Page 67 of Craving Carla

I pull her tighter against me and bury my face in her neck, nuzzling my nose against her pulse point. Her reaction is immediate and unmistakable—the way her head falls back, the way her body relaxes against mine, the way she falls into submission to my touch. The contradiction between her words and her body’s response drives me mad. She is, in fact, my fated mate. She can try to deny it all she wants, but this woman belongs to me, only me. I feel her giving in, slowly but surely.

“Amari,” she breathes, but I stay pressed against her, drinking in her scent, pushing her to relent. The sound of my name on her lips is a prayer and a curse all at once.

“Amari,” she tries again, her voice stronger now, firm and steady. “If you do this, it will destroy me. I beg you.”

My nails dig into the thin fabric of her nightgown, and I hiss into her neck before pulling away, feeling the most frustrated I’ve ever felt since watching Granada fall. The memory of that day flashes through my mind—standing in the shadows as my people surrendered, as the Moorish civilization I’d helped build crumbled under Christian conquest. I feel that same helplessness now, watching something precious slipping through my fingers.

Carla stumbles a bit as she steps back, and I have to fight the urge not to step forward to help steady her. Every instinct in my body screams at me to hold her, protect her, claim her fully. She’s flushed, her pretty plump lips begging for my attention, her pulse visible at her throat. I want to be back in bed with her, pleasuring her, showing her just how much she means to me. I want to worship every inch of her body until she can no longer deny what’s between us.

She puts a hand to her forehead, then starts pacing. I stay quiet, my eyes glued to her ass. The roundness of it, the way her dress moves with each step, clinging to her curves then flowing away in a teasing dance. I cannot wait until she graces me withputting her ass on my face. Oh, what an honor that will be. I imagine her thighs around my head, her wetness on my tongue as she takes her pleasure from me.

I run a hand over my beard, waiting, watching her, like a predator tracking its prey. The beast inside me—the one I’ve spent centuries refining into something resembling civility—strains against its chains.

“I don’t understand. Your heart beats for me? But I don’t feel...”

I’m in her face within seconds, stopping her from finishing those words. That, I cannot handle—that she doesn’t feel the mate bond. The mere suggestion is like a stake through my newly beating heart. I know she doesn’t feel it, and I have an inkling why, but hearing her say it aloud would be too much. I gently put a finger to her lips, and she gasps, her body freezing at my touch. The small sound sends fire racing through my veins.

“Carla, I think your children are masking your fated scent. It’s the only explanation.” I step back to look around, scanning the shadows where I know they’re hiding. I can see them—they’ve gone back into the shadows but remain close, eight-legged sentinels watching our every move. Tofi climbs down from the tree and slowly approaches us, but with caution. She’s afraid Carla will lash out at her.

“I’m not angry with you, Tofi,” Carla quickly assures, but she puts her hands on her hips, glaring between us. The gesture makes her look both fierce and adorable simultaneously. “But wow, Tofi, what a way to turn on your mother.”

I grin when Carla narrows her eyes at Tofi. Tofi must be sending her images. I wonder what my spider daughter is saying to her mother—what secrets they’re sharing in their private communication. The bond between them is something I both envy and admire.

“Tofi, baby girl,” I say, keeping my tone cool and collected, though inside I’m anything but. Tofi seems to be connecting with me the most out of all the children. She’s a true Daddy’s girl. She moves away from Carla and over to me, leaning into my touch once I pet her. This causes Carla to glare harder, looking between us. The jealousy in her eyes is delicious. It confirms what I already know—she cares more than she’s willing to admit.

“I don’t know how you’re doing this, but getting my own children to turn on me is just cruel, Amari. They are all I have,” she mutters, hurt evident in her voice. The pain in her words cuts me more deeply than I expected. I never want to be the cause of her suffering.

I grin at her, slowly patting Tofi. “Not anymore, Carla. We are fated mates. You own me now.” I look to Tofi, my voice softening further. “Tofi, baby, are you masking your mother’s scent?”

Tofi shifts away from me, but she doesn’t answer. I narrow my eyes at that. They are masking her scent—I’m certain of it now. I don’t understand. They acknowledge me as their father but won’t completely let the veil they’ve placed over her down. But why? I’m here, ready to serve, ready to take care of all of them. So why are they hesitant? What are they afraid of?

“Did she answer you?” Carla asks, and I shake my head.

Every step I take toward Tofi, she takes another back.

“Tofi, I’m here. Daddy’s home. You can let the veil down now,” I say, extending my hand toward her.

I’m surprised when she hisses at me, then starts climbing up a tree. Carla moves to stand next to me, looking at me strangely.

Then, Tofi finally answers with images. Images of me in bed with a woman. Then another. Then another. She keeps sending them to me, a relentless barrage of my past indiscretions.

The first image shows me with a blonde woman in Madrid, her legs wrapped around my waist as I took her against the wall of my penthouse. Her head thrown back, mouth open in ecstasy,pale skin flushed pink with pleasure. I remember her—Isabella, a tourist from Sweden who begged me to fuck her harder, to mark her so she’d remember our night together.

Another image flashes—a brunette on her knees in front of me in my Detroit office, her red lipstick smeared around my dick, mascara running down her face as she looked up at me with worshipful eyes. Denise, an executive form a competitive office who’d been trying to get into my bed for months. I finally gave in during a late-night meeting, bending her over my desk afterward and taking her from behind while she clutched the edge, papers scattering to the floor.

Then there’s the redhead in Paris, straddling me on a hotel balcony overlooking the Eiffel Tower, her back arched as she rode me, her breasts bouncing with each movement. I held her hips, guiding her pace, unconcerned about anyone seeing us. Josephine, an artist who painted me afterward, capturing the danger in my eyes that had drawn her to me in the first place.

The twins in Tokyo, their identical faces contorted in pleasure as I took turns with them, one watching while I fucked the other, then switching. Their slender bodies, delicate like porcelain dolls, contrasting with my roughness. I can’t even remember their names now.

The dark-skinned beauty in Cairo, spread-eagle on silk sheets, her wrists bound to the bedposts with my neckties as I devoured her, my face buried between her thighs before flipping her over and taking her from behind. Amara, who begged me to bite her, to turn her, to keep her forever, but I declined.

A petite Asian woman in my shower in Vancouver, her back pressed against the tile, leg hitched around my waist as water poured over us. Min-Ji, a dancer whose flexibility allowed for positions I’d never experienced before.

The images continue, dozens more—a parade of faceless bodies, meaningless encounters spanning centuries. Women I’dtaken, pleasured, and left without a second thought. Endless nights of physical satisfaction without emotional connection.

“Fuck!” I snarl, huffing in frustration. Goddammit, I know exactly where those images came from.

My little friend. Kemnebi.

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