Constant Craving: Book Two, page 12
“She’s a sharp cookie, that one.”
I frown and swivel my head in the direction of the male voice. It’s the guy on my right, a corporate finance guy from a newspaper chain. He’s about twenty years older than me, trim, and has been staring at Justine’s cleavage all night. I’ve tried to ignore this fact because I’ve been so pissed at her.
I nod.
The guy tips his scotch glass toward the front of the room. “And a fine piece of ass, too.”
Instead of slamming the guy into the table—which admittedly is my first instinct—I roll my eyes disapprovingly, angle my body away from him, and signal to the waiter.
“Another gin martini,” I say, then glance at Justine, who is talking about the future of the Times.
“And I want to thank Rafael Menendez, my new business partner. Without him, our paper would be in deep trouble. My father never wanted to be owned by a corporate entity. He’d always wanted the paper to stay in the family, but since Rafael and I went to school together, I figured that partnering with him was for the best—even if he is a private equity fund owner.”
She holds up her hands in a stop gesture. “I know, I know. Those of us in the newspaper industry have a certain image of private equity guys. That they’ll just buy papers to bleed them dry, then sell. That they’re only in it for profit. That they’re not interested in journalism. Well, that’s not true for Rafael. He’s a champion of the First Amendment. He even helped out with a feature story running this Sunday. You’ll have to check online this weekend to read it. And if anyone says he’s the devil because he’s a finance guy, well, I figure it’s better to stick with the devil I know, then the devil I don’t.”
The waiter brings my martini, and I take a long gulp.
It’s going to be a long fucking night.
* * *
“Crawl.”
We’re back in the hotel room, and I’ve ordered Justine to let her hair down, take off her clothes, and dance for me. If it all feels abrupt to her, that’s because it is. The two martinis, plus the drink I just downed in the room, are making me a bit lightheaded and edgy. Normally I’m not much of a drinker, but I’ve let myself lose a bit of control tonight.
There’s also something about the gaudy formality of this hotel room, this entire hotel, with its French décor, that’s making what I’m about to do seem especially decadent.
I want to see how far Justine will go, how many commands she’ll follow. How big of a gold digger is she, anyway? Let’s find out. I might even offer her cash for certain things. We played that game before, when we were younger, with a lot less at stake. And never when I was angry.
“On your hands and knees.” I point to the floor.
To my surprise, Justine obeys and grins. Her eyes are locked on mine, filled with fire. Her back is arched, her gorgeous ass is in the air, and that bodysuit or whatever it’s called is barely covering her tits.
I’m now hard. Of course. What did I think was going to happen if I told her to take off her clothes?
I sit in my chair, my legs slightly spread, staring at her. I sip my drink, the alcohol burning my throat. Fuck, she’s so beautiful. I’m trying to maintain a neutral expression, but my jaw is clenched tight. I hum along with the song playing in the background, only dimly aware of the lyrics.
When one word jumps out at me—mentirosa, or liar—I look down my nose and smirk at her coming toward me on the floor.
This is probably the point of no return for us, but I don’t care.
I watch as she stops at my feet, then runs her delicate hands up my legs. My skin tingles pleasurably, and my mood’s about to tip slightly into the desire category, slightly edging out the red cloud of rage. Her nipples are hard, jutting out of the black, strappy bodysuit. It’s like her entire torso’s been wrapped in tight ribbons, and I can’t wait to tear it off her.
“Is this how you talk to your women in Miami?” She asks this in a throaty voice as her hand presses on my hard dick. I’m covered in her scent, and I’m thinking of cakes, which makes me remember bakeries and what Mark said about their dinner.
I inhale, wanting to resist her. But I can’t. “No. Only tonight and only with you.”
My hand goes in her hair, gently at first. I slide my fingers through the silky waves. She begins to unzip me, and I imagine her making plans with Mark, her using me to get what she wants. That’s when I grab the hair at her nape and pull.
“Why do you not want to honor the details of our agreement?”
The fear in her eyes makes me release her hair as fast as I’ve grabbed it. I inhale sharply, feeling as shocked as she looks.
I’ve taken this too far. Way too fucking far. My face feels like it’s on fire out of pure, searing shame. I mumble something about the bakery owner. Justine, understandably, is furious. She’s now standing over me with her hands on her hips and hate in her eyes. “Oh, Rafa. Come on. Mark?”
I try not to react as we fight.
“Don’t you think I would have already gone out with him if I was interested? I’ve known him for two years.”
Her gin-spiked breath hits me. I’m not proud of the way I respond. It’s a cornered animal kind of response. Instead of apologizing, I come out fighting and say something snotty about how Mark will love her in the lingerie.
She raises her hand and takes a swing. I should probably let her slap me for that.
Instead, I grab her arm and pull her toward me. We hurl nasty verbal barbs toward each other, and between her poison-tinged words, she’s sobbing.
Ugly-crying.
Wailing.
“You’re all I ever wanted.” Her adorable nose is running, and tears are mixing with her mascara.
I draw her toward me, unable to think of anything but kissing her. Kiss the pain away, both hers and mine. I’m a shithead, and sex is the only way I know how to make it up to her. She kisses me back, plunges her tongue in my mouth.
She pulls me closer, digging her nails into my scalp, biting my bottom lip. I reach down and pinch her nipples until she moans. I’m rock-hard, and I feel like an asshole, but now all I want is to be inside her. To forget. It’s what we’ve always been best at, forgetting our problems while fucking.
Straddling me, she leans back so she can get at my zipper. With shaking hands, she undoes the button. She glances into my eyes, and for a flash, I see the nineteen-year-old that I met long ago in a classroom, shy and sweet and full of wonder.
For some reason, I also hear my mother’s voice, and her words run through my head.
You must always respect the women in your life.
I circle Justine’s wrists with my fingers and stop her from unzipping me. A realization crackles in my brain as if I’ve been zapped with a million volts of electricity.
She loves me.
So what the hell am I doing? Why am I a dick to her? I’ve been wrong about all of this. She’s not using me for money. She doesn’t want someone else. She wants me.
Justine’s just as confused and hurt as I am. I’m not only making a mistake by treating her like this tonight, but this whole game of money for sex has been a mistake. I’m bordering on abusive here, and it’s got to stop.
Forever.
I’m a walking, breathing mistake, and a fresh minting of guilt of how I’ve treated Justine, both now and eleven years ago, makes me shake my head as if I’m coming to after a punch.
I love her and can’t treat her like this. What the fuck am I doing? I need to take charge of this situation in a different way, by protecting her and caring for her and being her rock. Not her enemy.
I cup her face firmly in my hands. She’s trying, and failing, to blink back tears. My throat feels thick.
“Wait. Justine. No. Not tonight.”
17
Blown Apart
She’s looking at me as if I just grew a third arm, probably because it’s the first time in our history that I haven’t wanted to have sex.
“What has gotten into you?”
I shake my head and swallow, trying to clear the fog of drink and tension. Pushing her now-wild hair away from her face, I say her name twice.
“I’m sorry.” My voice is hoarse. “It hit me all of a sudden. I have no right to act like you’re mine. But if we want to try to make a go of this together, we need to stop relying on sex to solve our problems. We need to talk more. Because we’re older now. There’s more to my feelings. We can’t just fight and fuck.”
She shoots me a you’ve definitely gone crazy look and shifts in my lap. I’m still painfully hard, but I couldn’t have sex right now if my life depended on it.
I guess there’s a first for everything.
I’m shaking, but not from desire. From fear of what I just did, of what I’m about to say.
A fresh tear rolls out of her eye, and I catch it with my thumb. Her beautiful face is all tears and mascara now.
“Maybe we shouldn’t be angry with each other.”
“Do you mean that?”
I nod. “Can we go in the bedroom?”
“I thought you didn’t want to—”
“I don’t. I’m just really spent and want to lie down and talk.”
We go into the bedroom, undress quickly, mechanically. I relax when I get into bed, and she does, too. Being naked in the bed of a hotel room is the best thing to happen to us in hours. I sigh and roll on my side, facing her. I think I stammer too much when I try to explain myself.
“I shouldn’t be an asshole. I’m sorry I pulled your hair. I need to get a grip and stop feeling so out of control when I’m around you. It’s not appropriate and not fair.” I feel a catch in my throat. “I never want to make you afraid of me.”
We talk for a long time. When I tell her I want to end our moronic arrangement—the one I’d been so wrong about—she gasps.
Are those tears in her eyes? What the—
“Are you done with me? Are we over?”
“Oh, baby, baby, baby,” I murmur, kissing her nose. “Jesus, no. Stop crying. Please? I’ve decided to stay in St. Augustine until the end of the month. Then I have to go to Spain.”
“And when you get back?” My thumbnail goes in my mouth. He takes my hand away and kisses the palm.
“I want you. I want us. Together. But I can’t make you sleep with me for the next two weeks because of my stupid proposition. You’re free to do whatever you want. You can go home.”
“What if I want to stay with you until you leave?”
I exhale. We’re finally on the same page. “That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”
She throws her body on top of mine, her smooth calves skimming my hair-roughened legs. I hug her until she squeaks.
“Sorry,” I whisper.
Hesitantly, tenderly, we talk about the past. She tells me about the miscarriage and how it made her feel.
“Our baby snapped some things together for us, made us even closer for about a week, if that was possible,” she says in a voice filled with sorrow. “And then losing the baby blew everything apart. I didn’t understand how both of us changed so quickly.”
I shut my eyes. How could I have been so blind to her pain? I was a fucking idiot back then. Maybe I’m not much better now.
“I didn’t, either, Justine.”
Again I hug her tight and tell her I’m sorry, over and over.
I don’t know what else I can do but hug her.
And love her.
* * *
The next morning, I wake early, slipping silently out of bed to search for the hotel gym. A hard run will make it all better.
Sweat it out, my uncle used to say.
My feet hammer the treadmill, my desire to run until my mind is clear overtaking the sleepy feeling still in my eyes. I’d lain awake for much of the night as Justine slept in the crook of my arm. The events of last night have shaken my normally rock-solid foundation, and all I can think is that I will never—can never—treat her that way again.
Because I’ll lose her for good.
Sweat rolls down my face and drips onto my T-shirt. I entertain a fantasy of walking back into the hotel room, taking Justine in my arms, and asking her to live with me in Miami.
But as quickly as the thought enters my mind, I nix the idea. It’s not the time for that, not yet. Her newspaper’s the main complication. I have to first solve that problem. She’ll never let her family’s business fade away. So how do I make closing the paper palatable to her?
And then there’s also the matter of my own secret, the one about her father trying to pay me off all those years ago.
But does that even matter now? I can deal with that when—and if—the time comes. Maybe it won’t. And maybe by the time it does, Justine and I will be so tight that she’ll realize why I made the choice I did the day after she left.
Panting, I finish my run and go back to the suite, taking the stairs up to the tenth floor. In the doorway, I stop to watch Justine and take off my stank-ass shirt. I can see her in the reflection of a mirror hanging on the wall in front of her.
She’s squinting and pressing buttons on the hotel’s espresso maker, standing at a bar cart converted into a coffee station. The short, white silk robe barely hides the outline of her body, and I can see her breasts jiggle as she moves and swears under her breath. Her hair’s messy, as usual, and swept into a clip.
She’s got the sexy glasses on.
It’s the glasses that do me in. I go to her and kiss her neck from behind.
“Buenos dias.”
“Hey!” Her face lights up. “I figured you were at the gym. Or you’d fled.”
“You won’t get rid of me that easily.”
She grins. “Good. And I like you without a shirt.” She looks at me in the mirror.
“You might not want to touch me. I’m sweaty.”
“I like you sweaty, and I always want to touch you. I’m trying to make you coffee. Do you know how to use this?”
I hum a no and nibble on the back of her neck. “I’ll go get us some in the lobby.” With soft pressure, I bite where her neck meets her shoulder.
Instant goosebumps spread on her skin.
Thank God she’s not mad at me. She’s pressing buttons and giggling. My arms slide around her body. Maybe she’ll shower with me. “You’re really quite tiny, you know that?”
She arches an eyebrow.
“You’re formidable when you’re operating at full speed.”
This makes her laugh.
“Look,” I say in Spanish, pointing into the mirror. “I see a geeky Cuban kid with a beautiful princess. What do you see?”
“I see a shy girl with glasses standing next to her Cuban prince.” She turns around and brushes her soft lips over mine.
This woman, she makes me melt.
We’re in a hotel in Orlando, a few miles from a theme park with a castle, and all we can do is stand at a coffeemaker and kiss.
* * *
That day at Animal Kingdom, we wander aimlessly, acting like kids. Today I’m not a rich Miami real estate mogul, and she’s not a journalist. We’ve somehow gone back to our best selves, our youth, our innocence.
We laugh our asses off during a private VIP tour of the park’s African savannah, gorge ourselves on ice cream, and she even convinces me to go with her on a scary thrill ride.
I take photos of her everywhere, wanting to capture as much as I can. She’s in a red T-shirt that makes the color of her eyes pop and tan shorts that are nice and, well, short. A giant butterfly lands on her head, and I snap a picture at the exact moment her eyes turn upward.
“That’s a bad one, erase it.” She playfully tries to take my phone.
“Nope. It’s gorgeous. I’m printing it and framing it.”
I tickle her waist, and she yelps.
We’re too wiped to go out for dinner and decide on room service instead. After we eat, she lounges in the hotel’s fuzzy robe, and I’m in a pair of black boxer briefs.
“Where’s my T-shirt?”
“No, don’t put on a shirt. Please? I love looking at you.”
“I’ve caught you ogling me.” I flex my muscles like a bodybuilder jokingly, but the caveman inside of me is proud that she loves my toned body.
I pour her a glass of wine from an expensive bottle of Tuscany red.
“Do you know how fucking good it makes me feel to give you a weekend in a luxury hotel for real, Justine?”
She bites her bottom lip, which is faintly stained with wine.
“This isn’t like when we were younger and I was working as a valet and had to talk my boss into giving us a free room. I was always kind of ashamed of that.”
A frown forms on her face. “That’s a special memory, though. I wouldn’t trade that for all the money in the world.”
I take a sip of the wine and look at her, propped so beautifully and casually on the sofa, looking like an advertisement for the hotel itself. Justine grew up with money and seems to always know how to arrange herself so she looks like she belongs.
Whereas I never feel like I belong anywhere, no matter how much money I have.
She sweeps her hand in the air. “Don’t get me wrong. This is wonderful. But it’s only wonderful because we’re together. You know I never cared how much money you made. I still don’t. I know it’s weird for me to say that because of the paper and how I accepted your proposal—”
I wince. “Don’t say any more. I feel ashamed that I asked you to do that.”
“I don’t want you to feel ashamed. I wanted it. I chose it.”
We don’t talk. Instead, we listen to jazz for a while and drink wine. She sets her glass on an end table and looks into my eyes as a smile spreads on her lips.
That’s all it takes. I go to the sofa, and she scoots down so she’s lying flat. I trap her with my arms and legs.
“Oh, Justine?” I murmur in between kisses on her face. Her hands are on the tie to her robe.
“Yes?”
I kiss her mouth, deep, with tongue. “I’m going to fuck you now.”
