Craving You, page 1
Craving You
Calista Fox
Contents
About this Book
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
About the Author
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
Craving You
Copyright © 2020 by Calista Fox
Cover Art Copyright © 2020 by CFEN
NYLA Publishing
121 W. 27th St., Suite 1201
New York, NY 10001
About this Book
By Calista Fox
Fake dating isn’t his thing. But this particular hookup is too hot for Tague Mason to resist: A stunning redhead name L.L. Branson, who is the direct opposite of everything his high-society family expects him to bring to a prestigious corporate affair—and everything that makes him burn. For one woman, only.
L.L. knows she’s not Tague’s type, given his prestigious family name—and her secret grand ambition of turning the adult toys she designs for a discriminating clientele into a global operation. But one touch…one kiss…and the smoldering begins.
Their cravings for each other intensify with every searing encounter. But Tague has plans of his own…and they don’t involve falling in love.
1
“Is setting me up on a blind date your idea of a morbid joke?” Tague Mason asked as his wide strides carried him swiftly along Manhattan’s Sixth Avenue. He stealthily wove through the early morning foot traffic as his friend, Chip McAllister, dodged oncoming pedestrians in an attempt to keep pace. “Or is this L.L. Branson you want me to meet related or befriended to an out-of-your-league prospect and you can’t seal the deal without a wingman?”
“Please,” Chip scoffed, his breath a white puff of frigid December air. “I don’t need your help to score babes.” He bristled a moment, then conceded, “Well, yeah, okay. Sometimes I do.”
Tague gave a half-snort. “If only you’d put this much effort into catapulting yourself from associate to partner before you’re thirty.”
“I’m not on the overachiever’s accelerated timeframe. I’ll leave that to you.”
Both men worked at the premier law firm Mason, Hoffman & Stein, founded by Tague’s late grandfather, Alexander Mason. Tague was a high-powered, international corporate attorney who’d spent the majority of the past two years on a copyright infringement case for a large media conglomerate in Tokyo.
Chip was primarily a divorce lawyer, but consulted on various other cases when necessary.
They were both twenty-eight. Both Harvard Law graduates. Both from wealthy families.
That was where the similarities ended.
Chip McAllister was five-ten with light-brown hair, hazel eyes and an every-girl’s-best-friend air that caused women to flock to him in droves. Unfortunately, the vast majority of those women didn’t end up fucking him, but cried on his shoulder about some other guy—ex-lover or wanna-be lover.
He never seemed to mind—too much. Chip was good-natured and always lent a sympathetic ear.
Tague was still single as well, but that was currently more by his design than anything else. His ambition and laser-focus on his goals, combined with his six-foot-four-inch stature, powerful build, dark eyes and even darker hair, had him exuding a raw intensity that typically made women take two steps back and regard him from a safer distance.
Sparking curiosity was never a problem for Tague. Batted eyelashes, lingering gazes, suggestive smiles... He was all too familiar with every flirtatious gesture and feminine wiles employed by womankind. But even the most brazen of those who approached him oftentimes found him a bit too potent. Too commanding. Too in charge of every facet of his life, including a chance meeting, a one-night stand, a two-week sexfest. Whatever.
Even as Tague made his way toward his office building—on the opposite side of the street, because Chip was adamant about the coffee-shop stop before they headed into the firm—he knew exactly how this spur-of-the-moment arrangement his colleague had set up would go.
The woman would be attractive. Very much so. She’d be intelligent, and Tague would appreciate that. But she wouldn’t comprehend the fact that his work meant everything to him. Or that he was meticulous, cautious even, when it came to his personal acquaintances because he’d been burned before.
Badly.
“You realize I’m only in Manhattan for a brief period,” he told Chip.
“A social engagement or two while you’re here won’t kill you. In fact, it might help to improve that surly disposition. All work and no dating makes Tague a very grumpy boy.”
“Grumpy scares the shit out of opposing counsel,” he said with the same hard stare that had caused many a lawyer to forget their own defense.
“Give me a chance here,” Chip urged. “I think you’ll be amenable to my selection.”
Tague doubted it.
Just like the ebb and flow of the bustling city, the steam rising from manholes, the screeching of brakes and the endless honking of car horns, every nuance of his romantic life held the potential to be predictable because he was a Mason. Scripted, if anyone other than Tague had a say in the matter. Unfortunately, two extremely prominent people once had. His parents.
When it came to Harper and June Mason, predictable meant Tague “ought” to date women within the family’s high-society circle who had no grander aspiration than trophy wife. Polite ladies who lunch. Genteel sorts who spoke softly, agreed with anything he said and didn’t make waves in private. And especially not in public.
Bor-ing.
Tague wanted siren-red vivaciousness. Not everything-should-be-beige pretentiousness.
And he’d learned the hard way that the only one who could control his destiny was himself. To allow someone else even the slightest bit of influence over him... That could prove—had proved—detrimental.
Never. Again.
Even nine years after his ill-fated relationship with Renee Redmond, the only woman Tague had ever fallen in love with, thoughts of the massive destruction his parents tended to incite with the force of an F5 hurricane did nothing more than evoke the desire to punch something. Or someone.
Chip was damn lucky Tague cut him slack for hijacking his morning to make this spontaneous introduction. Were it anyone else butting into his life in this manner, they likely would have been left sprawled on the floor as Tague stalked off.
“For the record,” he told his friend, “I do date.”
“Sure you do.” Chip gave a semi-eyeball roll. Again, something only he could get away with, because they’d been through thick and thin during their years at Harvard. “You’ve been overseas all this time.”
“I can ask a woman out when I’m in Tokyo. I am fluent in Japanese,” Tague retorted.
“And what do you do on these imaginary dates?” his colleague pressed, undeterred—and, apparently, unconvinced.
“I happen to like sushi.”
“You happen to like solitude. A bit too much. That’s why I’m helping you out this time.”
Chip gestured for him to veer to the left, into the crowded coffee house.
Tague jerked open the glass-and-metal door. The truth was, he’d only gone out for cocktails a handful of times over the past couple of years. No need to add fuel to Chip’s fire, though, so he didn’t mention his near non-existent dating activities. Tague was also still smarting over his split from Renee—a topic he avoided entirely with his friend.
Again evading thoughts of her, he asked, “What, exactly, is the purpose of this impromptu meet-and-greet?”
Granted, he was giving his best friend the benefit of the doubt, but shit. Tague knew there was no point in wasting fifteen minutes that could be better spent further prepping for a debrief he was scheduled to present this morning.
“The firm party Friday night,” Chip said. Reminded him, really. “Unless you pick up a date in five days, you’ll be the only junior partner there sans arm candy.”
Tague shot him a dour look. “That is not a term I’ve ever heard you use. You don’t subscribe to the arm candy theory as a means to spring-boarding one’s career any more than I do. My success in Tokyo speaks for itself.”
“There’s an image that’s necessary for the promotion to equity-partner you’re vying for—an
“To hell with the image,” Tague agitatedly muttered. “Look, this is ridiculous. Totally unwarranted. I don’t care if I’m the only one at the party without a date. I don’t need a date. I’ve put my name on the map by laying the groundwork to establish operations in Japan. I’ll do it time and time again, with or without a gorgeous wo—”
“Hi.”
Said gorgeous woman suddenly appeared before him, flashing a vibrant smile that revealed perfectly straight, pearly white teeth and a seductive dimple in her left cheek that rendered Tague speechless.
Something that never happened.
2
“You’re Tague Mason,” she said with a hint of awe in her sultry voice. “I’ve seen your name and photo in the Wall Street Journal. I have to say, for such a prestigious newspaper, they really ought to fire their photographer. I mean, honestly. They did not do you justice with that stilted studio mug shot. Maybe you should sue them.”
Her half-assed smirk intrigued Tague.
“You must be L.L. Branson,” he said.
“In the flesh.”
Tague eyed her from head to toe and back up, admiring the confident way she carried herself, and guessing her to be about five-eight without the four inches of heel she sported.
Two smoky-grey, wispy scarves encircled her neck once. The ends dangled along the front of a wraparound, slightly flared at the hips leather coat that was secured firmly at her narrow waist with a tied sash. She wore a tight, black miniskirt…barely peeking out from beneath the short hem of the jacket.
Fishnet stockings covered her legs—sleek and toned as best as he could tell—providing only a hint of titillation, because they disappeared all too soon behind thigh-high leather boots. Which were damn sexy, despite how much of those long legs they concealed.
His cock twitched.
“Wow, I’ve never been so efficiently undressed,” she quipped as Tague continued to take her in.
“Trust me, you’ve left plenty to the imagination.” Unfortunately for him.
L.L. wore all black, including the slightly drooping-in-the-back knitted beanie cap that contained what seemed to be an abundance of messy hair, if the wavy, cinnamon-colored strands loose about her face and shoulders were any indication. Her provocative, yet whimsical style both perplexed Tague…and ignited his interest.
She was the farthest thing from the typical Mason, Hoffman & Stein dinner-party type. Those women were neatly kempt, attired in designer fashions with salon hair and Elizabeth Arden makeup. Reasons one through four why Tague had no qualms about attending this function alone. He had no desire to date a replica of his mother.
Yet, given Chip’s manifesto on being an equity-partner carbon copy, that was pretty much what Tague had anticipated being set up with this morning.
Not a woman with aviator sunglasses and a light sheen of gloss on her mouth, which actually did make her deep-rose lips damn tempting.
And her scent... The alluring aroma—slightly musky, mostly dark and compelling—wafted under his nose so that he didn’t even recall they were in a coffee shop.
She most definitely was not a shoo-in for firm-extravaganza superficial decoration. So maybe his friend was actually trying to do him a favor.
“Clearly, no formal introductions are necessary,” Chip cheerfully announced, reminding Tague of his presence and giving a knowing smile, apparently pleased with his matchmaking skills. “So, I’ll leave you kids to it.” He backed out the door.
Had L.L. turned out to be the flawlessly coiffed and polished mannequin Tague was expected to bring to the party, he likely would have made an excuse to slip out with Chip.
Instead, he suggested, “Why don’t we stand in line?”
She joined the impatient throng at its endpoint and shocked him further by cutting right to the chase. “Chip told me you have some glammed-to-the-max dinner happening at the end of the week and you haven’t had time to ask anyone to accompany you.”
“I’ve been in Japan the past two years. Haven’t put much thought into a company event.”
“Swank soiree in the Empire Room at the Waldorf, I hear.” She whistled under her breath. “Chip said it’s a Welcome Back, Prodigal Son party, firm anniversary and annual bonus celebration all rolled into one. Big doings.” She wagged her brows.
“Very big.”
“And you’re currently having a mental freak-out that Chip wants to pair you with a chick in Kohl’s aviator sunglasses and fishnet stockings.”
He gave her a wry look. Though her candor was certainly refreshing.
“Don’t worry,” she assured him in a playful voice. “The lacy thong is Dolce & Gabbana.”
His teeth ground as he fought a grin. She hadn’t even kept her tone low, despite the gaggle of people surrounding them, jonesing for their first shot of caffeine before eight o’clock. Several patrons slid curious glances her way.
“The boots are Jimmy Choo,” she added, not seeming to notice the attention she drew. “Sure, the mini is Target and the beanie and gloves are Charlene Branson, aka, Mom. But I guarantee I have enough Prada, de la Renta and Herrera—oh, my!—in my closet to be appropriately attired if you’d like me to pretend to be your lady du jour and fawn all over you in front of your colleagues.”
Tague found her amusing. Riveting, even, with her sassy smile and that sinful dimple that made his finger itch to trail along her silky-looking skin and dip into it, stroking languidly. He wondered if he could coax it to deepen. Or even bring out a more stubborn one in the other cheek with a wicked joke or some evocative repartee.
But he played it cool. “You think you’ve got me pegged?”
“Definitely one to care about what label is stitched inside my clothing.” Her voice was pure honey, rich and oozing sensuality. Deeply arousing. “But that’s okay. I’ve met your kind before. I can handle it.”
“Right,” he scoffed. She had no idea who she was dealing with—especially when it came to his innate aggressiveness and the fact that the slight glimpses he’d gotten of her thus far were only the tip of the iceberg. He had no doubt there was enough of L.L. that he wasn’t seeing to ensure he’d make a move on her while he was in town—and discover all she was hiding from him. Whether he ended up taking her to the dinner or not.
His gaze raked over her again. Adrenaline pumped through his veins. She got him going with lightning-quick speed.
A bit astonishing, but indisputable.
Still keeping his cool, he asked, “And what do you get out of this blind date?”
They approached the counter and L.L. causally said, “Coffee.”
Tague chuckled. “Fine. Order.”
To the nineteen- or twenty-year-old male barista who blatantly ogled her, obviously finding her attractive as L.L. propped a hip against the laminated top and gave him what had to be her signature suck ‘em in smile, she said, “The usual, Tripp.”
The kid nodded, not taking his gaze from her. “That’d be an iced, Venti, half-caf, Ristretto, four-pump, sugar-free...” His voice trailed off. His face screwed into a frustrated expression. He sighed dejectedly. Offered an apologetic look.
“Cinnamon, dolce soy skinny latte,” she happily finished for him.
“Right,” Tripp said, all but tripping over himself. Apropos. “I don’t know why I can’t remember that.”
“No worries.” L.L. continued to beam brightly, as though she didn’t have a care in the world.
Tague wasn’t the only one transfixed. The barista had no better luck escaping the woman’s natural exuberance than Tague. Didn’t take his eyes off her, in fact.
