Nikki's Story: Crave Series, #1 Read online

  “Thanks. I mean, I hadn't seen or spoken to the guy in what, five years. We left things on bad terms.”

  “There seemed to be a lot of that going around in our family...”

  We laugh, and it lightens the mood.

  “Glad you and your father made up. He was distressed about the whole thing, I know it. I saw him a few times; he used to come up to the golf club, play a few rounds with me. You could tell he was hurting.”

  It's a surprise to hear this – that they saw each other, and that my father's pain over our feud was so evident others could see it.

  “I'm glad also.” I decide this is the politest thing to say given the circumstances. Looking at my cousin, I can see there's some regret that he never got the chance to make up with his father. “I met your wife. She's lovely.”

  “As is yours. And your daughter is adorable. We both got lucky there, didn't we? Who would have thought it, that two nerds like us could score such amazing women?”

  It warms my heart to hear him talk about my marriage like this, as though he understands that there's no difference between mine and a heterosexual one. I must admit, I was nervous seeing everyone again, nervous about what they would think. No matter how much you convince yourself you don't give a shit what their opinion of you is, there is always a tiny part of you that does.

  “We're not the only ones,” he continues. I follow his eyes and see that they've landed on Angel, who is making the rounds and offering fancy vol-au-vents to everyone. “You know I love your dad and all, but God in Heaven, how did he pull a woman like that?”

  It's a question I'm certain everyone is asking themselves, and one for which I still haven't figured out the answer. I suppose people asked the same thing when we were together.

  “Ugh, don't even talk to me about her,” I mumble, looking away in disgust. It's so automatic that it doesn't register how discourteous and personal it might sound.

  Graham laughs. “Uh-oh, someone doesn't like their new stepmother.”

  “She's not my stepmother.”

  “Yet. Have you two already had a fight?”

  “No. We just...it doesn't matter. We have a difference of opinion, that's all. But whatever, my father's a big boy, he's capable of making his own mistakes.”

  After several more minutes of catching up, making plans to meet up, do a family day, Graham's mother calls him away. I look over and see Emily playing with Graham's son, and Faye in another corner of the room getting her ear talked off by some old man. I'm not looking for her, I swear I'm not. But my gaze falls on Angel as she's heading upstairs. Our eyes meet. I see something in them, something beckoning, calling to me. It's only brief, and then she disappears.

  I peer around the room. No one is paying attention to me or her. Now will be a good time to confront her. I rest my glass on the table and as casually as I can, slip out of the room and follow her upstairs.

  She's waiting by the door to Harry's office, her hands folded across her chest, looking pleased with herself. She's waiting for me.

  “I knew you would follow me up here. You just couldn't resist, could you?”

  I glare at her for being right.

  She laughs to herself then steps into the room. I'm not far behind. The office is a mess. Papers strewn all over, and a huge, old PC taking up virtually all the desk space.

  “What the hell are you still doing here?” I open with, pushing the door to an inch of closing, but neglecting to shut it completely. If it's left ajar, maybe I can stay out of trouble. Maybe.

  “I'm supporting my fiance through this difficult time.” It sounds rehearsed.

  I shake my head in disbelief. “You had no intention of leaving, did you?”

  Now it's her turn to shake her head, and she does so with a devilish grin. “I wanted to get your panties off; I would have said anything you wanted to hear.”

  “So you would rather fuck me, your fiance's daughter, than screw him?”

  “I like how familiar you feel. And you taste great, too.”

  I know I'm blushing; my cheeks always spark when she talks about my body, when she reduces me to something sexual. Faye never does that. I'm her wife and she never sexualizes me. Hearing Angel do it, and feeling the throbbing sensation in my groin as she does, I realize how much I've missed being objectified by her. And all the while I'm thinking, why did she have to wear a damn jumpsuit? It's the hardest thing to take off in order to get some quick nookie. At this point, a part of me is still trying to hold on to the notion that I'm here to fight with her. The other part knows better.

  “I'm trying to figure out what the end game is here,” I say. “Is it to make me uncomfortable? What?”

  She takes a few casual steps closer, and I take a deep breath. “You know me, I never think too far ahead in the future. I could be dead tomorrow, right.”

  “I should be so lucky!”

  “Ouch! That's mean. But I know you don't mean it.”

  I don't. She is the bane of my life, but I'd never wish her dead. “Why wouldn't I mean it?”

  She takes a few more steps toward me. I'm fighting the urge to step backward, because doing so would be a sign of weakness. “Because who else would make you come as hard as you do? It wouldn't be your wife.”

  “Do you really think I couldn't find someone better than you in the sack in a heartbeat?”

  She laughs at me. “You would die of old age before that happened. But look, I know you didn't come all the way up here to discuss my sexual prowess...”

  “No, you're right, I came up here to tell you that you need to stick to your end of the deal and break this farce of a wedding off.”

  “Mmm, I like it when you get all domineering. Makes me so wet.” The next thing I know she's reaching round and unzipping her jumpsuit. “I bet it made you real mad realizing that I duped you. I bet you wanna take it out on me, don't you?”

  “Yeah,” is all I can say as I watch her slowly peel the material down her svelte body, revealing matching black underwear. It's like she's unwrapping a birthday gift, the way she unveils herself.

  She kicks the outfit off. “And I bet you wanna make me pay. You know I like it rough.”

  It's an offer I can't refuse. I smash my lips to hers. I don't care where we are, who we are to each other, or who's waiting for us downstairs. The here and the now is all that matters.

  “That's the Nikki I remember,” she says when she plucks her lips away. “Now show me what a naughty girl I've been.”

  I drive her backward until she's sitting on the little space that's left on the desk. “Isn't that your job, being my stepmother and all?” I don't wait for her response, I press my lips to hers again.

  She drapes her arms around my neck as I slot myself between her legs. I feel her kisses getting more fervent – she knows what I'm about to do. With one palm pressed against the desk for support, the other hand seeks out her sex, shifting away the scanty fabric of her thong to allow access. She's soaking wet already.

  “Is this what you want, huh?” I whisper against her ear, my fingers sliding through the folds of her cavern, moistening themselves in her ever-increasing excitement. “You want me to punish you for breaking our agreement? Because I'm not going easy on you.”

  She laughs with relish. That's all the answer I need.

  I enter her seconds later. It's a careless, reckless entrance that, judging from the way she jolts beneath me, was slightly painful. But I know her, and this is how she likes it.

  My thrusts are rough, drifting in and out and hitting her spot over and over with determination. While those two fingers work wonders in her hole, my thumb takes on the fun task of stimulating her bean. A two-pronged attack.

  She bites on my lower lip as I plow faster and harder.

  “Quick and dirty, that's what you deserve,” I whisper.

  “When was the last time you fucked someone like this? I knew you still had it in you.”

  Her moans are soft at first but gradually get louder, in line with the
squeaking of the desk. I know that if I want to bring her to climax before anyone catches us, I have to go full blast. I rip my mouth away from hers and kiss a trail down her chest, stopping at her breasts. They look so neat and perfect contained in that bra, that it gives me great pleasure to, with my teeth, release one from its restraint. My mouth is on her nipple instantly. Now I'm ready for the home straight.

  Maybe I shouldn't have stopped kissing her, catching her moans in my lips, because she's louder than ever now. Luckily for us they're playing a Rolling Stones compilation downstairs, my uncle's favorite band, and it will drown out much of the noise we're making.

  Still, I'm relieved when she finally comes, soaking my fingers entirely. My head rests on her breasts; I can hear her heartbeat racing, coming back down to its regular speed. She holds my head in her hands.

  “Has anyone ever told you you fuck like Wonder Woman?” she says breathlessly.

  But I don't want her compliments. Once again the spell that her body put me under breaks, and I suddenly remember where I am and what I'm doing. And holy shit!

  “You need to get dressed.” I separate myself from her, unable to look her in the eye. I wipe her sap from my fingers onto her thong. If I do it on my own clothes it's bound to show up when it dries, then I'll have some explaining to do.

  “Are you going back to hating me again already?” She laughs as she collects her jumpsuit off the floor. “You're like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Nikki. There's nothing wrong with wanting me, you know. And there's certainly nothing wrong with giving in.”

  “Just put your damn clothes on. I'm going back to my family.”

  “Don't you mean our family?”

  I stop at the door, turn to face her with venom in my glare. “Even after all of this, you're still going ahead with this crap?”

  “Well, this would have been my family had I said yes to you all those years ago. I'm just righting a wrong.”

  “You're twisted. The best thing you ever did was say no to me back then. My father, with any luck, will see you for what you are and...right a wrong.” I storm out of that room, the image of her smirk still etched in my memory.

  Faye is waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs. My heart skips a beat. Two beats. Did she hear anything?

  “Hey, I was looking for you. Where were you?” she says, kissing me on the lips. I breathe an internal sigh of relief. She didn't hear anything.

  “Using the bathroom. I don't feel well. I think we should head home.”

  She puts a hand to my forehead, worry wrinkling her brow. “You do feel a little warm. Do you think you might be coming down with something?”

  “I don't know. Let's go home.”

  As we walk off to find Emily, behind us Angel descends the stairs. I give her one brief glare before turning my back again.

  “I think your father was disappointed that we left so early.” Faye fluffs the pillow beside me then climbs into bed. “He wasn't the only one. Emily was having a blast with her cousin. Leave it to kids to have fun at a funeral.”

  Our daughter wasn't the only one having fun, I think to myself bitterly.

  “Well what could we do? I felt sick.”

  She places a loving hand on my stomach, rubs it. “Poor baby. Luckily you have the whole weekend to fight off whatever bug you might be coming down with. And I'm going to take care of you.”

  Under normal circumstances these words and her kindness would warm my heart; but they only make me feel awful about myself. I don't want her to be nice to me.

  “I'll be fine, Faye. I don't need babysitting.” I lift her hand off my stomach, but kiss her on the cheek so that it doesn't seem too abrasive. “Goodnight.”

  I know her eyes are on me when I turn my back to her and settle down for the night, but she doesn't speak. I'll have to pull myself together before she notices that something's amiss. Because something is amiss. Angel has only been back in my life for a few weeks, and I'm already changing beyond recognition.

  SIX

  It's a Thursday afternoon, and I'm about to shut up shop for the day. That's if I can stop myself laughing. I'm literally in tears, my sides hurting while I listen to Sandra on her final call of the day. She's currently negotiating with a potential new client, and I use the term potential loosely. This particular guy, a Japanese entrepreneur, calls every couple of months with the promise of new business for us, but only asks to speak with Sandra. We think he gets off on hearing her voice. And this voice, which has my sides splitting right now, is a cross between Marilyn Monroe and Cher! Yeah, it's a bizarre combination that Sandra's perfected just for him.

  I watch her trying not to burst out laughing when the Cher part of the voice takes over. I imagine this tiny old Japanese man jerking off to her voice as he cradles the phone between his ear and shoulder.

  “We certainly can do that for you, Mr. Kawasaki. All you have to do is believe, because this company is definitely strong enough. And if I could turn back time, you would be our first client.”

  The references to the Cher songs are just too much for her, and she finally cracks. She quickly says farewell, slams the phone down, and we erupt with laughter like ten-year-olds.

  “How unprofessional are we!” I say through my tears. Not much has changed since college. We used to get into trouble like this all the time. We worked at the same bookstore in our early twenties, and it was non-stop pranks at the customers' expense. Sandra's probably the best, and worst, person to run a company with for that reason.

  “The guy won't take a hint.” She's managed to compose herself. “I mean, who the hell does he think speaks like that in real life?”

  “He's probably lonely. You know how it is: The higher you climb and the richer you get, the lonelier it becomes. You might be the only female attention he's had in a long time.”

  “Hell, let's be real, he's the nicest guy I've had in my life since college.”

  “Well, I didn't wanna say it...”

  “Yeah, but you were thinking it.”

  “So you've had a bad run. You'll find someone eventually, even if it is some old Japanese guy!” I chuckle, but after a while notice that Sandra has stopped laughing. “What's up?”

  There's something wistful about her expression. I'm pretty sure I know what's coming. She always gets like this when we talk about love.

  “Yes, but when? I'm thirty-six frigging years old; I ain't getting any younger. And I'm still doing the same things I was doing in my twenties. Meaning I'm still doing the same assholes I was doing back then.”

  I put a hand on her shoulder. “Stop dating assholes then.”

  “It's not that simple. I mean, you gotta kiss a few frogs before you find your Prince Charming, right? Your soul mate.” Her laugh has a melancholy feel to it. “Just seems like all I'm destined to do is kiss frogs.”

  She's never spoken about the idea of soul mates before, and it makes me curious. “Do you really believe there's a right person for everyone? Someone who ticks all the boxes, and you never have to look elsewhere?”

  “Hell yeah I do. I didn't always, you know that better than anyone. But seeing you and Faye together, how right for each other you are, it's made me a believer.”

  Sandra is our biggest advocate. It would be touching if I didn't feel like such a fraud right now. Faye is as close to my soul twin as any person will ever get, but she doesn't tick every box. If she did I wouldn't now, even as I think about her, be reliving the memory of another woman's hands and tongue all over my body. It's been like this ever since the funeral a week ago. If I think about it hard enough I can still taste her kiss, can still smell her coconut scent.

  Sandra laughs suddenly, snatching me from my reverie. “Look at that, I've made you blush.”

  If I am blushing it isn't because of Faye.

  “So, just out of curiosity, if there were a couple of minor boxes that your current partner didn't tick, would that mean they weren't your soul mate?” I'm trying to sound casual. “Like, for example, sexually. What i
f one of your exes was a better lover; would that negate the whole soul mate thing?”

  Sandra ponders this for a moment then shrugs. “I don't know. But you don't have anything to worry about there. You said Faye's a great lover.”

  “Oh, I'm speaking hypothetically,” I say quickly, hoping I sound convincing. “She is. She's great. We're very compatible.”

  It's not a lie, but it isn't the whole truth. Faye is a great lover, but she isn't the best I've ever had. And therein lies the problem, especially when the best I ever had has walked right back into my life.

  I hear girly laughter as I step through the front door that evening. Two voices, both belonging to women. I listen for a second to see if I can make them out. Faye speaks, and then someone else does, and my body goes cold all over.

  I'm not creeping per se, but I make pains to walk lightly toward the kitchen, where the voices are coming from. Okay, so maybe it is creeping. I guess I'm trying to catch a snippet of the conversation to see if I have anything to worry about. Or to see for myself what has my wife in such high spirits.

  Emily's playing with her dolls, not yet in bed as she should be. I stand at the kitchen door and watch without saying a word. Faye is sitting at the table, a glass of wine in her hand, her nails freshly cut and sparkling like a tacky housewife's from one of those awful reality TV shows. On her knees in front of her, in the process of giving the tacky transformation to my wife's toes, is Angel. Various cosmetics and tools of the trade lie in a portable beauty tray on the table.

  “I can't believe men come into the salon with their wives, see you, then come back alone another day. They're such dogs!” Faye chuckles and takes a sip from her glass.

  “Oh, I'm used to it by now. As soon as I see them I know what they've come for: A massage. They think we're running a brothel. I'm not in the business of giving “happy endings” to horny men.”

  Faye's laugh is loud, louder than usual. She's tipsy. Why the hell is she even drinking? Did that demon in the guise of an angel put her up to it?

  “Wow, the seedy, scandalous world of the salon.” Now she spots me at the door. “Oh, honey, you're home.”