MY HUNGER by Lisa Renee Jone
From
New York Times bestselling author Lisa Renee Jones, an Inside Out
series e-short told from Mark’s point of view, as he battles his
all-consuming desire for Crystal.
Devastated by Rebecca’s death, Mark is facing the chaos of the press and the police investigation alone, his reputation, his business, and even his freedom under threat. When a family emergency sends him back east to New York, he puts Crystal—who’s as capable as she is challenging—in charge of his San Francisco art gallery. A Master, all about control, right now he feels that he has none. With his secret sex club and his relationships of the past in the spotlight, Mark finds sanctuary in the one place he promised he would never be again—but cannot seem to resist. Crystal’s arms.
Devastated by Rebecca’s death, Mark is facing the chaos of the press and the police investigation alone, his reputation, his business, and even his freedom under threat. When a family emergency sends him back east to New York, he puts Crystal—who’s as capable as she is challenging—in charge of his San Francisco art gallery. A Master, all about control, right now he feels that he has none. With his secret sex club and his relationships of the past in the spotlight, Mark finds sanctuary in the one place he promised he would never be again—but cannot seem to resist. Crystal’s arms.
“Hi,” she says softly, almost timidly, and this part of her is as much who she is as the one who screamed
more at me. The contrast appeals to me. She appeals to me.
“Hello, Ms. Smith,” I reply.
“Make up your mind,” she insists. “Is it Crystal or Ms. Smith?”
My
lips curve. “I find I’m surprisingly willing to keep my options open
where you’re concerned. Let me help you with your coat.” I step behind
her, my hands settling
on her shoulders, my actions making my words a command rather than a
question. I do not intend to ask Crystal Smith for anything.
“Thank you,” she murmurs, shrugging out of the trench coat.
Testing
the tension between us, I drag it down her arms, letting my hands
caress the sheer red chiffon sleeves of her dress, and she shivers. The
attraction between
us is a simmering heat ready to boil over, and no matter how absolutely
wrong she is for me, or me for her, we aren’t through with each
other.
The
waiter appears and I’m handing off Crystal’s coat when she whirls
around and intercepts it. “I’ll keep it here,” she says quickly.
The way she holds it close tells me she’s preparing for a fast retreat, which means I’d been right. She ran from my hotel room.
I
motion to the seat, silently suggesting we sit, but she doesn’t
immediately move. Of course not. That would suggest a hint of
submission, and she doesn’t intend
to submit. And since I don’t intend to ever convert another woman who
isn’t already living the lifestyle, we have no options. We cannot fuck
again, no matter how much tension is in the air.
So
we stand there, the seconds ticking by, and I arch a brow. Her sweet
little pink tongue flicks over her lush, red-painted lips, and I think
of how close I’d
been to having that tongue and mouth on my cock. I slide into the
booth, noticing how Crystal sits far from the center, where lovers might
gravitate. We, though, are not lovers. We are “just a fuck.” Not even
two.
The
waiter returns and offers us menus. Crystal accepts hers, opening it,
and glances across the table at me. “Do you have a recommendation?”
“We’re both virgins tonight,” I say.
She
laughs, mischief in her eyes. “I’m pretty sure you weren’t a virgin
even when you were born, Mark Compton.” The waiter chokes and Crystal
flushes, as if she’d
forgotten he was there.
I cut a look at the college-age waiter, who is looking like a deer in the headlights, not sure if he should go or stay. “Do
you have a recommendation?”
Looking relieved, he quickly replies, “Best burger and fries in New York City.”
“Just
fries for me,” Crystal says. “And a Diet Coke.” She slides her menu
across the table. “The diet drink makes up for the grease.”
This
somehow perfectly fits the logic I’m coming to expect from her. “I’ll
take the burger with my fries,” I say, also offering my menu to the
waiter. “Well done,
with bacon and cheddar cheese.” My lips quirk. “And a Diet Coke to
combat the grease.”
He snatches up our menus and departs. Crystal smiles at me. “I’m a good influence on your diet.”
“Had
I known Diet Coke killed grease, I’d have given up my gym routine and
healthy eating for burgers and fries a long time ago.”
She
sighs, and the tension I’d sensed in her seems to be fading.
“Truthfully, I normally force myself to order a salad, but I’m just too
exhausted to care tonight.”
“I trust you had our contracted courier handle the delivery of the auction items?”
“Yes. They should arrive tomorrow.”
“And I’ll head back to San Francisco tomorrow. They hope to release my mother from the hospital on Thursday, so if all goes well I’ll be back by then.”
“Don’t
worry about Riptide. I’ll take care of the auction house and let you
know if I have a problem I need help with.” Her tone sobers. “You can
count on me,
Mark. Nothing is going to change that, and I’m very attached to your
mother.”
“As
she is to you.” My curiosity about why she doesn’t work for her
family’s computer empire gets the best of me. “Are you close to your
mother, as well?”
“I love her very much, but we’re very different. I think I bond with your mother because we’re so alike.”
“Driven and hard-headed,” I comment. “I’d have to agree. And your mother is . . . ?”
She seems to consider her choice of words before saying, “Submissive.”
“Submissive,”
I repeat, reminded of a few other comments that make me wonder if she’s
more familiar with the BDSM world than she’s let on. “To your father?”
“To him and to everything. It’s her personality.”
“Then you inherited the dominant gene from your father, I assume.”
“I’m
adopted, so what I inherited are overly protective, loving parents and
two brothers. If they all had their way, I’d work for the family
business and I’d live
in a luxury apartment I didn’t earn myself. They’d examine the resumes
of any men wishing to date me and ask for a medical report on anyone I
slept with, and in general my world would be those roses and chocolates I
mentioned.”
Her
words seem playful, but there’s something dark in her eyes, something
vulnerable—and if I’m right, there’s pain. “How old were you when you
were adopted?”
I ask, choosing my questions cautiously.
“Fourteen, and yes, it’s an old age to get adopted.”
I
know what it’s like to bury something that hurts that you don’t want to
be known, and I know when I see it in someone else, as I do now with
her. Suddenly there’s
so much more to Crystal Smith than there was before, an explanation for
why I’m drawn to her.
About to ask where she was before the adoption, I silently curse when the waiter appears and places our drinks on the table.
“So,”
Crystal says the instant we’re alone, as if she’s trying to direct the
conversation away from whatever I might ask next. “You mentioned wanting
to talk to
me about something. What is it?”
Seeing no point in waiting, I reply, “I assume you know what happened with my gallery back in San Francisco?”
“I
know your sales rep Mary was arrested for trying to move counterfeit
art through Riptide, and shockingly Ricco Alvarez was involved. I’m not
sure what makes
a famous artist worth millions do such a thing.”
Jealousy over Rebecca. “The important thing is that you’re prepared for customers who might have
read about it and have questions.”
“Your mother and I discussed how to handle press inquiries and customer concerns.”
There’s one problem solved. “Do you know about Rebecca?”
“The last I heard, she was on a leave of absence.”
A band seems to tighten around my chest. “She was.”
Brow
furrowing, Crystal asks, “Was? She’s back or . . .” Her eyes go wide.
“Oh no. Was she involved in the counterfeit situation, too? Your mother
seemed to think
so much of her. That would destroy her.”
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