Constant Craving: Book Three (The Craving Trilogy 3), page 11
The clerk averts her eyes to her computer and taps anemically. “Ma’am, I don’t have any instructions from Ms. Hewitt. She didn’t mention that someone would be using her villa. Guests are required to let us know if they’re allowing others to stay.”
My pasted-on smile remains on my face. “Well, I’m sure under the circumstances, given this storm that’s headed our way, you can skirt the rules a little. Everything’s in such chaos.” I wave my hand in the air as if my fingers are emitting fairy dust.
The clerk purses her lips, and I notice that she’s not wearing any makeup at all. Her face is annoyingly fresh and unlined. I suddenly feel haggard. Her eyes flit around, and I wonder if she’s pressing some buzzer under the desk to call security.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Menendez. We do have the honeymoon suite still open, so if you’d like to rent that, we can take cash or credit.”
There it is. The look of pity in her eyes. I sigh and lean toward her, over the desk. She takes a step back, probably because my eyes are wild, my hair is everywhere, and I’m gesturing a little too much. “Look. I’m in a bind right now. I’ll take any room you have. I need to stay here another couple of days, through the storm. Then I’ll leave. I can probably get my friend in Florida to call you with her credit card—”
I feel a possessive arm slip around my waist. “Corazon! Are you having trouble checking in? I’m sorry, that phone call lasted longer than I expected.”
I gasp, because Rafael’s standing next to me. The tops of his cheekbones are flushed, a tinge of red against his bronze skin. That feral animal look he had in the airport has been replaced with a half-lidded, sensuous amusement.
Precisely the expression that never fails to make me melt.
And the alluring dark stubble on his jaw. Damn him to hell.
His fingers dig into my waist as I attempt to wiggle away. “Where did you come from? Did you follow me? Have you been drinking?”
He chuckles and blinks those long lashes at the clerk. “Isn’t she funny? My beautiful wife. I think she majored in comedy in college.” Pulling me closer to his body with one arm, he hands the clerk a matte black credit card. I try to squirm away, but he’s too big and too strong, and now he’s somehow behind me, caging me with his muscular arms against the edge of the desk. He brushes his lips on my neck.
The stubble makes my nipples sharpen into points.
“You’re not getting away from me this time,” he purrs in my ear.
Jesus. I’m trapped. My nostrils flare, and my teeth pierce my bottom lip to keep from screaming in protest. He’s a caveman, that’s what he is. I’m surprised he’s not carrying a club and dragging me out of the lobby by the hair. Why isn’t he trying to get me to return to the airport with him? I frown.
The clerk’s giggling as she prepares our check-in package, and I officially hate her. Of course, Rafael’s credit card is approved in a hot millisecond. She tells us all the relevant details about our stay and the anticipated hurricane: room service is cancelled, there will be indoor activities such as trivia games this evening, and the spa will halt all services. We shouldn’t try to surf during the storm, it’s important to not use the outdoor hot tubs, we must listen to all security orders, blah, blah, blah.
As she talks, Rafa trails his nose against my hair. I try to wriggle away, but he holds me tighter. I’m so angry right now I see red, but his body next to mine is making my skin tingle. I let out a low grunt. I hate the physical reactions he inspires.
I squeeze my eyes shut as she talks and try to imagine smashing the nearby glass windows with a golf club. It’s difficult to focus, because the heady smell of Rafael’s spicy cologne surrounds me like fog.
He presses his hard body into my backside, and I feel a rush of searing, liquid need between my legs. I shake my head, as if to will away the throbbing I’m already feeling in my pussy.
When I fold my hands primly on the counter, he covers them with one of his big hands and strokes my skin with his thumb. Why is he being so damned affectionate after I stood him up on our wedding day?
I try to wrench my hands from under his, annoyed at the anger and sexual hunger at war in my body. The desk clerk busies herself with the keys and turns her back to us.
“Get your hands off me,” I hiss.
“I’ve never heard you say that before,” he murmurs. There’s an undertone of seething rage in his voice, and I know the minute we’re alone, we’ll explode into a fight.
When I open my eyes, I glance at his forearm, which is hard and bronze against the rolled-up sleeves of his soft white linen shirt.
Screw Rafael and his forearms. An image of us screwing pops into my brain. I try to inch away from him, toward the desk. He responds by pressing even harder into me. Does he have an erection? I scowl and stare at the veined marble, but that only makes me think of the throbbing vein in Rafael’s cock. My knees feel wobbly.
Rafa wraps his arms around my waist, above my baby bump, in an insistent hug.
“You two are adorable together,” the clerk gushes. “Congratulations on your wedding.”
I let out an impatient noise of protest and shift from foot to foot. What if I told her the truth? I open my mouth, but Rafa cuts me off before I can speak.
“My bride is terribly impatient. Muñeca, we’ll be in the suite soon. I know you can’t wait to spend our first night as a married couple.” He dips his head and softly flutters kisses against my neck, sending a firestorm of goose bumps across my skin and butterflies pounding against my belly. I pretend I’m a statue and seethe.
Then he puts his lips to my ear and hums in that low tone of his. The stubble on his face pricks the sensitive skin where my jaw meets my neck. It’s both rough and sensual at the same time, and I shiver.
“It’s rather appropriate that there’s a hurricane during our honeymoon, don’t you think, Mrs. Menendez?”
14
JUSTINE
Rafael doesn’t take his hand off my arm while a porter walks us to our villa.
“You’re sure you don’t have any luggage?” the porter asks.
“We’re traveling light.” Rafa shoots me a glare. I try to wriggle out of his grip, but he ends up gripping my hand tight.
Dammit, I left my suitcase at the airport. I wonder if Bethany thought to bring it with her on the plane. Probably not. I heave a sigh. I loved that bag.
The porter leads us down a wooden boardwalk. The path is surrounded in places by water, both man-made pools and natural lagoons. In other parts, it’s shrouded by thickets of sea grape groves and other tall beach plants. The villas are in between these lagoons, ponds, pools, and groves, giving everything a secluded feel.
Tonight, in the fading otherworldly pink twilight, the water is inky and still, and not a leaf or blade of sea grass moves. “The calm before the storm,” I murmur.
As we briskly walk behind the porter, I eye the lagoon.
“What happens if there’s storm surge?” I ask.
“Maybe you should’ve thought about that when you decided to leave the airport,” Rafa hisses.
“Oh, do not worry, Mrs. Menendez.” The porter has a melodic and formal Bahamian lilt and doesn’t use contractions. He points at a villa in the distance illuminated by the warm glow of expensive indoor lighting. “Your villa is on a slight platform. It is elevated. See, up ahead? It was built by a world-famous architect who anticipated storms.”
I shoot Rafa a smirk, and he squeezes my fingers.
The porter talks about the famous architect who built every structure at the resort with obsessive symmetry, how he used exotic woods, and how our villa is the most secluded of all. Apparently it’s not as close to the beach as the one we stayed at in February—incredibly, he either remembers us from that trip, or he’s been trained to give the best customer service in the world—but it has a better vista of the ocean and the entire island.
“Here we are, my lovebirds!” The porter is too cheery for the circumstances, and Rafa and I both have sour looks on our faces. It almost makes me laugh out loud, how similar we look when we’re annoyed. Sometimes I think we’re both too similar for our own good.
My hand blooms with sweat because Rafa’s clutching is so tight, and he doesn’t let go while the porter explains the wet bar, the kitchen, and the mechanical hurricane shutters that will roll down at the touch of a button. The floor-to-ceiling windows will be protected, and so will we.
“We’ll ring you before it’s time to roll them down. It’ll be like a fortress,” the porter says.
“Or a torture chamber,” I mutter. Rafael glares at me nastily, accompanied with a tight-lipped smile.
Somehow Rafael’s able to tip the porter while holding my hand. When the door behind the hotel employee closes, Rafael backs me up a step to a nearby wall.
He splays both hands on either side of my shoulders and stares at me with fierce eyes.
“Why didn’t you force me into a cab and then into your private jet?” I sneer.
He mirrors my expression and tone. “Because the plane can only stay on the tarmac for a half-hour. The airport’s shutting down for the storm, and because you decided to act like a child, we’re stuck here.”
My nostrils twitch. “This is abuse, you keeping me here against my will with you. Kidnapping, even. You belong in the wild. With animals.”
A fresh flush of color creeps into his cheeks. He licks his full lips and then slowly backs away. He sits in a nearby white chair, drumming his fingers on the teak wooden arm. I can tell he’s furious.
I remain with my back against the wall, and we’re staring at each other, squaring off like caged animals ready for a death match.
“Why are you doing this?” I bite out. “I didn’t ask you to rescue me.”
“For the record, I’m rescuing my unborn child. If you weren’t pregnant, I’d leave you in this hurricane alone to think about how you walked out on me again. What is it? Three times? Yes. Three.”
I clench my teeth. Bastard. He’s right, of course, and has every reason to be angry. As do I.
“And as far as why? I could ask you the same thing. Why did you leave just minutes before our wedding?”
I snort. “I’m furious with you. You have a baby. With another woman. You should’ve told me.”
He nods slowly. “I can understand that. I’m furious with me, too. Beyond furious at the situation I’ve put us in. You have no fucking idea.”
I wasn’t expecting agreement so soon. I narrow my eyes. What’s going on here? I expected a loud, angry debate with accusations. His admission of guilt momentarily diffuses the tension.
He dips his head and inhales, then looks up at me with blazing eyes. “I wish you’d given me the chance to explain. I wish you’d come back to Florida with me where it’s safe. I wish none of this was happening.”
I cross my arms. “Well, I wish you’d explained that you fathered a child with another woman before our wedding day. Or before you asked me to marry you.”
He shuts his eyes and winces. “The reality is far more complicated than you know.”
Whatever. “How complicated can it be? You fucked your secretary, she had a baby, and you didn’t tell me.”
Shaking his head, he whispers a few choice Spanish swear words.
I make a huffing noise when I exhale out my nose. Peeling myself away from the wall, I rub the small of my back and head for the white sofa. Like Bethany’s villa, the suite is decorated in the same, all-white tones. It’s supposed to be soothing, but right now I want to hurl the overstuffed pillows around the room.
“Does your back hurt?”
I ease onto the forgiving cushion. “A little. I’m fine. It’s just stress.”
He stands up, and I notice that his mouth is set in a hard line. The full force of his arrogance is on display. I can practically feel it crackling in the air. He gestures to the bathroom.
“Here’s how it’s going to go for the rest of the night. You’re going to take a hot shower to relax your back muscles.” He points to himself. “I’m going to the hotel’s boutique to buy us some clothes for the next day or two. I’m also ordering dinner and securing enough water for us. I know we’ve both been in bigger storms back in Miami, but we need to be somewhat prepared. Then we’re going to talk. Like adults.”
“What if I don’t want to talk?”
“Justine. Surely you can’t be that selfish. Yes, I fucked up. Majorly. And I’m going to tell you everything. But you also owe me an explanation of why you didn’t at least call or text after you did your runaway bride routine. I was sick with worry. Why would you do that to me?” He pauses. “I. Love. You.”
I swallow hard and stare at my feet. The sound of him saying those three words cracks my heart right in two. When I glance up, he’s still standing there, looking pissed and in command. It’s then that I realize I’m trapped with him here for God knows how long.
“I’ll be back in a half-hour or less. If you try to leave here, even if it’s to go to the ice machine, I’m calling the authorities and telling them you’re mentally unstable and you’re putting the baby at risk by acting erratically right before a hurricane.”
I’ve never seen him look so furious or sound so domineering. My eyes widen. He takes a few steps toward the door.
“Do you want to know what I’d like to eat?” I call out.
He stops, but doesn’t turn around. “No. I do not.”
His door slam echoes through the suite, and I’m left sitting on the pristine, white sofa, wondering how the next several hours will unfold.
In a final, small act of defiance, I don’t shower. I take a bath.
The resort has amazing, deep porcelain tubs. White, of course. They’re not whirlpools with jets, but they’re free-standing and perfect for soaking. The one in our suite is set against a wall, with a teak shelf above it containing a variety of delicious, floral- and herb-scented oils.
I select a wild orchid scent and pour a few capfuls into the warm water. Shedding my clothes—I’m only wearing the maxi dress, no bra or underwear because I’m that disorganized and overwhelmed—I sweep my hair atop my head with a clip.
There’s a dial switch that controls the bathroom lights, and I twist it until there’s only a soft, amber glow.
I slide the teak door shut and look for a lock. There isn’t one, and I sigh. Fine. I can’t wait to get in the bath. Even though I spent most of the day at the spa, the events of the airport have left me achy with tension.
It’s not a bubble bath, but the minute I step into the water, the silky oil coats my skin. My back immediately loosens. I moan out loud, and it comes out sounding alarmingly like a dying farm animal. My throat is raw from crying and talking.
Closing my eyes, I scoot down into the water, submerging everything but my head. I rub my small belly and sigh pleasurably. Does the baby know we’re about to ride out a hurricane? Does the baby sense the soothing water? Can the baby tell that its father is with us?
The silence and the perfume of the oil calm my nerves a little, and I softly run my hand through the water, sending ripples of fragrance into the air. What a fucking night it’s been. I recall Bethany’s pouty face and wonder if she’s on her way back to Miami or if she’s stuck in that airport.
I think about how I swatted Rafael in the arm with my purse at the airport. Did I really need to act like that? Sometimes I’m a terrible bitch. He’s right, in a way. I should listen to what he has to say. He loves me. I love him. He deserves to be heard.
But I’m still irate.
I sit up and reach for a bottle of the soap with the same scent as the oil. While lathering up my right leg, I hear a knock on the door and pause.
“Justine?” Rafael’s voice, sensual as ever, rumbles through my body.
“I’m busy.”
I hear the door slide open and put my leg back in the water. The sound of footsteps on the tile floor bounce around the bathroom, and then I sense his presence in the room.
I turn my head, and he’s sitting on the teak bench about three feet away. Two big, white shopping bags with the resort’s logo are at his feet. His eyes are on my body.
“I’m bathing,” I say crossly. Of course, my nipples harden under his insistent stare. I casually slip my arm across my breasts. When I first met Rafael, I was pretty small up top, small enough to go without a bra. Age and pregnancy have made me positively busty, and my arm barely covers anything.
“I can see that.”
I pull my knees up, so my feet are flat on the bottom of the tub.
“Justine, I’ve seen you naked many, many times.”
While trying not to dwell on that statement, I let my gaze travel from his head to his feet. Not only is he wearing my favorite white linen shirt, untucked, but he’s in a pair of light tan shorts with white polka dots. And he’s barefoot, probably having left his shoes near the door. On most men, this ensemble might seem ridiculously hipster. On him, it’s both sexy and irresistibly adorable.
“Do you like my shorts?”
I allow a little smile to creep on my lips and lower my legs so they’re stretched out. “I do.”
He points with both index fingers to the bag. “I bought everything in your size that I thought you’d like at the boutique. There are dresses, sleepwear, some T-shirts and shorts. Standard hotel fashion, tropical resort stuff. I hope you’ll find something you like for the next couple of days. Or however long we’ll be here.”
I nod and let my arm slip from my breasts so I can skim the top of the water with my fingers. “Thank you. That was nice of you. Did you buy things for yourself?” I’m aware that his voice is softer, less angry, and mine is, too.
“I did. And I also brought some salad, bread, soup, and a sandwich to the suite. You hungry?”
