Текст книги "Crave"

Автор книги: B.J. Harvey

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CRAVE

Copyright © 2015 by BJ Harvey

Edited by Lauren McKellar

Cover Designed by Najla Qamber of Najla Qamber Designs

ISBN: 978–0-9941257–1-2

Photography: Kelsey Keeton of K Keeton Designs

Models: Storm Bailey and Cameo Hopper

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 the above author of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

I have a craving.

A dark urge I’ve failed to resist despite years of trying to do that very thing.

I’ve forced myself to hide behind a mask, a perfect orchestration to hide my true self.

After I met her, my wants and needs, my inner most desires changed.

She encouraged me to embrace who I truly am, and she was willing to do anything and everything I wanted, giving herself to satisfy my most carnal appetite.

Then everything in my carefully managed world came crashing down around me. A moment in time, a loss of control, and the very thing I cherish was nearly taken from me.

My fate now lies in her hands.

The very life I’ve built for myself . . . everything I’ve ever done now waits in purgatory, all caused by a lack of focus at a time when my most concentrated attention was needed.

The very thing I crave may now be the end of me.

To anyone who has ever wanted to give up on something,

And never did.

Dedication

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

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Author Links

Books by B.J. Harvey

Another event, another night spent wearing my well-worn mask.

I show the world what they want to see. No, what they expect to see. A nationally renowned architect with iconic buildings attributed to his name attracts attention and garners certain expectations. I’m expected to be approachable, respectable, inspiring, and well put together. And from the outside, I’m all of those things. A good man from a great family, a man who rose to recognition for designing a few buildings that inspired national pride, and doing it by showcasing the best of modern architectural techniques.

I lean against the room’s corner bar. Catching my reflection in the mirror behind the top shelf, I square my shoulders, standing up tall as I try my best not to look foreboding and unapproachable. The event may be in my honor, but I’m not ignorant to its true purpose—to raise funds from the college alumni on the back of my latest feat. The great Callum Alexander success story is the gift that keeps on giving, it seems.

Cradling my glass of Glenlivet, I peruse the room with unabashed indifference. I don’t care whether I’m here or not. To be honest, I’d rather be in my own secluded sanctuary, sitting back in my black leather chair looking out toward the bay. Instead, I’m wearing a tailored black Tom Ford tuxedo in a room full of fellow chameleons making incessant small talk about inconsequential matters.

Everything I do—the way I act, the car I arrived in, even the label on the suit I wear—all matter. I fit the mold when I’m like this. In this setting, my own chameleon costume is in its element—I’m making small talk with university staff, professors keen to discuss their latest batch of students, star-struck kids hoping to get even a toe in the door, and even benefactors hoping to pull me into the ‘old boys’ club.’ Everyone has an agenda; everyone wants a small piece of me. That’s why I’m more reserved at functions like this. I sit back, I watch, and I rarely engage with others unless they approach me.

There are many layers to my disguise, my public persona. Very few people get an insight into the real Callum Alexander—my family and my best friend, but that’s all. Everyone else gets this Callum, the well-respected, well-regarded, successful man living the American dream. Sacrificing a lot and remaining in control at all times is what I’ve had to do, but that may have something to do with my desired predilections more than anything else.

I shake my head as my thoughts go down an entirely inappropriate track for an event such as this, adjusting my pants discreetly as I down the rest of my drink. I set my glass on the bar and signal to the barman to prepare another. When it arrives, I head toward the front of the large hotel ballroom, trying not to think the dark thoughts that are starting to blur the edges of my seemingly bright life.

I walk through the crowd of mingling people with a narrowed brow, my lips are drawn into a thin line as I search the room for a familiar face but come up empty. The looks I get in return tell me my mask must be askew tonight. It’s somewhat understandable; my mind is elsewhere. I’m too busy considering why I bother with the wolf-in-sheep’s-clothing facade. I’ve worked hard and foregone a lot to get where I am today and have continued to do so in order to maintain it. To lose it all now would be unfathomable.

A man who could easily have been a mirror image of myself ten years ago steps into my path with his hand out. “Mr. Alexander?”

I take a moment to study him. He’s just short of my six foot two -inches, with broad, confident shoulders and a tailored suit that’s no doubt equally as expensive as mine, a sign that he definitely comes from money. His almost black hair is slicked to the side and back off his face, adding character to his fresh, bright-eyed and hopeful expression as he looks at me.

“I’m such a big fan of your work,” he says. My chest tightens at his adulation.

I return his handshake. His grip is strong, firm, but not threatening. There is no semblance of ego in this exchange. “I’m in my third year, and we’ve been studying your designs this semester ahead of tonight’s event,” he continues.

My eyes widen at his revelation. I know my recent designs have been noteworthy but I’m only thirty-four. When I was a student, we studied the greats. Not a fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants modern designer lucky enough to catch a big break—twice.

“Thank you. I hope you haven’t been studying my work too closely. You might find something to improve on,” I add with a wink. His eyes widen and his mouth drops open momentarily before he quickly composes himself.

“No chance of that happening, Mr. Alexander. Your concept for Spera House in Boston was genius. Inspired. The way you contrasted the stark lines of modern concrete with the curves of the building’s historical neighbors was amazing.”

Well, the young man certainly studies well. “The location motivated me. What can I say?” I smile at him.

“I’d love to discuss the possibility of an internship at your firm, Mr. Alexander. It would be an honor and a privilege to learn and work under you.” The man has done his homework. This year’s internship was only formally announced a week ago.

I nod and note his clenched fists by his side as I reach into my jacket’s inside pocket and pull out my business card. It’s a crisp, cream, thick stock with silver script printed, saying Alexander Richardson.

This is me on autopilot—smile, converse, and hand over the business card with instructions to contact my assistant. It’s straightforward, direct, and leaves little room for confusion. For a man like me, it’s the perfect networking strategy.

I hand the card over to him, and he grips it tight in his fingers and looks at it, running his thumb over the print before staring back at me.

“Give my assistant, Annie, a call tomorrow, and she’ll run through the application process with you.”

His shoulders square up and it’s obvious that the opportunity to work with me is something he would value highly. “Remember to tell her you met me last night and to schedule an interview for you with me straight away.”

The young man opens his mouth and then closes it again before nodding once and pocketing the business card. “Wow, that would be such an amazing opportunity. Thank you, Mr. Alexander.”

I reach out to shake his hand again. “Thank you for admiring my work. Us creative types love appreciation, as you well know, Mr. . . .”

“Gregory Graves.” Shaking my hand quickly again, he pulls back and again draws a fist against his leg.

“Mr. Graves, nice to meet you. I’ll be seeing you soon.”

“Have a good evening,” he says quickly, before walking back into the crowd and out of sight. I have to give it to him—to approach me so assuredly and ask straight out about the internship says a lot about his ambition and drive. Normally the selection of applicants for our intern program apply to get our name on their resumes. Gregory Graves might just lift the standard of this year’s options.

I continue to walk through the middle of the room and I take in the large soirée. These events are never what they seem. Tonight has been heralded as a celebration of my award win when in fact it is an exercise in fastidious—and rather obvious—fundraising.

The ticket prices are inflated and the propaganda surrounding the walls of the room tells the real truth of tonight’s get together; put me front of stage like the prized pony they’re all so proud of and in the process, raise funds for a new business center.

“Callum!”

I turn my head to see my best friend and business partner, Grant, walking toward me. The tension that had been building inside of me since I arrived slowly dissipates, and I breathe a sigh of relief knowing that there’s at least one person I can be myself with tonight.

I can’t help but laugh at him. He’s only just arrived and already he’s trying to adjust his bow tie. Grant Richardson, my best friend since high school, the only person in my inner circle, and another one who doesn’t like the pretense that this event signifies, is not a fan of tuxedos. Actually, he’s not a fan of anything restricting, marriage included. He looks around the room and huffs out a big gust of air from his mouth.

“Damn, this is the real deal tonight, isn’t it? Callum Alexander returning to Mecca.”

I bump his shoulder with mine. “Fuck off, Richardson. You think I want to be displayed like a work of art?” My light tone matches the ridiculousness of his statement.

He raises an eyebrow at me, his face full of disbelief. “Really? They’re proud as hell of you, Cal. It just so happens to also coincide with their need to raise a shit-load of cash. Fluke?” His smile is full of mirth.

I chuckle. “You know as well as I do that it’s not. It makes good business sense, even if they are using me as the big draw card.”

He nods in agreement. “Did you get past the paps outside?”

I sigh loudly. “Do you think they’d let me get past? I had to do three interviews with reporters before I reached the front door.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “You are the guest of honor.”

Since my award win, a lot of media attention—in particular from the tabloids—has been focused on me, the ‘unmarried hotshot architect who shies away from the spotlight.’ In fact, I’ve become somewhat of a pseudo celebrity—a D-list star if you will. It’s not a title I’ve welcomed or even encouraged, but since it brings attention to my work and the firm, I’m conscious of the fact it would be unwise to bite the hand that feeds me.

One reporter in particular seems to have made it her mission to propel my status to that of the city’s most eligible bachelor. This of course was after I turned down her advances. Thankfully, she was nowhere to be seen tonight.

Looking up at the large clock on the wall, I realize it’s only eight p.m. and I’ve still got another two hours of this crap to put up with before I can make my escape. I lift my glass to my mouth again. The warm swill of whisky goes some way toward making the night slightly better

“Anyone good to look at?” Grant knocks me out of my thoughts, steering my mind toward the fairer sex.

He moves to my side to scan the room’s guests and I join him, looking around absentmindedly.

“Not that I can see, but the night is still young. You never know your luck in this fine city at night.” I laugh.

“A man can only hope,” Grant retorts.

“Looking for another trophy wife, Grant? Didn’t you learn anything from Olivia?” I ask.

Olivia is Grant’s ex-wife, a second runner-up Miss Montana with old money and a killer rack that captured his attention before she’d even opened her mouth. Cue a whirlwind courtship and a quickie Vegas wedding, and Grant was off the market. Or so we’d all thought. He’d soon realized that good looks and a well-known family name didn’t mean she was intelligent or could offer him anything more than great arm candy. The moment Grant realized he wanted more, his young trophy wife was out the door.

Whipping his hand out, he signals the attention of a waitress walking past with a tray full of champagne flutes. “Excuse me,” Grant says. When she stops and turns toward us, he swipes two glasses and offers one to me.

“Thank you,” I say to Grant as I take the drink. When I feel eyes on me, I turn and see the waitress hasn’t moved on. She’s standing beside us, openly staring.

I turn toward her. “Sorry, did you need something?”

“You’re Callum Alexander, right?”

I roll my eyes and exhale noisily before slipping my professional welcome mask back on and flashing her my most winning smile. “That’s me, and you are?”

“Lucia. Lucia Harding, but I prefer Luce.” She balances the laden tray onto her palm and holds out her other hand to me, her gaze never wavering as she introduces herself. Green eyes with a slight speckling of amber take me in as she waits for my next move. What surprises me more than anything is the way she’s seemingly unapologetic as she stands there and studies me. It takes Grant to clear his throat before I realize that I’ve been staring right back at her. Putting my hand in hers, my smile morphs into something more genuine, almost real. Something that hasn’t happened in a long time.

“Luce . . .” I keep my hand in hers and tilt my head to my right, where Grant is standing. “This is my rude friend, Grant Richardson, my partner-in-crime and right-hand man.”

Her cheeks blush a light red hue, and I can’t help but wonder what on earth she’s thinking about. Then my own mind wanders to what else could make her blush, what I could do to her to elicit such a response. A gentle squeeze of my hand snaps me out of my errant thoughts, and I realize I’m still holding her hand, but she’s not pulling hers away, either.

A strange, yet captivating moment.

I study her face. It’s as if my subconscious feels the need to commit her to memory. Shining dark hair with waves flowing over her shoulder. Skin the color of warm porcelain with a scattering of freckles adorning the bridge of her nose and cheeks, giving a hint of character that only serves to draw you in further. She’s impossible to ignore. There’s a glint in her enchanting eyes, hinting at a depth you want to dive in and explore.

She may have the appearance of an ordinary college student roped in to work the event, but one look at her and you know that she is so much more than that. And fuck me if I don’t want to find out exactly what that is.

What has me perplexed is why a simple introduction, a simple handshake, can have me overthinking the interaction.

As if it actually means anything to me.

She’s just another woman. I could probably click my fingers and have her in my bed, naked and begging for more within the hour if I wanted to. Then again, there’s something about her, something I can tell just from looking at her that tells me she could be different from any other woman in this room. A diamond in the rough.

I find myself leaning forward into her space, watching my thumb as it brushes over the top of her knuckles as I get closer. Her breathing quickens, and her hand becomes clammy inside of my own. I blink twice as I lift my gaze from our hands into her widened eyes.

What the hell just happened there?

I pull my hand back and step toward Grant who has been drawn into a conversation with one of our old college professors. I nod once in the young woman’s direction to silently dismiss her.

There is nothing about me that could cater for a woman like her, irrespective of any connection or moment we might have had. She looks young and undoubtedly innocent, someone deserving of big gestures and declarations of never-ending adoration. What I can offer is nothing more than a short physical liaison that would be mutually satisfying but emotionally dormant.

What I truly want is far more extreme, and in no way sentimental. Something that would have her running for the hills.

A minute later, I look back toward her only to be met with her retreating back as she walks away. The subtle swing of her hips is a telling sign that she knows I’m watching.

A jolt of lust shoots through me as I rake my eyes over the curve of her waist, rounding her hips and fixating on her ass. Having dismissed the idea of pursuing her further, I suddenly want a do-over. I want my charming, panty-dropping mask to slip into place so I can try talking her into something she’s probably not equipped to deal with. But the selfish man inside of me would take whatever I could get from her.

I’ve felt lust before. I’ve also succumbed to it. It’s what leads me into my dark thoughts, the idealistic fantasy to truly let go.

For someone like me, lust can be a dangerous emotion. Lust leads to want. Want leads to need. A need that leads to the undeniable struggle inside of me to resist what I truly desire.

What I truly crave.

“Harder . . .” She moans, her dewy skin slipping against mine as I continue to drive my cock into her, each stroke deeper, more forceful, bottoming out inside her every time.

Jodi is a one-night stand from months ago who never quite got the hint that I wasn’t looking for more. I met her at a client’s charity dinner I attended with Grant.

The night ended with Jodi pulling my cock out in the limo on the ride back to the hotel. I may have my issues but I am still a man, and if a woman pulls your cock out and wraps her lips around you, you’d be a saint if you stopped her—and I was drunk enough to not care.

Since then, when I’ve felt the need, I’ve called Jodi to discreetly meet up. Tonight I needed release so I called her, and with every well-angled thrust into Jodi’s writhing body underneath me, the tension from the week is slowly dissipating. Melodramatic in her responses, her screams and whimpers—which are no doubt genuine—are being played up in a concerted effort to please me. Unfortunately for Jodi, I’m immune to her efforts.

I’ve been distracted by thoughts of the woman at the function last Saturday. The salient sable-haired Lucia, a name that sounds so good as it rolls off your lips. A name representing light, innocence, an untainted beauty that would likely be marred by my desire. I do not feel worthy of such purity to even contemplate the meaning of such a name. This woman, who I’m unlikely to ever cross paths with again, has preoccupied my thoughts.

Jodi’s hands are bound above her head at her request, the black satin scarf adorning her wrists knotted around the steel tube center of the hotel room’s headboard.

Her flaxen hair is fanned out across the pillow, her face a picture of pseudo ecstasy, a sheen of sweat glistening off her skin as I continue my welcomed assault on her body.

Her legs circle my hips, the four-inch red heels I insisted she leave on digging into my ass.

“Mmm,” she whimpers as I rake my hand down her body, placing my thumb inside her alongside my cock, stretching her farther. Running it back up to her clit, I taunt her with teasing circles, getting closer and closer but never touching.

My sole focus is to get off—her first then me. The chance to taunt her is just an added bonus.

Her muscles clench tightly around my cock, catapulting my own release. I plunge inside of her one more time and an image of Lucia’s flawless body lying beneath me flashes in my mind, her exquisite bright eyes gleaming with heat, shining up at me in Jodi’s place. Overwhelmed with desire and my mind focused on my impending orgasm, I grip the headboard with one hand and move the other up her torso.

Cupping her breast, I squeeze her nipple between my thumb and forefinger. When she leans forward in an attempt to coax an unwelcome kiss from me, I’ve had enough.

Increasing my thrusts, I focus on the end result, buoyed by her cries of pleasure culminating in that moment she comes apart beneath me. Endorphins rush through me and I come hard, closing my eyes and seeing a face that is definitely not the same as the woman’s beneath me.

What is wrong with me?

With my body braced over her, I try to calm my breathing. I pull my head back when I feel Jodi’s lips brush against mine. My eyes snap open and I look down to see her soft eyes and sly smile. This is not what Jodi and I do, and her attempt to push the boundaries simply reiterates to me that my message about this not being anything more than sex has not been received, and has definitely not been accepted.

I’m careful to discourage intimacy. It’s something that’s definitely not wanted and to be honest, has simply never been there with her or any other woman I’ve been with. I’ve never been able to let myself go completely with a woman. The guard is always and forever will be, up in that regard. Call it a well-honed protection mechanism, one crafted out of both necessity and experience.

Jodi’s legs go limp around me and I pull back from her, easing my body to the side of hers and untying her. Carefully keeping my distance, I rise up off the bed and give her a quick once-over. She looks up at me with doe eyes and a drowsy smile, looking well sated and relaxed. I decide it’s time to end this charade.

“Should I call you a car?” I ask, my voice devoid of any emotion. I need to make sure my words cannot be misconstrued as anything other than the finality I’m striving for.

Her smile falters and she shakes her head, the unmistakable collection of tears in her eyes speaking volumes. Anger builds up inside me because there is nothing I hate more than being lied to. Jodi’s actions have unwittingly confirmed that her previous affirmation of wanting a purely physical relationship was as genuine as the $10,000 silicone implants on her chest. She said what she thought I wanted to hear in order to get back in my bed, thinking that she could ensconce her way into my life.

Never going happen, sweetheart. I’m never going to fall for that.

Letting out a slow, frustrated breath, I turn my naked back to her and walk into the bathroom, closing the door behind me. I unroll the condom, tying it off before dropping it into the waste basket and turn my head, catching my face in the mirror. My eyes are empty, matching the hollow feeling that always follows a rendezvous like this.

No woman, irrespective of who she is or what she does, deserves to be used by a man while he imagines being with someone else, and that is exactly what happened tonight. It’s never happened to me before.

I walk into the shower stall and turn on the water, standing underneath the thudding stream as it turns from cold to hot.

I’m not completely heartless. I tried to make sure Jodi knew what tonight was. Meeting her downstairs beforehand, we shared a bottle of Merlot in the bar before heading up to the room. I hoped that she had long given up any aspirations she had of becoming the next Mrs. Alexander, something I now have to be very aware of. Not with Jodi—who I won’t be calling again—but with any woman that approaches me. I question their motivation out of instinct, pondering what they might want from me, what they serve to gain from associating with me.

What resonates with me so much is how that one, albeit brief, encounter with Lucia last week is consuming me.

For some reason, her eyes and that knowing smile—fuck, even the swing of her hips and the curve of her ass as she walked away—all of it has stayed with me. And then I fucked another woman wishing it were her. Can it get any lower?

Meaningless sex with women like Jodi is easy. I can fuck them without fear of it going any further than I allow. Because if my control was to slip, even momentarily, the consequences would become tabloid fodder—that one journalist in particular baying for my blood, among other things. The downside to becoming an overnight success, some might say.

In reality, the truth is that I have not met that one woman I’ve been prepared to let my guard down with, a woman who I can trust enough to push the boundaries, explore fantasies with, take the next step with.

Maybe one day.