Sinful Rewards 2

by Cynthia Sax

  I curl my fingers into fists, hating Angel, Nicolas, everyone, for doing this to my happy-go-lucky friend. She deserves to be treated as the princess she is.

  “I’m ready,” Cyndi says quietly, her blonde head bowed. I spot the glimmer of unshed tears in her big green eyes.

  “Don’t have too much fun tonight.” I infuse my voice with happiness. “Because tomorrow will be the club night to end all club nights.”

  Cyndi meets my gaze, a whisper of a smile on her lips. “Do you think so?”

  “I know so.” I grin at her. “But shhhh . . .” I bring my right index finger to my lips, my gaze sliding to Angel’s. “Don’t tell anyone. Remember it’s just you and me tomorrow.”

  “Just you and me, Bee.” Cyndi’s laughter trails behind her, the sound severed only by the closing door. I frown fiercely at the molded wood. If Angel leaves Cyndi behind tonight, I’ll kick her bony ass.

  My task for the evening is daunting. I must find a venue that my club-hopping friend hasn’t yet frequented. It has to be unique and cool enough that Angel and Cyndi’s other wealthy friends will be impressed. And, most challenging of all, we have to be able to get in unassisted, as Nicolas was incredibly unhelpful and I have no other connections to parlay.

  Before Google sucks me into the club venue abyss, I should call my mom. We have a regular date for every second Saturday. I return to the small town of Happydale, help my mom grocery shop, make pasta, and clean the apartment, leaving her with the bulk of my paycheck. I always call her on Thursdays to remind her I’m coming home.

  I unzip my gorgeous purse and fumble blindly around the enclosed plastic bag. My fingers bump into the bristles of my brush, a tube of lipstick, a container of pressed powder, finally folding around my phone, the device having fallen to the bottom of the bag. I don’t touch silk.

  That’s not possible. My panties were neatly folded, placed on top of my other things. I remove the entire plastic bag from my purse and search through the contents, seeking verification with my eyes and hands. My panties are missing. I sit with a thump on the couch. They’re gone.

  I couldn’t have left them anywhere. The zipper had been closed. I distinctly remember putting them in the bag. I tap my fingers against my lips. There’s only one possible explanation. Someone has taken them. But who could have done that?

  I’d left the purse on the sidewalk after I kissed Hawke. When I returned, he was holding it, his fingers wrapped around the handles. I wasn’t gone for long. He would have had to search my purse very quickly, knowing what he wanted to find.

  Only Friendly would have suspected my panties were hidden in my purse. I still. Could Hawke be Friendly, my mysterious texter?

  No. I shake my head, dismissing this ridiculous thought. The Salvatore Ferragamo purse is outrageously expensive. No one gives limited-edition designer goods to a one-night stand. Friendly is making an investment in a long-term relationship.

  Nicolas is interested in long-term relationships. He also moved my purse from my lap in the limo. He claimed it blocked his view. I had my eyes closed, daydreaming about a man I shouldn’t have been thinking about, oblivious to the world. Nicolas could have taken my panties from my purse and hid them.

  He must be Friendly. With this mystery solved, I check my messages.

  Cyndi has sent me a photo of a shirtless bartender with a giant blue condom on his head, followed by the words “The Tantra twins are threatening to take away my—” Since the message stops there, I assume they’re taking away her phone. This is a smart tactic, one of the only ways to earn my friend’s complete attention.

  I finally call my mom. She answers on the third ring, sounding as exhausted as she always does.

  “You’re working too hard, Mom.” I cluck my tongue, worrying about her. “You don’t need those extra shifts. I can help you now.”

  “You shouldn’t have to help me, honeybee.” She sighs. “Though I appreciate it. Are you coming home this weekend?”

  “Yep, this is our Saturday.” I cradle the phone against my face, missing her terribly. “Don’t take a shift. Promise me you won’t.”

  “Marcy’s been sick,” my mom hedges.

  “Tell them no,” I urge. Saturday shifts become shared shifts with both of us working at the diner. It’s the only way we can sneak in some time together. “I hope to have some good news.” I haven’t told her about the full-time job because my mom assumes I’m already working full-time. She’d worry if she knew I was only a temporary hire. “We can celebrate.”

  “I’ll try my best, honeybee.”

  I stifle my groan. Trying her best means we’ll be working at the diner on Saturday. I’ve shared my mom with that damn place my entire life. When will I ever come first?

  “Don’t tell Tara this is my Saturday,” I plead.

  Tara, my high school tormenter, derives glee from making me wait on her. While I run back and forth from the kitchen, retrieving pie she’ll never eat and salad she’ll find a hair in, Tara crows about her husband, the golden-haired former high school quarterback. She boasts constantly about her life of leisure, her trips abroad, weekends spent shopping in London and Paris. Her outfits are always designer, her coffee is always cold, and her pointed comments about my future at the diner are always annoying.

  “If she asks, I’ll have to tell her.” My mom is painfully honest.

  “Okay.” I slump against the couch. “But don’t volunteer the information.”

  My mom and I talk about trivial things. I don’t mention my new purse. She’d fret about some man stalking me. I don’t share my worries about Cyndi. My mom would stress over me possibly losing my home. My friendship or more with Nicolas is too new. She’d want to meet him. Hawke is definitely not a man I wish to mention.

  I chew on the inside of my cheek. I shouldn’t ask. I know I shouldn’t ask. Oh, shit, I have to ask. “Mom?”

  “Yes, honeybee?” Her exhaustion makes me angry.

  “Did Dad lose someone in his past?” Is this why he left us? Had his situation been similar to Hawke’s? Had he experienced the death of a loved one and then been unable to risk any more of his heart?

  My mom expels her breath. “I don’t know. We didn’t talk much.”

  There’s a long stretch of silence and I squirm, feeling my mom’s embarrassment. I shouldn’t have asked. I’ve made her hard day harder.

  “He must have,” my mom finally adds. “Everyone has lost someone.”

  But not everyone dodges commitment. Nicolas has experienced loss also. Neither of his parents is alive. I read that detail on the Internet. Yet he builds stable, long-lasting relationships.

  I switch to a safer topic, the Al Capone movie, sharing some of Cyndi’s insane ravings about Cole Travers, its sexy young star. My mom laughs and the tight knot in the pit of my stomach loosens.

  I treasure her rare bursts of joy. I always have. As a child, I would track their frequency, looking for correlations. She laughed less often when she wore her uniform. That, I noticed, was a constant. Clothing matters.

  My mom finally yawns and I end the call, allowing her to return to bed. I set the phone down on the couch and stare at the blank TV screen. She can’t continue to work as hard as she is. My mom is older, frailer. She deserves to relax, to have a hobby, to be happy.

  It’s up to me to figure out a solution. Marrying Nicolas is a dream. I can’t count on that long-shot prospect. Hawke . . . well . . . he’s not the answer to any of my problems. I could get a second job, earn more money. That’s what my mom would suggest.

  While I was growing up, she worked every evening, every weekend, coming home exhausted at night, barely able to speak. As I talked about my day or completed my homework, she’d doze off at the kitchen table.

  I don’t want that life. I want more.

  I stroll to the window and gaze into the night. The park is empty, the green space illuminated by the surrounding lights. Three eleven north, the condo Hawke’s squatting in, is dark. No one is watching me. No on
e cares.

  I’m alone.

  Chapter Six

  SEEKING TO BANISH my sadness, I throw my heart and soul into researching Chicago clubs. I eliminate the venues I remember Cyndi mentioning, any sleazy places including some kink clubs that make my perversions seem mainstream, and anything requiring reservations.

  There’s a burlesque club on Milwaukee Avenue that sounds intriguing. The costumes would be divine, sexy and sparkly. With the Al Capone movie filming in town, Cyndi might also be interested in the twenties-themed bar situated in the same neighborhood.

  Neither venue will impress Angel. Cyndi will still have to listen, the next day, to how R is the best club ever and that everyone who was anyone was in attendance. I sigh. Sometimes I wish Nicolas wasn’t so successful.

  My phone rings, Nicolas’s number displayed on the screen. I stare at the digits. How did he know I was thinking about him?

  “Bee Carter,” I answer, my fingers trembling.

  “This is Nicolas Rainer,” he announces and I smile. My billionaire is so damn cute.

  He says nothing more. In the background, I hear the clinking of glass and the peals of female laughter. He’s attending the wrap-up party at R.

  And he’s not alone.

  “Did you want something?” Jealousy sharpens my voice.

  The laughter and other sounds fade. “I want your honesty,” Nicolas demands. “You said you’d tell me if I was being an asshole. Isn’t hating your best friend, a girl I’ve never met, being an asshole?”

  I jump to my feet, anger meshing with my jealousy. “Did you call me just so you could pick a fight?”

  There’s a long pause.

  “Yes,” he finally admits.

  “What?” I pace back and forth, back and forth, my heels tapping on the hardwood. “That is the stupidest, most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard.”

  Or is it? I stop. Is Nicolas surrounded by people who lie to him? Is this why he acts like such an asshole, to try to force honest responses from them?

  “You should reread that article I sent you.” My voice softens only a smidgeon. My lonely executive phoned me because he needs tough talk. I’ll give him tough talk. “Because picking fights is not an act of a good friend. Asking an honest opinion, however, is.”

  “And what’s your honest opinion?” I hear the smile in Nicolas’s words.

  “My honest opinion is”—I wait, silently counting to five—“you’re an asshole.”

  He laughs. Loudly. A woman calls his name, and my grip on my phone tightens.

  “You’re priceless, Bee,” Nicolas says softly. There’s a click and silence.

  I’m priceless, yet I’m standing here alone. He’s spending the evening with beautiful, sexy actresses, women millions of men lust after. Will Nicolas kiss, touch, seduce one of them?

  I couldn’t bear it if he did. Before Nicolas met me, I tolerated his affairs, his brief encounters with gorgeous supermodels and starlets. Now he’s mine and I won’t share. I want to be his sole focus, his one and only.

  This makes me a hypocrite. My fingertips brush against my lips, Hawke’s taste and feel lingering in my mouth, on my tongue. Because I allowed another man to kiss me, to hold me.

  That was a one-time thing, a delightful mistake. It won’t happen again. It can’t.

  I move into my bedroom, push the curtains aside, and gaze at three eleven north. A light flicks on deep inside the condo, and my treacherous heart leaps. Hawke is home. I can’t see him, but this doesn’t mean he isn’t standing in the shadows, watching me.

  I want him to watch me. Watching is allowed. Watching isn’t cheating. As I sway between the curtains, my shoes, the imitation Louboutins, creak softly. I’ll have to replace them soon. They won’t last much longer.

  I might have a substitute pair tomorrow. Cool air strokes up my bare legs as I pull my dress upward, inch by sensual inch. Sexy new shoes could be my reward for removing my panties.

  I can’t risk losing this reward. There can be no doubt in Friendly’s mind that I’ve obeyed his instructions, that I’ve been the good girl he desires. I tug on my dress. The fabric glides up my thighs, revealing more skin, more of me.

  Anyone could be watching me. There are hundreds of condos facing my window. But I can’t see these other men, and the darkness makes me brave, driving me to do things I’d never consider in the harsh light of day. I lift my hem higher, revealing my pink pussy lips, my brown private curls, my gaze remaining fixed on three eleven north.

  It should be Nicolas’s handsome face I envision while I expose this intimate part of me. He’s likely my mysterious texter, the Friendly I should be pleasing. He’s my future, the man who will stay by my side. He’s my forever.

  Instead, I’m thinking of my tattooed biker, Hawke’s military-style binoculars trained on my mons, his keen gaze studying every inch of me. He’s the man I dance for.

  Can he see how wet I am? I play with my skirt, sliding it back and forth, back and forth, the friction stimulating. Does he see how tight my entrance is? I widen my stance, spreading my legs, arching my back. Is he running his free hand over his hard cock, palming his balls, wishing he was inside me?

  I pivot, facing away from the window, giving him a clear view of my ass, and I bend over, pressing my skin against the cool window. My legs quiver. My pussy juices drip down my inner thighs. I’ve never been this hot, this aroused, this naughty, my perversions displayed for everyone to see.

  Hawke shares these perversions, watching me, wanting me, the willing voyeur to my exhibitionist. I straighten, reach upward, and release my hair. The long straight tendrils cascade down my back, a sheet of brown silk rippling over gray fabric. Is he imagining the softness pooling on his chest, hips, cock, the drag of hair across his bare skin?

  I turn slowly and peer into the night, my body posed in front of the glass, framed by the light behind me. My fingers twitch, the temptation to touch myself, to rub my hands over my wet folds, tremendous. I don’t dare take this step, having never masturbated in front of another person. This is too naughty, too perverted even for me.

  Hawke will have no reservations, no shame. He’ll work his cock hard as he watches me, the veins on his shaft lifting, a bead of precum forming on his tip. This won’t be enough for him. He’ll need more, rocking into his fast, hard pumps, fucking his hand as he wants to fuck me, his balls swaying, the muscles on his arms and legs flexing.

  I wiggle, my body humming with need. He’ll swipe one of his calloused thumbs over his cock head, his essence glistening on his skin. I lick my lips, moving with his imagined thrusts. His balls will tighten and lift, hugging his base.

  I pant, everything inside me constricting more and more. Hawke will delay coming as long as he can, gritting his teeth and jutting his jaw, while he strokes his shaft with a mind-numbing intensity. But he wants me too much. Watching me strips his control until there’s nothing left.

  My breathing grows ragged, adding a soundtrack to the erotic movie playing in my mind. His movements will turn frantic, his hands flying over his cock. He’ll grunt, the primitive sounds permeating the surrounding silence, his voice becoming hoarser, more strained until he can no longer fight his impending orgasm.

  He’ll throw his head back and roar my name into the night, cum arcing from his cock head, splattering against the balcony railing, the metal stained by his release. His shoulders will shudder, causing the tattooed wings on his chest to flutter, and he’ll sink to his knees, overcome by satisfaction, humbled by my naked beauty.

  Oh, God, I can’t hold out any longer. I snap the curtains closed and rush to my bed, my body burning with desire. Spreading my legs wide, I work my pussy with both of my hands, rubbing my fingers into the pink folds, circling my clit with my thumbs. My thighs tremble, waves of need sweeping over me, escalating in severity.

  Never have I felt this lost, this enthralled to passion. I writhe on the mattress, ruthlessly ravishing myself, abusing my softness. It isn’t enough. I yearn for thicker fingers,
calloused hands, the heavy weight of a muscular male form crushing my hips into the mattress.

  My eyelashes flutter, my eyes closing. I imagine Hawke watching me, his rugged face positioned between my legs, his gaze on my pussy, his eyes dark with desire. He wants me, needs me, cares for me, and I can deny him nothing.

  I slide one finger, then two, then three into my tight entrance, stretching me open, preparing me for his big cock. He’ll fill me as I long to be filled, owning my body with hard, deep thrusts. My hips pump the air, my rhythm wild, savage. I chant his name as I plunder my core, my pussy juices soaking my palms, splattering my thighs.

  My pussy constricts, closing around my fingers, the increasing friction delectable, spiraling my emotions higher. I won’t last much longer. My voice grows husky, my throat raw with a fierce wanting. I need . . . I need . . .

  I slap my clit with the heel of my hand and scream, breaking into a thousand jagged pieces. Light explodes and colors burst in the air. The room swirls. I drive my hips upward and push deep, prolonging my ecstasy.

  A wave of exhaustion sweeps over me and I collapse, shaking. A sheen of sweat covers my skin. I stare up at the ceiling molding. Is Hawke looking up at his ceiling also? Is he thinking of me?

  I shouldn’t be thinking of him. Nicolas is my mysterious texter. He has my panties, my conservative, steady billionaire revealing a kinky side I find thrilling. My eyelashes lower. Nicolas is handsome, wealthy, and perverted. My eyelids drift shut.

  He’s perfect for me.

  A TRIO OF BEAUTIFUL women clad in sparkling bustiers and little else hurry past me, their outrageously high heels falling soundlessly on the floor, their lipstick-painted mouths mutely moving, the silence of this dream strangely right. An otherworldly glow softens their rhinestone-speckled hair and glitter-dusted faces. They smile at me. I feel yet can’t hear their well-wishes.

  It’s my turn to dance. I peek between the red velvet curtains, excitement shimmering over my bare arms and legs. The stage is quiet and dark, the spotlight focused on the all-male audience. Many of the men seated at the tables appear familiar. I’ve glimpsed their faces on the bus or city streets. My fingers tremble, entwining with the curtain’s fringe. Tonight, they’ll watch me, lust after me, but only one man will have me.