Constant Craving: Book Three (The Craving Trilogy 3) Read online

  Constant Craving

  Book Three

  Tamara Lush

  Edited by

  Jami Nord

  Copyright © 2018 by Tamara Lush

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Praise for Tamara Lush and Tell Me a Story

  Constant Craving-Book Three

  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

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  SNOW ANGEL

  About the Author

  Praise for Tamara Lush and Tell Me a Story

  “Lush writes naughty stuff, the kind of lusty chick lit that uses words such as “moist,’’ “lick’’ and even some c-words to rev up her growing fan base.”

  - The New York Post

  “A steamy romance and a captivating storyline makes it a perfect read for any 50 Shades lover.”

  - Redbook Magazine

  “Tamara has such an engaging voice, sexy, likable heroes and heroines and a wry sense of humor.”

  - New York Times bestselling author Beth Kery

  “Tamara Lush tells a story of undeniable lust and temptation.”

  - Buzzfeed

  “The steamy (and oh-so-passionate) romance of a lifetime blooms and we promise you won’t be able to put it down. By the time you finish this, you won’t even remember who Christian Grey is.”

  - YourTango

  “Florida heat, spontaneous readings of erotica, a book shop owner and a businessman—do we have your attention?”

  - Working Mother Magazine

  Constant Craving-Book Three

  1

  JUSTINE

  Sumptuous white silk shantung whooshes around my legs, and I lift the skirt with my thumbs and forefingers, not wanting the pristine fabric to drag on the Spanish tile. The floor is icy on my bare feet, and I tiptoe quickly across the hall.

  “Justine, you’d better not be dirtying that dress.” Caroline’s Southern accent wafts from the library, the room we’ve taken over for wedding preparation and primping.

  “I’m being careful, no worries,” I call out from the bedroom.

  “Don’t even think about taking a pee without us,” Diana hollers.

  I laugh out loud and sift through the jewelry box I’ve set atop the bureau. It’s a solid, mahogany chest with delicate gold filament inlays of cherry blossoms.

  I’m looking for a pair of diamond earrings, and I make a noise of impatience as I look through the haphazardly arranged bracelets and necklaces. I need to organize this better, especially now Rafa is buying me expensive jewelry on the regular. A gold bracelet and the diamond and platinum necklace he’d bought me last month are in a different jewelry box on another table in the bedroom. But I’d brought this old one when we’d moved to the villa two weeks ago because it had sentimental value.

  It had been my mother’s.

  She’d kept her jewelry more organized. Which was why she’d only let me touch the sparkly baubles occasionally.

  God, I wish she were here for this. Happy with a man who loves me. Living in a historic villa in our beloved city. Pregnant with her grandchild. Running the family’s paper. It’s been years since I’ve heard my mother’s voice, but I’ve never forgotten the Southern cadence. Almost like Caroline’s, but raspier, throatier, similar to a forties movie star.

  I tear up, thinking of her.

  I’m searching for the earrings she wore during her wedding to my father.

  It’s perhaps the only nod to Dad, one Rafael doesn’t need to know about.

  Ah! There they are. I pluck an earring out and attach it to my ear without looking in the mirror above the bureau. It’s only when I get the second one on that I glance up to make sure the understated, one-carat studs match my dress.

  My breath catches when I see myself. My gown is sleeveless and unadorned with beads or crystals. It has a deep V-neck and an A-line skirt. It’s a brilliant bone-white, the color of mythical virgins, which is appropriate, considering I lost my virginity fifteen years ago to the man who is about to be my husband.

  I am a bride.

  I am Rafael’s bride.

  How many times in college had I daydreamed about this? I’d zone out in class, wondering how he’d propose, where we’d marry. Back then, I’d imagined he’d do it on the beach at sunrise. Or at an expensive restaurant in Miami, after we’d launched our careers. I’d assumed we’d get married somewhere in Florida, of course.

  Never had I dreamt it would take more than a decade to get to this point. We’d had more twists and turns than a theme park ride in Orlando. A miscarriage. More than a decade apart. A sex-filled, angst-ridden reunion, ending in a surprise pregnancy.

  And the conviction that we can’t live without each other.

  This is the day I’ve been waiting for since I was in college. The moment I’ve always wanted—to say “I do” with him—is fast approaching. Twenty-five minutes, to be exact. I sniffle. It will be impossible not to weep during the ceremony.

  “Justine,” Diana calls out. “Get in here so we can have a toast before the vows.”

  I laugh and pick up my skirt. By the time I step into the library, which is littered with makeup, hairbrushes, and a tray of salty snacks, Diana and Caroline have a bottle at the ready.

  “Rafael made sure we had the most expensive sparkling white grape juice he could find.” Caroline sounds proud, as if Rafael’s her own son.

  Diana fusses with my updo, twisting a tendril around her finger. “This damn thing won’t stay curled. Of all the days for your hair to be straight. Let me get the curling iron.”

  “No, I’m good. It looks fine.” I grin at her fussy sigh and sink onto one of the few uncluttered surfaces, a brown leather ottoman. Now three months pregnant, I’m just barely showing, but the dress hides the bump.

  I rub my lower back. Today I’ve been on my feet more than usual, between Diana and Caroline’s primping, running up and down stairs making sure the orchids had arrived, talking with the wedding planner.

  With a twist of the cork, Caroline pops open the non-alcoholic bubbly and pours it into three crystal flutes atop a silver tray.

  I take the glass of sparkling grape juice from Caroline.

  “It’s organic,” she says.

  I raise an eyebrow, which makes Diana giggle.

  “Only the best for his bride and his baby.” Caroline sniffs the juice as if it were fine wine.

  “It’s true. He’s been a little obsessed with making sure I have organic food and all-natural cleaning products. He even suggested we buy unbleached cotton sheets. Said he’d been doing research into how those were better for the baby’s crib and figured they’d be good for me, too.”