Crave (Crave, #1)

by Tracy Wolff

“I’m not afraid of a three-inch dragon.” “Yeah, well, you should be.” “Yeah, well, I’m not.”

“So if you aren’t afraid of things that go bump in the night, what are you afraid of?” Images of my parents’ mangled car flash through my brain, followed by pictures of their battered bodies.

“There’s not much to be afraid of when you’ve already lost everything that matters.”

Even his eyes change, the wildness disappearing between one blink and the next until only stillness remains.

Stillness and an agony so deep I can barely see it behind the layers and layers of defenses he’s erected.

But I can see it. More, I can feel it calling to my own pain. It’s an awful and awe-inspiring feeling at the same time. So awful I can barely stand it. So awe-inspiring that I...

Acknowledging each other’s pain because we can’t acknowledge our own.

Combined with the anguish I just felt inside him, it makes him more…human.

More relatable and more devastating, despite the darkness that rolls off him

I hate that, hate that he thinks he has to hide something that he should wear as a badge of honor.

It takes a lot of strength to get through something like this, a lot of strength to come out the other side of it, and he should be proud of that strength. Not ashamed of the mark it’s left.

It’s obvious that he wants to say more but just as obvious that he doesn’t want to get into anything too deep in the middle of the hallway.

Bright-amber eyes that seem to burn from within. Warm brown skin. Black afro that looks amazing on him.

there’s a smile in his eyes that is as different from the other guy’s iciness as the stars just outside the windows are from the endless midnight blue of the sky.

“Come on.” He bends his knees to make it easier for me to grab on to his super-broad shoulders. “You’ve got a long three flights ahead of you.”

I start to say absolutely no deal, but the laughter in his bright-amber eyes as he looks down at me—expecting me to do just that—has me changing my mind.

“Okay, fine. Deal,” I say with a sigh as the room starts to spin around me. “I’m Grace, by the way.”

“You can let me down now,” I tell him as I start to squirm away. “Since you pretty much carried me anyway.”

All four are brooding and sexy as all get out, but I’ve only got eyes for one of them.

I think this had an error where it should have been "sexy as fuck" because that is what the audiobook said lol

and I can’t help but wonder why the guy with ice in his veins makes my skin tingle and the one literally lending me his warmth leaves me cold. Looks like my messed-up life is totally messing with my brain as well…

So I keep my mouth shut and concentrate on looking around instead of obsessing over some guy I don’t even like.

Dried roses in the shape of an X on one, what looks to be an elaborate set of wind chimes on another, and a ton of bat stickers all over a third.

Before I can take a step over the threshold, another hot guy dressed entirely in black passes by. And though he pays us no more attention than any of the others did at the North hallway door, the hair on the back of my neck stands up. Because even though I’m sure I’m imagining things, it suddenly feels an awful lot like I’m being watched.

does that mean he treats everyone the way he treated me? And if so, why? Because he’s just a jerk? Or because he’s in so much pain that the only way he can handle it is to make everyone afraid of him so that he can keep them at a distance? Or do people see his scar and his scowl and decide to keep their distance all on their own?

He shifts, braces himself, and that’s when it hits me. What they’re planning on doing. And just how much danger I’m really in.

Her voice is enthusiastic to the point of being mocking, but I’m not sure who she’s making fun of—Macy or me.

At least until I look into her eyes, which are viciously cold—and focused entirely on me.

It is my favorite. I thought I was in the mood for tea, but there’s something about that maroon can that gets to me.

That reminds me of home and my parents and the life I used to have. Homesickness wells up inside me, and I take the drink, desperate for something—anything—familiar.

I can’t help noticing how pasty his skin is.

“Hope you like snow, surfer girl.” I don’t bother to tell him that I’m not much of a surfer. God knows I’m guilty of stereotyping, too—before I got here, I was half certain I’d be living in an igloo.

“You’ve never seen snow?” the other guy asks incredulously. “Ever?” “Nope.” “She’s from San Diego, James.” Macy looks, and sounds, exasperated. “Is that really so hard to believe?”

“I guess not.” He shrugs and sends me a grin that I can tell is meant to be charming but grossly misses the mark.

I’ve always hated guys who look at girls like they’re food mea...

He doesn’t wait for an answer before he sits back down, pulling my cousin onto his lap as he does.

Before I can answer, he’s got his face buried in Macy’s neck and she’s giggling, her hands threading their way through his sleek brown hair as she burrows into him.

Especially since James continues to stare at me like he’s waiting to see if I’m going to plop myself down on his lap—which,

Cam must do something super sexy to her, because Macy’s laugh changes, gets lower, about the same time I lose all her attention.

But I barely make it to the drinks table before two very large, very warm hands land on my shoulders.

I freeze, my heart running wild as NotJames NotJames NotJames runs through my head like a mantra on overdrive.

As one, we shift to watch James—who, as it turns out, did follow me to the drink table—sulkily make his way back to Cam and Macy, who are still wrapped up in each other.

“Gratitude is so last year.” He says it in a fake, high-pitched voice that sounds remarkably like every mean girl everywhere.

Dressed all in Gucci black—silk V-neck sweater, wool pinstripe pants, shiny leather dress shoes—with his scarred eyebrow furrowed and his dark gaze as cold as the snow-covered ground outside, he shouldn’t look sexy at all. But he does. God, he really, really does.

And that’s before he starts to move, all languid grace, all rolling shoulders and leading hips and legs that go on for freaking ever.

Not when all I can see is how he looked last night, sucking my blood off his thumb. Not when all I can hear is his voice—low, wicked, wild—warning me to lock my door.

Not when all I can think about is kissing that mouth, running my tongue along the perfect bow of his upper lip, dragging his lower lip between my teeth and biting down just a little bit.

I don’t know where the thoughts are coming from—this isn’t like me. I’ve never thought about a guy like this before, not even my old boyfriend from back home. Even before we went out, I never stoo...

To press my body tightly against his. Because I can almost feel h...

My skin heats up under his gaze, my cheeks burning with embarrassment at the thoughts flitting through my head. And at the way he’s looking at me, like he can read every single one of them. It’s impossible; I know it is.

I jerk my gaze from his and lift my Dr Pepper to my mouth, trying hard to look unconcerned.