Page 9 of Violent Cravings

For some reason, I’m shaking as I stand next to Lemon as he asks for the crowd’s attention. Normally, I would browse the room, my eyes locking in on selective people here and there to make sure they’re listening. Smiling, nodding along, as Lemon speaks next to me.

Tonight I shy away from the crowd, fearing I could stumble across her green eyes in the audience. Lowering my head is not an option, so instead I make a wide scan across the room, my gaze traveling above the numerous heads in the crowd of onlookers, never seeking eye contact with the sea of faces.

“Let me now turn the floor over to the person who made all of this possible,” Lemon says, concluding his introductory speech about my foundation’s efforts. “Mr. Ryan Hawkins, founder of Onyx Corporation.”

In that moment, when Lemon is handing me the microphone, I make the mistake of letting my eyes follow their usual route through the crowd.

And there she is.

She’s standing at the far end of the room next to two other servers, their backs pressed against the wall as if they were trying to blend in with the wallpaper. She’s staring at me with wide eyes, her pouty lips forming a perfect little O, before she turns to the waitress standing on her left. It’s the same girl she exchanged a look with earlier, probably a friend. She whispers something in her ear, and her friend nods immediately, turning her face toward Laura and casting her a slightly bewildered and indignant look, as if she’d just said something incredibly stupid.

My body switched to auto-mode, delivering the speech exactly as I have thousands of times before, adding a smile, a wink, a side note in just the right places, stealing laughter and nods of approval from the crowd, as I follow my routine to the letter.

But my mind is fixated on her. I can’t let go.

Not before I’ve had her.

I decide then and there, that I at least have to try. It might be a risk, a dangerous one even, but it would be worth it. It only happens once a year, and I need to make it count, so it can last me another year. Having the perfect girl is the most important part of making that happen.

I conclude my words by inviting everyone to have another drink, without really meaning it. I don’t want them to hang around and bore me with their nonsense; I want them to leave the venue as quickly as possible. Luckily, most of the guests share this sentiment and approach me to say their goodbyes, thank me once again for my oh-so-generous work, and then leave without even glancing at the trays of champagne still being carried throughout the room.

It’s always the same. The ones who stay the longest are usually the ones who I have the least interest in. They’re freeloaders, who mostly came for the free alcohol and to be seen by the right people, but they have no actual business with me, my companies, or my foundation. They hang around in small groups, their faces red from having too much to drink, and their conversations growing louder with every passing minute.

The catering staff is growing impatient, as they’re exhausted and more than ready to go home.

“I think it’s okay for you to excuse yourself,” I hear Lemon whisper from my side. He casts me an approving nod, knowing how little I enjoy these gatherings.

“I’ll stick around for a few more minutes,” I tell him, taking another sip from my glass as I observe my prey standing idly on the other side of the room. “You can go.”

It’s not an offer, but a command. I want him to leave because I prefer having as few disruptions as possible when I make my move.

Lemon shifts awkwardly next to me, surprised by my words and unsure what to do.

“Go home,” I repeat, casting him a look from the side. “Your wife already hates me enough.”

He winks at me. “You know she doesn’t. But fine, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I let a few moments elapse after he leaves the room before I decide to make my move. She doesn’t see me coming, and it’s the perfect moment. She’s standing by the window, her arms crossed in front of her chest. Her snug-fitting blouse is stretched to its limits, pushing her tits out against the material and seductively displaying her cleavage. She’s deep in thought, absentmindedly staring out the window, but I can sense her tensing up as I approach.

“Miss Brown.”

She flinches at the sound of my voice, but doesn’t turn around to look at me right away.

I hate that.

“Yes, Mr. Hawkins,” she says, emphasizing my name in an accusatory tone. She had no idea who I was and is pissed about it. “Anything I can do for you?”

She speaks to me as if that moment between us earlier never happened, looking at me with a bland gaze of professionalism.

“I’d like to speak to you,” I say, reaching into the inside pocket of my suit jacket. “In private. This is my number. Leave me a message if you’re interested.”

I produce a card from my pocket and hold it up for her to take. She reaches for it, but looks at me skeptically, her eyebrows furrowed in suspicious confusion.

“Interested in what?”

We exchange a wordless, but meaningful look. I know that she finds me attractive; they all do. But unlike the others, I know she can sense there’s something inherently different about me. Her eyes don’t display the unhesitating adoration I’ve seen on other faces. Instead they are laced with caution.

“A proposal,” I say.

Her eyebrows furrow yet again, but I can tell she’s intrigued.

“A proposal?” she asks, tilting her head to the side. “Mr. Hawkins, I—”

“My name is Ryan,” I interrupt, already in the process of turning away to leave.

“Call me.”

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