaning in and kissing his cheek.

  “Clever.”

  “Come on, babe! Have some fun. Get a tarot reading. Dance in the streets.” I take his hand, limit up and spin under it.

  “You’re really getting in the Motown spirit being here.” He smiles, his eyes sparkling. “Dancing may be your way to express yourself, but it’s not mine. If you could just open your heart to my awkwardness, maybe I could get into the groove.”

  I blink. Zayne just schooled me at my own Madonna song title game. “I think I love you.”

  He pulls me into his arms again. “You’ll fall deeper and deeper. It’s human nature.”

  “Shut your sexy mouth, or I will fuck you right here on the streets of Detroit,” I growl.

  “Your mouth shouldn’t make promises your pussy’s not gonna keep.” He dips his head and nips at my neck.

  “Not to be a snob,” I look around our surroundings. It’s a desolate area that looks kinda worn down and a bit shady. “I’m not sure I feel comfortable fucking out here.”

  He presses a finger over my lips and says, “I second that emotion.”

  “Overachiever,” I tease, smacking his ass.

  When we get back to the hotel, Zayne opens the door, gesturing fo
r me to enter first. I’m about to walk through when I hear “My Girl” blasting from somewhere. Checking over my shoulder, I see a beautifully kept 70’s or 80’s model car with the windows down and it’s hazards on. Instead of entering the building, I grab Zayne’s hand and tug him toward the street.

  “What’s up?” he asks, surprised. He lets go of the door and stumbles to the street with me.

  “I can’t be in Motown and hear Motown blasting without dancing to it in the streets,” I tell him. I know he’s not a dancer, and I don’t want him to be embarrassed, so I sway by myself on the sidewalk singing along. “I guess you'd say, what can make me feel this way?”

  Suddenly, Zayne grabs my hand, twirls me around, then pulls me into his arms singing, “My girl.” He holds our hands up and places his other one on my waist bringing me against his body. “Talkin’ ‘bout, my girl.”

  It’s so hard for me to contain my excitement that he’s dancing with me on the streets of Detroit for all to see. I wiggle around in his arms.

  “You danced with me!” I wrap my arms around him and squeeze.

  “I was an idiot to not dance with you the first time; I’m not stupid enough to make the same mistake again.”

  “Now, that’s a good man!” the valet calls out.

  Some people get annoyed when strangers slide into a conversation, but not me. I appreciate the kind of people who interject kindness and love into the world. It reminds me that it’s not as bad as news outlets, social media, and fear-mongers make us believe.

  “Do you really like Motown music or are you just feeling the Detroit vibe?” Zayne asks.

  “I love it! I play Motown sometimes when it’s my day to pick the music at the shop.

  “The Motown Museum isn’t far from here. We’ll carve out a time to go this week, cool?”