Constant Craving: Book Two, page 13
I sit up as she unties the belt and shrugs off the robe.
She cups her breasts, fully aware how she’s teasing me. “That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”
I nibble, lick, caress her nipples, my dick straining at the fabric of my boxers. I sit up and shed them, wanting to feel my skin next to hers.
She trails a finger down my chest, all the way to my erection. “I love your body. And I love what you do to my body, with your body.” She takes me in her hand and strokes slow. I’m kneeling over her and she’s looking up at me, and this is almost, almost enough to make me spurt on her tits. I groan.
“Too soon, muñeca.” I take her hand off me and twine my fingers into her hair as I kiss her.
We make out for a long time, grinding against each other without actual penetration. The quiet of the room—the room where I’d tried to humiliate her just 24 hours before—turns electric. We haven’t had sex since we’ve been in Orlando, too wrapped up in our fight and our emotions.
My hands slide between her legs, and she’s sopping wet. She opens wide, with one leg slung over the back of the sofa and the other off the sofa, her foot pressing into the floor.
“My Justi. Mi niña. My beautiful, good girl loves when I play with her like this.”
I watch as she arches her spine, her head dropping back so her chestnut hair spills like luxurious fabric over the cream sofa. Her eyes flutter shut.
Watching her as I bring her to the brink is sublime. Like rare art, truthful beauty, transcendent sensuality. I’m kneeling, fingering her softly. Driving her crazy with broad strokes and slow dips inside.
“You don’t have to be gentle,” she says, her voice growly.
“Don’t worry, I won’t be in a few minutes.”
As her hands skim her breasts, she shivers. Her fingers pluck at her hard nipples.
“Come for me. Come on my fingers.”
I spread her apart with one hand and toy with her clit with the thumb of the other.
Her mewls of pleasure quickly turn to loud sobs. Screwing her eyes shut, she gasps my name and clutches for my wrists.
“Stop,” she pants. “Please? I… God. It’s sensitive. Just hold me.”
I gather her boneless body so she’s sitting in my lap. She curls up like a cat and tries to catch her breath.
“I’m…sorry,” she whispers, wiping her nose on my shoulder.
I kiss her head. “What for? Using me as a Kleenex?”
She giggles and wipes her nose with her hand. “No. For crying.”
“I remember you crying more than a few times after having an orgasm. I love watching you come. It’s so powerful, you just let go of all that tension.”
“Yeah. Yeah,” she whispers and shifts to look at me. “Rafael, when do you think we’ll stop being so passionate with each other?”
I kiss her softly three times.
“Never. I hope we’re in a retirement home in fifty years, and I’m chasing you around with my walker, begging you to let me touch you and kiss you and make love to you.”
“Hey,” she says, in between kisses, “you’re definitely going to come see me when you get back from Madrid, right? You’re not going to forget about me, will you? You’ll have to come back to give me advice on running the paper. So we can make it a success, together, right? You know, all I ever wanted was to be a team with you.”
I move her so she’s straddling me. With one hand cupping her jaw and neck and the other on her hip, I press her down.
“Forget about you?” I chuckle while watching my cock disappear inside her. “Not a chance in hell.”
I close my eyes when she sinks onto me and shudder when her nipples graze my chest as she slowly writhes.
She leans in, and her lips are at my ear as she moves her hips. She’s whispering wicked things, words I know she’s only spoken to me. Words she knows will make me come unraveled and explode inside her. Words so private and filthy that I’d be embarrassed if they were uttered by anyone other than Justine.
Her skin’s so warm, and I’m so hard that my mind is only dimly aware that I didn’t correct her about the paper. But if my estimation is correct, there will be no need to give advice, because there will be no way to keep the paper alive.
So I’m hoping that this mutual, burning love we have for each other will be enough to carry us through…
18
Make it Perfect
It’s three in the morning, and instead of being in bed curled around Justine, I’m downstairs with columns of numbers and reams of reports. I reach for the coffee mug, see that it’s empty, and grimace. I close one of my laptops and push my chair back from the dining room table. I didn’t think my eyes could ever feel this gritty. I shut them and put a hand on my forehead, massaging my temples with my thumb and middle finger. It seems I’ve burned my retinas with the computer glow while sitting in the dark and going over the Times’ finances.
This fucking newspaper.
I squeeze my eyes shut. It’s the worst deal I’ve ever made. There’s no way I can save the paper without massive changes. Layoffs, selling the building, ceasing to print on certain days—they’re all options.
Not good ones, though. Not ones Justine wants.
“Rafecito?”
I open my eyes to see Justine standing in the doorway. She repeats my name in a soft voice as she walks toward me. Pushing my chair back, I hold out my arms.
She sits on my knee, and I draw her close, her body warm and sleepy. She’s only wearing a T-shirt, one of my T-shirts, and when my hand skims her thigh and higher, I realize she’s not wearing underwear. But I suspect she didn’t come down for sex, and I’m too exhausted myself.
The computer’s screen saver kicks in on the one open laptop, and now we’re in darkness. My fingers wind into her hair.
“Why are you awake?” Her voice is sleepy-sexy.
I kiss her temple and let my nose linger on her head, which smells like sugar and lemons. “Can’t sleep. Too much work.”
She makes a little mmm noise. “You know, I always love it when you hug me close like this. I feel so safe. I remember exactly where we were when you first hugged me. I felt so protected.”
I swallow a lump of guilt. I need to tell her about the Times. Now, at three in the morning, and when she’s drowsy, isn’t optimal.
“I have to protect you, Justi.” Could I feel any worse about saying that, knowing what I’m about to do with her business?
I’ve failed her again.
What if I can’t save the one thing that she loves?
What would make her leave the paper behind forever?
She shifts and puts her left hand on my cheek, and when she kisses me, I get an idea.
“Why don’t you go back to bed?”
Nodding sleepily, she slides off me and goes upstairs, leaving me with the spreadsheets.
* * *
The next morning, I’m yawning over coffee. “I’ll be at the paper later. I need to finish up a couple of Skype calls here.” After last night’s marathon with the spreadsheets, I’d only gotten about two hours of sleep.
Justine puts her arms around my neck and kisses me, “I’ll miss you,” she whispers.
“I’ll miss you, too. You need to get to work or you’re going to be late for the morning meeting. Do you have your lunch, or are you eating out?” I need her to get on the road because someone’s coming to the villa soon and I don’t want Justine to know.
She sighs. “Eating out. I have a chamber of commerce thing. I’ll see you tonight.” She hoists her laptop bag over her shoulder.
I watch as she walks out and wait for her car’s engine to start up, then listen as the sound fades off into the distance.
It’s not five minutes later that there’s a chime from my phone. I check the security app and see a middle-aged man standing at the front door, which Justine and I never use because we enter through the gated courtyard. He’s wearing sunglasses and has a grave look on his face. I swing open the heavy wood door.
“Mr. Menendez?” The man’s in a blue suit and carrying a briefcase, and he pulls the glasses off his face. Two beefy guys are behind him, and I realize they are bodyguards. Of course, he’s brought bodyguards, with what he’s carrying.
I’m wearing my usual, work-at-home attire: jeans and a hoodie. I extend a hand. “It’s good to meet you, Mr. Suarez. Please, come in. May I get you a cafecito?”
The man enters, as do the bodyguards. “Not just yet. Thank you, though.”
“I thought we’d do this in here.” I walk into the villa’s office, which I haven’t been using. I prefer the expanse of the dining room table, space to move around. But the office, decorated in modern, burnished gold and chocolate tones, is much more professional for this meeting.
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line two walls, and I sweep my hand to two dark leather chairs, indicating the bodyguards can sit there. They remain standing as Suarez goes to the desk, and I roll a chair over.
“Care to have a seat?” I ask.
“In a minute. I work better on my feet. First, I’d like to show you what I brought.” He sets the briefcase down on the desk and flicks a combination lock.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice. I don’t have a lot of time, unfortunately.” I hope the nervousness in my voice doesn’t show.
“Well, that’s why we came to you. We specialize in select clients who have busy lives.”
He opens the briefcase and takes out a sleek black box. Then another, then another. Soon there are ten on the heavy oak desk.
With a precise flick of his hand, he opens one of the boxes. “Let’s get down to it. This is the classic engagement ring in platinum, with tapered baguette side stones.”
He hands it to me, and I move the box to the left and right, catching the sparkles in the sunlight filtering in from the French door that leads to the garden.
“This embodies elegance and timeless style. Please note the delicate details of the design and the flawless cut of all three diamonds.”
I nod and bring the diamond closer to my eyes. Would Justine love this? Is it not big enough? Or is it too big? When I’d bought her a ring all those years ago, I’d selected what I could afford—something for three hundred at a small shop in downtown Miami.
I want this ring to be as big as my love for her.
“Oh, and as you requested, Mr. Menendez, all of the stones I have for your consideration are three karats and above. And I brought the necklaces you expressed interest in, as well. Some with all diamonds and a few with diamonds and other stones.”
* * *
Two days later, I’ve executed Valentine’s Day plan perfectly. The private jet, the luxury resort, the incredible sex on the most comfortable bed I’ve ever slept in.
The stunning diamond necklace.
The ring.
This lazy day on the beach with Justine is merely the icing.
I walk out of the impossibly blue water, the sun warming my skin. I’m already a shade darker, and I love the solitude of this island so much that I’m considering buying a small beach house for us here.
The privacy is the best part of all. I don’t have to worry about paparazzi or even other guests. There are only a few people here, I was told, and we haven’t seen them since checking in.
Justine’s on a wide chaise under a large, blue umbrella, shielding her fair skin from the sun.
I towel off and lie next to her in the shade. She’s half-asleep, a book splayed at her side. She’s also topless—it’s that kind of beach, and, anyway, we’re the only people here—and she giggles when she sees me staring at her.
“I think you need more lotion. I don’t want you getting burned.”
She turns her head toward me and smiles. “You’ve already lotioned me up three times. I think I’m okay.”
“You sure? You’re already pink.” I run my fingers in the valley between her breasts.
“Mmm. And you’re already delicious. Come here and kiss me, sexy man.” She takes off her sunglasses.
I move toward her, and we kiss lazily. Within a few minutes, her hands go to the ties on her bikini bottoms, and she pauses. I laugh and kiss her nose because she’s already breathing heavy.
“I want to go back to the room because I need you right now.”
“How do you need me?” I nuzzle her cheek, and she whispers something about my tongue. I love how Justine’s not modest, how she knows exactly what she wants and isn’t hesitant to tell me.
As the day goes on, I grow quieter. I’ll soon ask Justine the question I’ve always wanted to ask, and although I know she’ll say yes, I’m still nervous.
During dinner, I jiggle my leg and fidget with the edge of my napkin.
I order the best bottle of her favorite wine, hoping to take this anxious edge away. The resort’s arranged our table on a cove overlooking the sea. There are lanterns with candles everywhere, baskets of fresh, tropical flowers, and orchids bursting with fragrance. The crashing waves are the soundtrack.
It’s so perfect for a proposal, and I’m so fucking on edge.
But first I have to tell her about the newspaper. It’s only fair. She is, after all, my business partner, and because I also want her to be my partner in life, I have to be honest about everything.
“After looking at all of the financials of the paper, my recommendation would be to close it. There are…other options, of course. None of the options are ideal, though. I’m sorry. I’ve turned it around in my head and on paper a million times. I know it’s not what you want to hear.”
Justine rakes her front teeth over her bottom lip. She asks about other options, and I’m forced to tell her.
“We could lay people off and sell the building and move into a smaller space. Or we could try to go digital six days a week and deliver the print product on weekends. If we did that, we would still have to sell the building.”
She’s looking at me as if I’ve stabbed her. Oh, shit. This isn’t going as well as I’d hoped. The engagement ring, all three-point-five karats of it, is wrapped in a small, velvet sleeve. It seemingly has the weight of a brick in my pocket.
“Amor. Justi. I’ve been analyzing this for weeks now. It’s easiest to close. Otherwise, you, we, the newspaper, have to change. We have to attract younger readers. The Times runs cartoons drawn by dead people. It runs TV listings. Who needs TV listings? The Times runs ‘Dear Abby.’ Who do you know our age who reads ‘Dear Abby’?”
Why isn’t she speaking to me? Why isn’t she debating, challenging, arguing like she normally does? Her silence reminds me of those days after her miscarriage, and my heart freezes.
“Hear me out, Justine. Newspapers are doing nothing to go after younger readers as the older readers die off. If the Times is going to survive, it’s going to have to change dramatically. I’m sorry. This is why I’ve been so stressed this week. I’ve dreaded telling you this news.” Christ, I’m babbling now. Why is this so much more difficult than a deal that’s worth a hundred times more?
“Was this why you brought me here? To soften the blow?”
“No.” Why am I suddenly hesitant? I’m never hesitant. “I brought you here to ask if you would consider closing the paper and moving to Miami to live with me.”
“What?” Her eyes flit around as if she’s panicked.
“Justi, I want us to be together. I thought it would be easier to close the paper outright and start fresh. Cut all ties with the Times. It could probably turn a profit if we went all-digital or Sunday print only, but wouldn’t it be easier for you to not have to worry about it?”
After a moment of painful silence, I start talking again.
“You don’t have to say yes tonight, mi cielo. Think about it for a week. We’ve got a charity fundraiser in Miami. I want you to go with me. After that, I have a long business trip. I want us to be…resolved…before I leave.”
My voice falters. This was supposed to be the part where I proposed. But since I’m not sure whether she’ll say yes, I keep my mouth shut. Maybe this isn’t the time, after all. My heart pounds with disappointment.
The rest of dinner is subdued. We eat in silence as darkness overtakes the sky. She leans to kiss me with soft lips.
“You’re so good to me. I don’t know what I’d be without you.”
I let out a breath, feeling a little more at ease. She just needs time to get used to these changes. That’s all.
I’ll ask her to marry me later. In Madrid, perhaps. I’ll buy her a ticket, and she can join me for a week. Yes, it makes sense—it’s where we vacationed together that one summer, it’s a place we both love, and the city’s romantic as hell.
* * *
Two days after we get back from the Turks and Caicos—the days with Justine are moving too fast for my liking—Justine runs into the office, breathless.
“Diana’s having her baby. Her water just broke, and her husband’s driving her to the hospital. We need to go.”
As I drive us to the hospital, Justine talks non-stop about Diana’s pregnancy, every detail and milestone. The names they’ve discussed, how they set up the nursery. I listen, relieved that she’s not thinking of her miscarriage.
Perhaps being together this month has allowed her some closure. And some hope for the future.
We wait, with me on the phone and checking emails and Justine pacing. After three hours, Diana’s husband comes into the waiting room and tells us the baby’s been born.
“Oh, thank God,” Justine says, almost sprinting to Diana’s room.
She throws her arms around Diana and busses her on the cheek. Then she looks to Diana’s husband, who is holding the baby.
“Hand her over,” Justine says to him, laughing.
When I see Justine holding the baby, I can tell she’s trying not to cry. I’m trying not to, as well.
“Someday soon, you and I…” I can’t finish the sentence because the lump in my throat is too big. “Can I hold her?”
Her eyes are wet when she hands me the baby. I’m marveling at how small she is in my hands, and she quietly slips out of the room.
