Constant Craving: Book Two, page 1
Constant Craving
Book Two
Tamara Lush
Edited by
Jami Nord
Copyright © 2018 by Tamara Lush
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Praise for Tamara Lush and Tell Me a Story
Constant Craving-Book Two
The Constant Craving Trilogy
1. Something I Can Never Have
2. The Great Below
3. Hesitation Marks
4. The Perfect Drug
5. Somewhat Damaged
6. Wish
7. Closer
8. Not My Fault
9. Moments of Pleasure
10. Skin to Skin
11. Like a Drug
12. Do You Really Want to Hurt Me
13. Stripped Bare
14. Kryptonite
15. Betrayal
16. Not Tonight
17. Blown Apart
18. Make it Perfect
19. No Future
20. All Wrong
21. Fathers and Sons
22. All of My Love
23. Secrets and Hope
About the Author
Praise for Tamara Lush and Tell Me a Story
“Lush writes naughty stuff, the kind of lusty chick lit that uses words such as “moist,’’ “lick’’ and even some c-words to rev up her growing fan base.”
- The New York Post
“A steamy romance and a captivating storyline makes it a perfect read for any 50 Shades lover.”
- Redbook Magazine
“Tamara has such an engaging voice, sexy, likable heroes and heroines and a wry sense of humor.”
- New York Times bestselling author Beth Kery
“Tamara Lush tells a story of undeniable lust and temptation.”
- Buzzfeed
“The steamy (and oh-so-passionate) romance of a lifetime blooms and we promise you won’t be able to put it down. By the time you finish this, you won’t even remember who Christian Grey is.”
- YourTango
“Florida heat, spontaneous readings of erotica, a book shop owner and a businessman—do we have your attention?”
- Working Mother Magazine
Constant Craving-Book Two
There are two sides to every story. Now it's time to crave from Rafael's point of view...
I’m one of the richest men in Miami. I’ve done everything right: worked hard, hustled, and used my charm and business savvy to transform my dreams into reality.
But one thing has eluded me, and that's love.
I’d loved Justine Lavoie, my college sweetheart, deep and hard. But when she left, my heart shattered.
I’m willing to give her another chance, because it's clear Justine hasn't gotten over me, either. We’re meant for each other, of that I’m certain.
But will my past prevent me from a happy-ever-after with my soul mate?
The Constant Craving Trilogy
Book One
Book Two
Book Three
1
Something I Can Never Have
I park the Tesla in front of the newspaper, and there she is. She’s standing over a man sprawled on the sidewalk. I can only see her from behind, and what an incredible view it is.
Her hair is long, pin-straight, and halfway down her back. She puts her hands on her hips, a move that accentuates her little waist. Her ass is still apple-shaped, and the tight, black skirt does nothing to hide it.
I’ve always loved her ass. Well, and everything else about her, too. I loved Justine from the moment I saw her in that class at the University of Miami. When I looked at her, I felt wild, tender, and overwhelmed. All at once.
Something I’ve never felt with anyone else, which is why her betrayal cut so deep.
And why I don’t love her anymore.
Still, my eyes skim her body possessively because that’s how I view her: as mine. By modern standards, my feelings are sexist, wrong, and inappropriate. I know this without question and would never admit it to anyone. Except I would have revealed it to Justine at one time, long ago. She probably would have scolded me, then laughed.
It isn’t that I think of her as property. No, she’s more of a primal extension of me. Even after all these years. She’s as much mine as my own arm or leg. Though I’m not here for fun, I can’t help but grin as I watch her tap her foot. I guess she’s still impatient. When she was younger, she always wanted more. More experiences, more sex, more from her career.
Wait. Is she…kicking that guy on the ground? No, she appears to be prodding him with the tip of her shoe. I frown and take my foot off the brake to turn off the car—the Tesla’s electric, state-of-the-art, no ignition key needed—and I’m ready to beat the guy senseless. I go to unbuckle a cuff link so I can roll up my shirt sleeve. Of all the ways I’ve fantasized about seeing Justine for the first time in eleven years, I didn’t think it would be like this.
She steps away from the guy, who hasn’t moved, and throws her hands in the air in an exasperated motion. I stop undoing my cuff. Jesus, is the guy dead? I reluctantly take my eyes off her and squint at the man on the ground. No, I can see him breathing. He’s probably a bum.
My eyes go back to Justine. Now I can see her profile. I sit in the driver’s seat, studying her little nose, the familiar line of her jaw, the pouty mouth. She’s even more beautiful now than she’d been when we were in school. Part of me had hoped she’d let herself go, that she’d somehow turned hideous in the years since I’d last seen her.
I’m ashamed to admit that I still crave her kiss.
The air inside my car is ice-cold after blasting the air conditioner on my five-hour drive from Miami. And yet, I’m sweating because I’m nervous. That’s what Justine does to me—Rafael Menendez de Aviles, the richest man in Miami. Makes me feel like a skinny college kid again.
I’m not even sure I’d ever talked to girls before I’d met Justine. If I had, I’d forgotten about all of them. There was nothing before Justine, and after…well, after has been years of the same. The same women, parroting the same sentiments with the same fake laugh. All in hopes of snagging me as a husband, or at the least, a steady hookup with benefits.
There haven’t been that many women, though. Mostly because I’d preferred to bury myself in work. And forget the past.
When I saw her that day at university, I don’t know how I’d found the courage to even speak to her. She was the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen, all bare legs and plush lips and big eyes. My mind flashes in quick succession to a fraction of my memories. The good ones.
Hugging her for the first time and how she’d trembled in my arms.
The way her eyes were the color of sea glass when the setting Miami sun hit them just the right way.
How I’d wake up with her next to me and how her soft, satisfied sighs in her sleep would make me feel whole.
I watch her pace on the sidewalk, and she seems seriously pissed. She’s chewing on her bottom lip and her eyes are narrowed, and I’ll bet the nostrils on her cute little nose are flaring, too. She runs her hand through her hair, starting at her forehead, then allows the locks to slip through her fingers in a waterfall of chestnut hues. I nearly groan out loud. The loose hair looks so perfect on her. It wasn’t this long in college, and I picture myself gathering it in one hand, wrapping it around my fist, and pulling.
As I bite her neck, cup her breast, kiss her deeply.
Because that’s what I’m here for: to fuck her.
And to forget her.
Finally.
Sure, I’m here for money, too. I don’t do anything if it doesn’t result in profit.
Justine turns in my direction, and I straighten the collar of my shirt instinctively. She can’t see me because of the car’s tinted windows, and I grin. She obviously didn’t hear me drive up, probably because my car is as silent as a panther. Her face is a little fuller than when she was younger. It’s still the most beautiful face I’ve ever seen, with a mouth made for sin and eyes as wide and guileless as a doe. Angelic and devilish at the same time.
Once upon a time, Justine was my Madonna and my whore.
She scowls. A lock of hair falls over her eyes, and my instinct is to sweep it away.
And kiss her. One last taste…
She spins around when the newspaper door opens, and a pregnant woman bursts out and walks toward Justine. The pregnant woman looks vaguely familiar. Ah, it’s Diana, Justine’s best friend. She works at the paper, too. I’d read everything I could about the paper before I came.
I look up at the newspaper building, a huge, historic structure that will need a shit ton of work but eventually be a stunning condominium. The real estate market in downtown St. Augustine is hot, and I’ll make a lot on this deal when I turn the building residential.
The way I see it, I’m here to repay a karmic debt to her racist, dead father. I’ll buy the Lavoie family newspaper, run it lean and mean, then sell and make a killing. The business is failing miserably, and I’ll acquire it for a song.
A song that Justine will sing, while I do whatever I want with her. Now that I’ve seen her, I suspect it won’t take long for me to get her in bed. I check my Rolex. It’s nine o’clock now, and if I were a
Sooner, if we didn’t have to pretend to talk business. I glance at the building, and a sour memory of her father pops into my mind. I grimace in disgust.
Edward Lavoie had loved two things in life. One was the St. Augustine Times. The other was Justine.
I will conquer both.
2
The Great Below
Since she left eleven years ago, I’ve talked to Justine in my mind. Truthfully, I’ve even talked out loud to her, in the small hours of the night. When I’m alone and lonely.
Asked for her opinion. Pleaded with her. Shouted at the top of my lungs.
Should I invest in this building?
Please, let’s talk this out. There’s still time.
Why the fuck did you give up on us?
And now that I’m standing in front of her on this sidewalk, staring into her sparkling eyes, inhaling her sugary, vanilla scent, I can’t think of a thing to say. I’m wondering if her skin still tastes like whipped cream. An image of her nipple in my mouth comes to mind.
I stare at her warily. I can’t believe she’s short-circuited my brain this quickly.
“You won’t even shake my hand?” Her voice is shaky, like my insides are. Dammit, I didn’t think I’d be this nervous seeing her again. Hearing her soft, Southern accent sends a current of desire through me. It’s an ever-present feeling, one that ebbs and flows depending on how much, or how little, I’m thinking about her. Now that we’re together again, that current is more like a tsunami roaring through my veins.
I clench my jaw when our hands touch. Her hand is smaller than I remember, but her grip is firm and somehow this makes me want her more. Justine is no shrinking violet.
I drop her hand and step back, for fear I’ll fold her into my arms, crush my mouth onto hers, and draw her so close that I’ll feel the hot skin of her breasts beneath her thin white blouse. That’s what my instinct is telling me to do.
Mine. She is mine.
My muscles tense thinking about it, and Justine’s voice slices through my fantasies. She’s saying something to Diana, but the blood rushing in my ears means I can’t hear every word.
Justine doesn’t think I remember her best friend. I recall every detail if it has to do with Justine. I notice that Diana is holding a newspaper, and it’s folded to the article about my company.
I grin, hoping that Justine has read the article and is even more unsettled than I am. She probably had no idea until this morning that I’d bought the company she’d called last month.
I’m about to tell her details of the acquisition and how I came to buy Florida Capital, but Justine seems to want to move things along. She points to the newspaper’s front door and grabs Diana by the arm, indicating I should follow.
I don’t have my best moment as we walk into the building. When I try to open the door for the two women, I stumble, briefly, because I’m focused on Justine’s legs. And because I touched her while reaching for the door. I couldn’t ignore the electric charge that passed between us. I manage to quickly recover, but not before she gives me a mirthful, snarky smile.
The newsroom is fetid. Worse than what I remember. It smells like onions, and there’s a half-eaten pizza and a stack of yellowed newspapers in the corner. Has anyone cleaned this place in fifteen years? It doesn’t look like it. I’d never understood why Justine loved the chaos of newspapers. When we met, she was a reporter for the school paper, and I’d often visit her there. At first, I was captivated by how she seemed extra alive in her newsroom or when she was writing a story late at night for the paper. But journalism, and her desire to be a star reporter, came between us.
Well, that, and a lot of other things.
I’m trying to hide my disgust at how run-down everything looks at the Times when Caroline—I always called her Carolina—practically leaps into my arms. I’m genuinely delighted to see her, but her presence also complicates things a bit. I had assumed she was long retired.
“Carolina, mi amor. What a surprise. Are you here for a visit?” I’m hoping that the older woman is just stopping by. In all of my plans to buy and close the paper, I didn’t factor Caroline into the equation. I want to inflict damage on Justine’s father’s legacy. And perhaps Justine herself. Not an innocent old woman who has done nothing but be a loyal employee. And one who had been so kind to me when I was dating Justine.
“I’m still a part-time employee, dear. I’m close to collecting social security and my pension, but Justine keeps me around.” Caroline winks at me.
Well, that’s somewhat of a relief—that she’s close to retirement. As much of an asshole as I can be when it comes to business, I try not to go as far as putting retirees on the street. I don’t want the workers at the paper to suffer for the sins of Justine and her father. My eyes flit to Diana, and I realize with a sinking feeling that she, too, works here. She’s hugely pregnant and has a ring on her finger, though—surely her husband must work. She’ll be fine.
I grin at Caroline. I can’t get caught up in the lives of people here. I need to treat this like any other acquisition. If layoffs need to happen, they will. If I decide the paper must close so I can make a profit, it will.
This is business. Well, mostly. And pleasure—mine.
“I’m so glad Justine finally came to her senses and called you. I never liked that TV pretty boy she was dating.”
A jolt goes through me when Caroline mentions Justine dating someone else.
I turn to Justine, who is rolling her eyes and making indignant snorting noises. She tips her head to one side, revealing a neck that demands my lips. “Justine’s dating someone?”
“No, not anymore,” she calls out while shooting a glare at Caroline. Why is she so quick to respond?
I crack a joke about that Will Farrell movie and then hug Caroline again. Promise her lunch, because I want to pump her for as much information about the company—and Justine—as possible.
“Let’s proceed with what you came here for, Rafa.” Justine sounds annoyed.
“Why do you think I came here, Justi?” I’m feeling a bit more on solid ground, now that I notice she’s nervously scratching at the cuticle of her right thumb with her left index finger.
“Dating an anchorman. Hmm.” I try to sound light, but a pit’s forming in my stomach. I’d checked up on Justine on the Internet over the years, and I’d seen a photo in a regional magazine of her and that TV guy. I assumed it was a professional relationship. I check again for a ring on her finger. Nothing. She’s not wearing any expensive-looking jewelry at all, just two silver studs in her ears.
Justine smiles beatifically as we walk into her office. Did she love the anchorman? Did the guy break her heart? Why did they break up?
She hands me a file, and I tell her I don’t need it. Why would I? She knows that I know everything about her and her family. Her smile fades, and she stares at me with those bright blue eyes.
I smile wide, the same plastic expression I use when forced to attend red carpet galas in Miami. Justine had always challenged me intellectually. Captivated me. Tormented me. Sometimes in painfully infuriating ways, like when she left to pursue her career goals. She never looked back after she left me, as if I was an afterthought, a stepping-stone, to something bigger and better. I wasn’t enough for her when we were younger.
Now, I’m here to rub it in her face that I’m more than she ever anticipated. And to show her how she’s never achieved anything in life. Just look at this nasty office—when it had been her father’s, I’d walked in that first Christmas break and thought it had seemed so imposing and intimidating. Now it looks like a garbage dump and smells like something drowned and died in the corner. Well, mostly. Every so often Justine’s perfume wafts in my direction, and it’s a refreshing break from the moldy smell. But every time I breathe deeper to savor it, it vanishes.
