More Than Crave You Read online

  “Don’t leave. I brought you here because a) you can’t work all the time, b) you have to stop avoiding the fact that you need to move on from Becca, and c) like I said, there’s something you’ve got to see.”

  “Something here? What?”

  He shrugs, but his face is full of mischief.

  “Oh, I get it now.” I shake my head. “You think I need to get laid.”

  “I know you do. But not by just anyone. That’s not your style.” He leans back and peers at me. “First, are you sure there’s nothing going on between you and Nia?”

  In my head doesn’t count. “We beat this dead horse the other night. She took pity on me because I hadn’t had a home-cooked meal in months and my apartment was a disaster. Stop reading more into it.”

  “Ever think about why she’d bother? Why she’d care?”

  Actually, I have. “Because she’s a nice person who likes to help others. She’s done some babysitting for Marcy when her husband was out of town and her older son had a soccer game. She also helped Don and his wife when they moved into a new place over Fourth of July weekend. I’m not looking for ulterior motives.”

  Mostly because if I thought she was hot for me in return, I’d be way more tempted to throw caution to the wind, risk a lawsuit, and carry her off to my bed.

  Then you’d have no assistant, dipshit, and where would you be?

  “You should. I think she’s got a thing for you.”

  I scoff. “I think you’re insane. I also think you should drop it.”

  If he doesn’t, I’ll fixate on the possibilities. Nia is not only the first female who’s stirred my interest since Becca, but she’s the only one who’s ever made me feel like my blood is boiling. I don’t understand it; I’ve barely touched her.

  “All right. Let’s sit back, enjoy the show, and see what tonight brings.”

  Whatever he has planned will at least be more entertaining than his October profit and loss statements. Maybe this show, whatever it is, will help me keep my mind off the newest offer Colossus Investment Corporation submitted just before five o’clock on Friday…and the fact that today my son or daughter was supposed to have been born.

  In March when the obstetrician gave Becca and me the baby’s due date, November fourth hadn’t sounded that far away. Before we even left the office, she was furiously making plans to hire a decorator for the nursery and interview potential nannies. We even discussed private schools.

  I had no idea then how different my life would be now.

  “Sure,” I say finally. It’s probably better—and healthier—than sitting in my penthouse alone, stewing about my worries and lamenting all I’ve lost.

  The waitress returns with another sassy grin, a few drinks, and a veggie tray on the house. Over the next ten minutes, I see more women dressed suggestively bustle in and out of the curtain draped across the stage, some showing thigh or ass to appreciative audience members. Others outright wriggle, flirt, and tease.

  “God, I love kittens,” mutters the forty-something guy behind me.

  I lean in and peer at Bas. “Kittens?”

  He smiles. “They help the show run smoothly.”

  “What kind of show?”

  Before Bas can answer, the room goes dim. A spotlight hits the stage. Then a man in a red velvet tux centers himself in the beam of light, mic in hand. “Welcome! Who’s ready for a swinging Saturday night?”

  The crowd cheers raucously. Even Bas, who is never a joiner, claps and whistles.

  “Who are our experienced guests? Let me hear you.”

  My buddy surprises me by applauding even louder.

  “You’ve been here before?”

  “Yeah. Last weekend with one of my basketball buddies. One visit, and I knew I had to come back. We’ll see if you feel the same.”

  On that cryptic note, he leans back in his chair and focuses on the stage, leaving me no choice but to do the same. I nervously bite into a stalk of celery and wonder why the hell I’m keyed up.

  “A lot of returning friends here tonight,” the emcee praises. “Always good to see you. And who are our virgins? Raise your hand. Don’t be shy.”

  When I sit quietly, Bas kicks me under the table. Grudgingly, I lift my arm above my head. The spotlight zips around the room and zeroes in on me before highlighting a few others, then returning to our host.

  “Excellent. Let’s get your cherry popped. Who’s ready for a great show?”

  If anything, the decibel level goes up again. People, especially men, are excited. My disquiet returns in earnest.

  “Then get ready for the Bawdy Boudoir Burlesque Revue!”

  Music fills the air—trombones and saxophones mostly—giving the old music a lively, sexy vibe. Then the curtains part, and an artificial redhead hustles onto the stage in a stark black pea coat, a top hat, and heels. Behind her, a dozen women all dressed in French maid costumes cluster around her. The live horn section goes silent before prerecorded music fills the speakers around the club. It’s whimsical and cheeky and suggestive as hell, especially when the redhead peels off her coat and tosses it aside, revealing a glitter-studded bra and thong, then proceeds to undress even more until she’s covered only by a pair of feather dusters and a couple of pasties.

  “Burlesque?” I raise a brow across the table at Sebastian. “This is what you think I need to see?”

  He nods, barely taking his eyes off the stage.

  “Bas, I don’t need to gawk at half-naked women.”

  “Keep watching. It’ll get better.”

  In what way?

  As soon as the nearly naked redhead flounces off stage, her pale ass swishing to the closing beats of the music, another horde of women race front and center, dressed in what I can only describe as Flamenco garb—ruffled skirts, low-cut necklines, and bright red lipstick. A Latina beauty shimmies her way on stage, dressed in a skimpier, drop-dead red costume. A shirtless beefcake follows in her wake. They dance together…if you can call it that. It looks like vertical, rhythmic sex to me.

  I don’t want this woman, but I sure would like some action. Unfortunately, right now I can’t picture doing it with anyone except Nia.

  After a striptease down to a G-string and some swinging tassels, the brunette and her partner tango out of sight, littering the floor with glitter and sequins.

  The waitress slides by in silence and brings both Bas and me another drink as the Latin dancers are replaced by a busty blonde barmaid in a parody of traditional German garb. A corset thrusts her boobs up, and her skirt looks indecently short. Her white knee socks are a schoolgirl throwback and utterly at odds with her shiny black heels. She carries two big steins as she skips to a cluster of men in the corner whose tongues practically hang from their mouths. Instead of setting the big mugs down, she turns and bends, wriggling her backside and revealing a tiny thong. One bare cheek is painted with the word SPANK. The other reads ME. The middle-aged man closest to her happily complies.

  A few minutes later, the barmaid is replaced by an Asian woman wearing a dress in transparent green vinyl. She stirs a giant pot like a mad scientist with a seemingly evil smile, then leads one of the male dancers clad in a business suit into her lair, tossing off her dress and tempting him with come-hither glances until he dives into her concoction and emerges wet and horny and nearly naked. Another sex-standing-up number ensues.

  I still don’t know why Bas insisted I come. All the sexual reminders are only revving me up.

  As the latest duo leaves the stage, I reach for a couple of bills in my wallet. “Thanks for an interesting evening, but I think I’m going to call an Uber and head home. It’s getting late, and I’m tired.”

  “Tired?” he parrots. “It’s barely eleven o’clock on a Saturday night.”

  I shrug. “I haven’t slept much.”

  Try not at all. Instead of seeing Becca all around the apartment, I’m now imagining Nia. In my kitchen. In my bedroom. In my bed.

  Why the hell can’t I think of any
thing except her?

  “Give me until midnight. It will make sense by then.”

  I’m not wavering. “I’m done.”

  Suddenly, he shoots me a challenging grin. “That supplier you hate dealing with so much—what’s his name?”

  “Bill Rhodes.”

  “Right. When he comes into town for his next quarterly schmooze, I’ll volunteer as tribute and go golfing with him for you. I’ll even do the dinner bit.”

  I sit. Now I’m tempted. I don’t like Bill Rhodes. I like golfing even less. Spending twelve hours with the man is pure torture. “You’re mean.”

  “I’m helpful,” he corrects.

  “If you were helpful, you would have volunteered to deal with Bill without coercing me to stay.”

  “I’m doing this for you. You’ll thank me later.”

  Before I can ask how that’s possible, another act trots on stage, this one a heavy thirty-something comedian. He’s a dead ringer for Jackie Gleason back in the day. Speaks like the actor, too. I only know that because when I was growing up, Diana loved to watch reruns of The Honeymooners. He’s funny. I relax, finding him easy to enjoy.

  A half hour later, the emcee who had appeared earlier in his red velvet tux now flits onstage in a green corset, full makeup, and crazy heels. Gotta say, it looks damn awkward with his handlebar mustache.

  Sebastian laughs, then gives him a considering stare. “I’m kind of impressed.”

  “Don’t think you’d look that good in a corset?”

  “I’d look better,” Bas scoffs. “But I sure as fuck couldn’t walk on those heels.”

  The man has a point. Neither could I.

  “Now, for our grand finale this evening… The moment you’ve all been waiting for. Let’s give a big BBB welcome to the one, the only, the most beautiful goddess of burlesque, Precious Noire!”

  The man backs off stage, and the curtains part. An African-American woman wearing a white sequin dress that hugs her body and covers her from head-to-toe waltzes into the spotlight, hair secured demurely at her crown. A mask covers most of her face, except for a pair of red-painted lips that do crazy things to my libido.

  As the music turns bawdy, she slinks forward, the slit in her costume revealing her thigh and teasing me with a glimpse of her hip. With one hand, she flicks open a huge white feather fan and covers the tempting valley of her cleavage before she shoots a coy glance over her shoulder. I look to see a man following her wearing a pair of tights…and nothing else. He’s hard as hell and makes no move to hide it.

  The ridiculously shredded and ripped male dancer approaches her from behind and wraps his pale hands around her dark shoulders, caressing his way down her arms. She gives a shiver and a wriggle. Then he finds the slit in her skirt and flares it wide, revealing her sleek thighs and a small red glitter-studded brief beneath.

  Holy shit, she’s sex on stilettos. I feel myself start to sweat.

  When she lifts her knee in front of her then slowly opens it to her side, the man behind her takes her thigh in hand and lowers his mouth to her exposed neck. She tosses her head back, lips parted. My cock responds immediately.

  This woman is sensual in a way I’ve never seen, not in person. Sure, movies and whatever. But somehow being in the same room with her makes it real. Her sexuality is tangible; I feel it.

  In that moment, I would gladly have walked on stage and offered that man a million dollars to give her to me.

  Instead, I shift in my chair and find myself barely breathing as I wait for what comes next. They don’t keep me hanging for long.

  The guy spins her to face him, anchors her thigh above his hip, then bends her back over his supporting arm. She arches, face upside down for the audience, as she throws her arms wide in total trust.

  As I watch him touch her, I’m jealous. Which makes no sense.

  But that gnawing envy only grows when he uses his free hand to unfasten the front of her dress. Slowly, slowly, he exposes a glittering red-and-white bra with dangling loops and feathers, all designed to snare a man’s attention. I can’t stop looking at her as he caresses her dress off one shoulder and nibbles at her flawless, gleaming skin.

  When he raises her to face him again, she backs away as if she’s taunting him, but he grabs her dress by the other shoulder and gives it a tug. The garment falls away from her body, giving me a spectacular view of her ass, her plump, pert cheeks almost totally exposed. Her waist looks incredibly small above her lush hips. And when he thrusts his hands in her hair and unpins it, the mass of dark curls tumbles halfway down her back…drawing my eyes to a shape that suddenly looks familiar.

  I zip a shocked stare over at Bas. “Is that Nia?”

  “You figured it out quick. I’m impressed. It took me until Thursday night to be sure that’s her.”

  Thursday night? When he saw her at my house? “Why then? What made it click for you?”

  “Her ass. When I saw it in those gray pants…” He shrugs. “It’s unmistakable.”

  He’s right. I want to be furious at his observation, but how can I fault him for identifying the copious beauty of her taut, juicy backside when it’s so obvious?

  “Stop looking at her,” I bark, even as I realize my demand is ridiculous.

  The whole room is transfixed by Nia.

  “Are you going to beat me up?” He glances around him. “Are you going to beat every other man up?”

  I grit my teeth and try to hold in an explosive fury I can’t explain. It isn’t logical. First, she’s choosing to be here, exposing her body to whoever walks through the door. I don’t understand why, and I’ll demand to. Except…I have no right. She’s not my wife or my girlfriend. She doesn’t owe me any explanation about what she does when she’s not working for me.

  I hate that.

  Fists clenched, I stew and watch the son of a bitch dancing with her toss her dress across the stage and trail his palm down her body from her neck, over her cleavage and abdomen…then lower. I don’t want to know what part of her he’s touching now. I simply want to throttle him.

  “You going to tell me again there’s nothing between you two?” Bas baits me.

  “I’ve never touched her.”

  “But you want to.”

  I ignore the knowing smirk on his face. “Drop it.”

  “You wanted to leave earlier.” He pushes away from the table. “If you’re still ready to get out, I’ll go, too.”

  “Stay where you are.”

  Bas has made his point, and I can’t fail to understand. Somehow, Nia has become more to me than an assistant.

  What the fuck am I going to do about it?

  As the slide of a trombone turns more suggestive and a sax further heats the mood, Nia faces the audience and lures the man on stage with a flirtatious roll of her body, even as her palms trace her curves from breast to thigh. She thrusts forward and arches back to the beat of the music in a smooth rocking of her hips, simulating sex. Ecstasy seemingly transforms her.

  I want to put that expression on her face for real. I’m compelled to. I don’t think I’ll be complete until I know at least once what she looks like, sounds like, feels like as she’s coming for me.

  This is stupid for so many reasons. Completely illogical. And I right now, I can’t bring myself to care.

  Her partner sidles up behind her, takes her hips in his grasp, and rolls his body with hers. Jesus, they’re simulating sex so realistically. If they were naked, I’d believe he was actually palming her ass and sliding deep inside her.

  I’m about to burst. I grab the arms of my chair and try to keep my shit together. I remind myself this is an act. None of it is real. But their bodies are so in synch, so fluid together that I can’t help the nasty suspicion Nia and this guy have fucked before.

  The thought burns. I seethe. She isn’t mine. But I goddamn want to be the one inside her now.

  Then the man reaches around her, knuckles brushing her collarbones before he spins her to face him again. He seems to cup
her breasts in his big hands. Seconds later, he pulls her bra away and tosses it aside. Then he reaches farther south and removes a layer of embellishment from her briefs, shrinking her thong and exposing even more of that luscious ass.

  With her back to the audience, Nia flares out both of her big white fans to cover the front of her body and turns to the small crowd once more. She seemingly looks right through me as she smiles, purses her lips, and teases everyone with what we can’t see.

  I’m torn. On the one hand, I feel as if I’m going to explode if I don’t feast my eyes on what’s behind those feathery shields right now. On the other hand, if she flashes me, she flashes every other man with a stiff dick in the room. The thought makes me homicidal.

  But Nia doesn’t know or care what I want, she merely goes on with her act, sliding her hips from side to side in a slow, sensual rhythm while her partner gyrates behind her, his lips all over her bare shoulders, as he takes hold of her wrist and slowly pulls the fan away from her breasts. They are ripe and real, symmetrical and smooth—and covered only by a pair of red pasties with matching dangling tassels.

  She shimmies, gives the crowd a seductive brush across the swells with her fingertips, and closes her eyes in pure pleasure as her partner wrests the fan from her grip, then reaches for its twin in her other hand, which still sways over the mystery between her legs. The music ramps up. He seemingly thrusts into her from behind again, then yanks the frond of feathers away from her body and chucks it to the other side of the stage.

  I gasp. Hold my breath. Stare. The tiny thong she’s wearing leaves her close to exposed. It’s antagonizing me. It’s arousing me. Shit, the elaborate mask on her face covers more than her pasties and her thong put together.

  Something shifts inside me. I already know I’m never going to be the same. And Nia keeps dancing, taunting me as if she has no idea she’s utterly ruining me.

  Holy fuck, how did I have absolutely no inkling for the last three years how sexy she is? I already understand I can’t unknow that now. And I’m beginning to suspect that tonight, I’m going to cross a line I may regret.