by Cynthia Sax
“Belinda,” Hawke murmurs, his deep voice pulling at me.
Unable to resist his unspoken order, I gaze upward. This is a mistake. His eyes have darkened to a brilliant blue, his arousal meeting, meshing with mine, and I know in this moment, I’m lost. He has me.
“Hawke.” I part my lips, offering him everything. He’s rough and tough, a big strong military man, a tattooed biker. I expect him to plunder, conquer, take.
Instead, Hawke carefully frames my face with his large hands, his calloused fingertips gentle yet firm, and he dips his head slowly, his gaze holding mine. My heart races faster and faster, my body trembles as though this first kiss is my very first kiss.
He skims his lips over mine, his touch as light as the sheerest silk, his breath wafting on my cheeks. My eyelashes flutter, the sensation sweet yet sensual, innocent yet decadent, completely unexpected and special.
“Priceless,” he murmurs, and this is how I feel, priceless, designer, unique.
He dips his head again, follows the curve of my lips a second time, pressing harder, lingering longer. I open to him, inviting him in, needing more, and when he pulls away, I pursue him, prodding him with my tongue.
Hawke groans, the sound rumbling up his chest, through mine, and he surges forward, his grip on my face tightening. My body hums with approval as he pushes his tongue into my mouth. He tastes of rich dark coffee, and I shamelessly suck on him, tugging on his flesh, clinging to him.
A shudder shakes Hawke’s shoulders, his reaction thrilling me. I cause him to respond this way. I shred his control.
He cups my ass, drawing me even closer, coaxing me to move, to undulate against him. I rock as he strokes into me, his tongue sliding along mine, tumbling, tangling, dancing to a rhythm only we share. Never have I been kissed like this, a man’s being permeating mine, our bodies becoming one.
I’m on fire, burning from the inside, the flames fueled by tongues, lips, hands, hips. Striving to soothe me, Hawke ravishes my mouth again and again, kneading my curves with his fingertips. My lips pulse and my soul aches.
It’s not enough. I tug on his T-shirt, pull the cotton away from his honed torso, and slide my fingers underneath the garment, touching hot bare skin. A tremor rolls over him, his muscles flexing under my palms.
Hawke wrenches his lips from mine. “No.” He pushes me away from him, his grip on my shoulders holding me at arm’s length. I shiver, the summer air cool compared with the heat of his body, and I stare up at him, wondering what I did wrong. “Not here, sweetheart.” His laugh is shaky. “Not in public. Not for our first time.”
We’re in public. Oh my God. I look around us, horrified. We were making out like two sex-crazed teenagers in front of my building, the building Nicolas owns. Anyone could have seen us. I spot the camera above the door and cringe. Nicolas might have seen us.
I have to leave. Now.
“Let me go.” I twist, trying to break Hawke’s clasp on me, seeking to escape him, this situation, my own reckless heart. “There isn’t ever going to be a first time.”
Hawke won’t allow me to flee, his hold on my shoulders uncompromisingly tight. “Oh, there will be a first time, love.” He draws me closer, bends his head, presses his cheek against mine, his stubble teasing my heated skin. “And it’ll be worth the wait, I promise you,” he whispers into my ear, his vow sending shivers of delight down my spine.
He releases me and I run away, dashing through the front door, passing the sleeping security guard, making it to the elevator before I remember I left my purse, my gorgeous purse, sitting on the dirty sidewalk. I pivot on my heels and race back.
Hawke remains where I left him, big and strong, a sexy, grinning threat to all of my carefully laid plans. My dainty red purse is clasped in his huge Hulk-like hands. “Forget something?” He holds it out to me.
I fold my fingers over the handles. He pulls me forward. Our chests and hips slam together, his body hard and solid against mine. I want him again, still, and it irks me. So damn much. “I came back for my purse, not you.” My words lack conviction.
Hawke laughs, the sound too appealing for my comfort. “You’re such a terrible liar.” He brushes his lips over mine, the contact frustratingly brief, devastatingly gentle. “You came back for both.” He relinquishes my purse, slides his palms along my arms, down my sides, resting his hands on my hips. His hold is loose. I can break it easily, move away, save my heart, my soul, my self.
Instead, I stand still, savoring Hawke’s muscle, his size, his strength, my body flattened against his, all of me touching all of him. “You’re bad for me,” I murmur, confused. I know this. Why can’t I resist him?
“I’m the worst.” Hawke grins, fully embracing his bad-boy status. He knows who he is.
I know who he is also and I know our future, our fate. He’ll straddle his big bike, ride out of Chicago, and never return. I straighten my spine, square my shoulders. He might give me what I desire. He can never give me what I need.
I deserve forever.
I retreat once more, leaving Hawke before he can leave me, and, this time, I don’t come back. My fingers shake as I press the button for the elevator. The doors open. I enter the small space and stare at my reflection in the mirrored walls.
My lips are swollen. My cheeks are red. Strands of brown hair wisp around my face, softening my profile. I’m not a little girl playing dress up. I’m not a sophisticated lady with a designer purse. I’m a woman, well kissed and wanted, beautiful.
This is how Hawke sees me and this is how I now see myself. The image lures yet scares me. The woman in the mirror is a lover, a sensual being. She isn’t a good girl or a dedicated wife. She doesn’t reflect the future I crave.
I sweep my hair back, ruthlessly containing the tendrils. My lips are minimized with light pink lipstick. Powder dampens the color in my cheeks. My prim-and-proper façade is restored, along with my plans for the future. Nicolas is the man I deserve, the steady, constant man I should want. I can’t allow Hawke to distract me.
Chapter Five
WHEN I WALK into the condo, Cyndi is standing with her back facing the door, her hands on her hips. She’s wearing a bright yellow blouse and a black skirt, her queen-bee-of-the-office outfit.
“I can’t decide what to wear,” my friend laments. Every club outfit she has ever worn is spread out on the purple leather couch. Gold silk shimmers. Black lace beckons. Scooped collars, short hemlines, and fitted corsets jumble together in a tornado of designer fashions.
“Normally, I wouldn’t care.” She stares at her collection. “But I’ve been denied entrance to R for months, and I now feel it’s an event. I’m finally getting in.” My best buddy bounces on the balls of her bare feet, a hint of a squeal to her voice. “And I want to make a statement. Plus, oh my God, Bee, Cole Travers might be there. Can you imagine?”
I can imagine, but unfortunately that’s all either of us can do. “Cyndi.”
“I know. I know.” She waves her hands. I’ve never seen my friend this excited about anything. “It’s your night, your celebration. It isn’t all about me.”
This isn’t true. This is all about her. I don’t care about going to clubs, getting drunk, flirting with guys interested only in one-night stands. I certainly don’t care about seeing the inside of Nicolas’s club or impressing women like Angel.
“But I can’t bear to be turned away at the door because I’m inappropriately dressed,” my best friend explains. “I’ll die if I’m rejected by Rainer and his damn doormen again.”
“Cyndi, look at me.” I set my purse on the hardwood and grab her shoulders, forcing her to face me. “Rainer didn’t reject you this time,” I lie. I can’t tell Cyndi the truth. It would hurt her too much. “He rejected me. He won’t put us on the guest list.”
“What?” Her bottom lip quivers. “He said no?”
I hug her to me, folding her into my smaller body. “He said no.” I rub her back, trying to comfort her, knowing nothing I can say or do will
make her feel better. “He doesn’t want me in his club either.” My lies are multiplying. “I don’t know why.”
“Because he’s a prig.” Cyndi’s voice is watery. “He’s a mean, selfish prig. We ought to send him a memo.” She raises her chin and meets my gaze, her eyes wide. “Do you think that’s it? He doesn’t want any of his condo residents going to his club?”
“I don’t know.” I eye her warily, worried about what she’ll do with this new theory. “I think maybe he’s just a prig. Maybe he knows how much we want to go to his club, so he’s denying us that joy, getting his jollies from making us unhappy.”
These maybes are torturous to recite. Nicolas is my friend and he could be my future husband. He might never hear of my disloyalty to him, but I’ll always know I said these words. I’ll always know I betrayed him.
“Denying our happiness is something Rainer would do.” Cyndi presses her lips together. “He’s miserable, and he wants everyone else to be miserable also. I don’t think I want you to marry him anymore.”
I grimace, suspecting I’ve made matters worse. “I’m not marrying Rainer.” Today, I mutely qualify my vow. Hopefully Nicolas and the Wynters clan will make peace before that blissful event happens.
“Good.” Cyndi nods, appearing happier now that I’ve been doomed to a life of solitude. “We don’t need Rainer and his stupid club. We’ll have fun somewhere else.” Her trademark optimism has returned.
“So we’re still going out to celebrate tomorrow?” I survey the delightful mountain of designer dresses. Has Cyndi forgiven me?
“Are you still landing the full-time position?” she asks.
She has forgiven me. “I organized the party today.” I grin, relieved. “I ordered some red velvet cupcakes ’cause I know they’re your favorite. I’ll snag one for you.”
“Yay.” Cyndi tackle-hugs me, knocking me into the pile of clothing. “We’ll continue the party until the wee hours of the morning. Hey.” She raises her head, her green-eyed gaze meeting mine. “Let’s go somewhere I haven’t been before.”
“Let’s,” I agree, pushing away a squiggle of concern. My best friend might be a wild child, but I’ll keep us on the straight and narrow.
My best friend.
I hug Cyndi fiercely. Hawke was right. Everything turned out okay.
“You smell good.” Cyndi burrows her cold nose into my arm and inhales deeply. “Like that sexy mechanic at the dealership, the one who tuned up more than my bimmer.”
I smell like Hawke. My face heats. “The hunk in three eleven north kissed me today.” I’m forced to confess. If my man-crazy friend hears about the kiss from someone else, she’ll be hurt.
“No!” Cyndi’s eyes widen. “He did not.” She thumps my shoulders with her fists, my roommate having the delicacy of a linebacker.
“He did.” I push her off me. “We were standing by the front entrance talking, and he kissed me.” I lie on my back on the clothes, stare up at the ceiling. “It was . . . nice.” I dart my tongue over my swollen lips. It was more than nice. It was toe-curling, heart-pounding, life-changing.
No, not life-changing. My life is staying just the way it is.
“It was nice?” Cyndi exclaims. “He’s six foot forever, covered with ink, hung like a horse, and his kiss was nice?” She rolls onto the hardwood floor. “How very disappointing.”
Disappointing is not a word I would use to describe Hawke’s kiss.
“Was it openmouthed or closemouthed?” Cyndi demands details. “Did he grab your ass, grope you a bit? He must have. Even the accountant types you dated in the past couldn’t keep their hands off your ass.”
My cheeks burn. Hawke did cup my ass.
“Did he lift you off the ground?” My friend continues, clearly enjoying this. “He’d have to. He’s a big guy and you’re really short.”
“I’m not really short. I’m average size,” I retort. “The kiss was nice, and that’s all I’m comfortable with saying. I don’t ask you for the graphic details about your encounters.” I wander toward the fridge.
“You don’t have to ask.” Cyndi grins. “I tell you every delicious detail—how big the guy was, the corny lines he used to get me in the sack, his go-to position for wowing the chicks, his sex noises.” She imitates an injured cow, and I laugh.
“You’re an idiot.” I remove a jar of sauce and a bowl of uncooked ravioli from the fridge. “Are you going out tonight?”
“I must.” My friend chooses a yellow dress from the pile and holds it against her curves. “Angel talked to someone who talked to someone who heard Cole Travers is going to Blue tonight. That club I know I can get into.”
Angel is full of shit. Cole Travers isn’t going to Blue tonight. He’s attending the wrap party at R. I fill a pan with water and set it on the stove top, keeping this knowledge to myself. If thinking she might see her favorite movie star makes Cyndi happy, I’m not telling her otherwise.
“What should I wear?” Cyndi sets down the yellow dress. “Angel is wearing blue. She sent me a photo of her dress. Cole likes blue. The heroines in his first and third movies wore that color during the big I-love-you scenes, but in his last movie, the heroine wore green, and green matches my eyes.”
Cyndi talks about the clothing in every film Cole has ever starred as I prepare tomato sauce over ravioli. The tomato sauce is store-bought with garlic and some oregano added. The ravioli is sourced from my mom’s diner. Karl, the diner’s chef, fancies himself an honorary Italian, making all of the pasta from scratch. He taught me his culinary secrets and, on the Saturdays I return home and don’t have to work, he allows me to use the diner’s machine.
We eat in front of the TV, the dresses pushed back into Cyndi’s mess of a bedroom, and it feels like old times. There’s no wealth gap, no differing views on how we should spend an evening, on the men we should date. We’re simply two best friends, sharing a meal, watching TV, laughing at horrible wedding dresses no sane bride would say yes to.
“I think you should do him.” Cyndi licks the tomato sauce off her fork.
I blink, this comment coming from out of the blue. “Do who? Rainer?”
“God, no.” My friend laughs. “Could you imagine? He’d probably send you a memo midcoitus. ‘Will all residents of my bed please refrain from making loud noises between the hours of ten p.m. and seven a.m.? Thank you for your understanding.’”
I grin. That does sound like one of Nicolas’s memos.
“No.” She waves her fork. “You should do the tattooed hunk from three eleven north.” I open my mouth. “I know you like those boring accountant types, but why don’t you switch it up a bit? Walk on the wild side. Take a ride on his bike.” Cyndi waggles her eyebrows. “If you know what I mean.”
“I know what you mean.” I know it too well. Walking on the wild side was how my mom got into trouble, conceiving me.
“Why don’t you come out with us tonight?” Cyndi’s eyes shine. “You can pick out a man for me and I’ll pick out a man for you. It’ll be fun.”
The doorbell saves me from responding.
“Oh, shit. Angel’s here already.” Cyndi hurries into her bedroom. “I have to change.” She shuts the door behind her.
Leaving me with the unhappy prospect of entertaining Angel, a woman who considers me a live-in maid. I trudge to the door, gaze through the peephole. The anorexic blonde is rubbing a disinfectant wipe over her fingertip as though touching the doorbell has contaminated her.
I take a deep breath, count to five, exhale, and let her into the condo unit. “Good evening, Angel. Cyndi will be with you in a moment.”
“You’re improving, Bernice.” She murders my name yet again. “Take care of this, will you?” She drops the wipe on the floor.
“My name is Bee.” I grit my teeth as I retrieve her garbage.
“So you insist on telling me.” Angel stands with one bony hip stuck out. She must have taken the club’s name as a clothing suggestion. She wears a Roland Mouret asymmetric crepe
minidress in eye-catching indigo. She’s paired it with strappy Jimmy Choo heels and a Kotur box clutch.
Angel looks fantastic and she knows it. I toss the wipe in the trash and wash my hands under the kitchen tap. She strokes her platinum blonde hair and gazes blankly into space. An awkward silence stretches. I don’t attempt to alleviate it. Quiet is preferable to some of Angel’s past comments.
“Did Cyn tell you I bumped into Cole Travers last night at R?” A tremor of excitement runs through Angel’s normally bored tones. I glance guardedly at her. She doesn’t usually make conversation with the hired help. “It’s a pity Cyn can’t get into R. It’s the only nightclub worth going to.” The bitch says this loud enough for Cyndi to hear.
“Yet you’re going to Blue tonight,” I reply sweetly.
“Because R is closed.” Angel’s eyes glitter.
If R was open, she’d desert Cyndi. Again. I curl my top lip. Angel has no loyalty, her friendship fleeting, the platonic equivalent of a one-night stand. I won’t invest time or energy or emotion in relationships that won’t last. Every severed connection, every act of betrayal hurts too much.
“I guess you won’t be going out with us tomorrow night.” I give Angel my fakest smile. “Because R will be open again and we’re definitely not going there.”
The blonde beauty narrows her eyes. “Where are you going?”
“I’m afraid I can’t say,” I say airily. I can’t say because I don’t yet know. “What does it matter to you? You’re going to R.”
“I am.” A fleeting shadow of doubt crosses Angel’s angular face, a hint of uncertainty. She is as lacking in confidence as all of us are, needing to be reassured that she’s going to the right clubs, being seen with the right people. I’d feel sorry for her except she’s made my best friend unhappy, and I won’t tolerate anyone doing that.
Cyndi exits her bedroom wearing a wool-crepe dress in the same color from the same designer as Angel’s. She carries a similar clutch purse and wears similar shoes. Her copycat style says it all. She doesn’t trust her own decisions.
