Sinful Rewards 2

by Cynthia Sax

  That man lounges in a chair positioned in front of the stage. The lights shine on Hawke’s short brown hair. Stubble covers his tanned cheeks. He’s dressed all in black, his leather jacket partially concealing his T-shirt-covered chest, his jeans the darkest dark. He’s big and fierce and I will make him mine.

  I’ll dance for Hawke, showing him why he should desire me and no one else, why he should stay and never leave. He’ll no longer drift from town to town, from job to job, avoiding commitment. I’ll be good enough, sexy enough, worthy of his love, of his forever. He’ll care too much to ever abandon me.

  A pulse of sound breaks the eerie silence, a low-drumming tempo echoing the pounding of my heart, the bass felt down to my toes. This club beat grows louder and louder, the rhythm fierce, tribal, sexy. Streams of blue light crisscross the stage, illuminating the audience. Men stamp their feet and pound the wooden tabletops with their fists, voicing their demands.

  They want me. Anticipation tightens my nipples, the taut flesh pressing against the white lace of my bra. They want me to dance for them, to strip off my clothes, to reveal every inch of my body.

  Eager to give my audience what they clamor for, I push through the curtains and strut on stage, my head held high, one rhinestone-covered shoe placed in front of the other, my spindly heels ringing on the wood, the tempo matching the thumping bass of my music.

  The audience goes wild, hooting and hollering. They like what they see. My sheer white babydoll billows behind me, my skimpy lace bra and G-string panties showing through the fabric. My hair, pulled into a high ponytail, bounces against my shoulders. My hips sway and my breasts jiggle.

  Hawke leans forward, open admiration lighting his rugged face. As I pass his chair, I flick the hem of my babydoll, giving him a glimpse of my tight ass. He inhales sharply, the sound heard over the music. Men whistle their appreciation.

  I stride to the edge of the stage, pivot, and retrace my steps. Hawke watches me, his gaze on my bare legs, his pale blue eyes shining. He knows I’m returning to him. He knows he’s the man I dance for.

  I pause in front of my tattooed biker, my hands placed on my hips, and my legs spread. His gaze leisurely lifts, skimming my legs, my hips, the hint of bare stomach, my lace-covered breasts, his perusal moistening my pussy and spiraling my desire higher.

  I pivot slowly, swiveling my hips suggestively to the beat, allowing Hawke to see all of me, from every angle. As I move, I run my hands along the tops of my thighs, over the babydoll, cupping my breasts through the sheer fabric. A man howls, his appreciation exciting me.

  Does Hawke want me with the same savagery? Facing the curtain, I look over my shoulder and catch his gaze. Pure uncensored hunger reflects in his pale blue eyes.

  Determined to do more, to permanently bind him to me with lust and need, I grind down, down, down, lowering my ass to the stage. The hem of my babydoll sweeps over the wooden surface, back and forth, a tantalizing, taunting swish of fabric. Hawke growls, the low rumble heard over the music, his response thrilling me, warming me.

  My skin shines with a sheen of perspiration, the beads of moisture on my legs and arms glistening under the spotlight. The beat of the music pounds through my form, equaled only by my need. I undulate as I straighten, my body rippling like a piece of fine ribbon.

  A man yells “Take it all off,” his coarseness reflecting a gratifying urgency. I make him this crazed, make them all this crazed. The audience chants for more, more, more, their demands reverberating through me.

  I’m powerful, wanted, desired by these men, by Hawke. He watches me. He cares. I bend over, swoop down with my arms, skim my fingertips over the stage. The babydoll pulls upward, and cool air wafts on my upper thighs. I know what they see—pale skin, the curve of my ass, a hint of pink pussy lips through my skimpy panties. Chairs scrape across the floor as men move closer, as Hawke moves closer.

  Continuing to face away from him, away from my audience, I flick the front of my babydoll, removing the one button holding the garment in place. This piece of plastic bounces across the stage, its ping, ping, ping punctuating the music, the sound distorted as it often is in dreams.

  I glance behind me, ensuring I have the audience’s attention. Men stare at me with wide eyes and open mouths. Hawke’s intense gaze is focused on me and only me.

  I roll my shoulders, shrugging the flimsy fabric downward, over my arms. The babydoll catches on my hands, hangs for a heartbeat, then floats toward the stage. A man bellows my name. I stand in the middle of the stage in my bra, G-string, stockings, and heels, the object of men’s desires.

  There’s no sense of degradation, of shame. I’m strong, womanly, in complete control of myself, of the men. Crossing my arms in front of my chest, I hold my lace-covered breasts in my palms, deciding what they peruse, when they see me. All talking, cheering, chanting ceases, an expectant silence falling.

  I rock my hips as I turn, mimicking the sex act. Every man in the room stares at my hands, at my pale fingers splayed over my curves. Hawke’s rugged face darkens with lust, his eyes deepening to a glimmering navy blue.

  He belongs to me, his lust mine to shape, to nurture. I flash one breast and then the other, giving them a teasing glimpse of lace. Men roar their appreciation. Hawke’s lips pull tight as though my taunts cause him physical pain.

  He’s hard, his black pants tented around a daunting erection. I shift my hands lower and cup my breasts, lifting my curves, offering them to him, to my audience. The strategically placed lace flowers on my bra conceal my nipples. A scrap of white covers my mons.

  Hawke’s fingers curl into massive fists.

  I’m wet, so very wet, my upper thighs slick, the scent of my musk hanging in the air. His nostrils flare as though he can smell me, smell my arousal. I pinch and play with my breasts as I sway to the music, grinding up and down, my heels tapping in time to the beat.

  Hawke wants me badly, my movements enthralling him. I smile seductively, pleased. He won’t leave me, not now, not ever. He’ll stay, be the steady, constant, forever man I want. I circle, rocking my hips, giving Hawke a clear view of my rear, the white ribbons of my G-string slipping between my ass cheeks.

  Gazing over my shoulder, I reach behind me and unhook my bra. His eyes widen. He licks his lips, his desire palpable and real. I have him. He’s mine.

  The bra drops to the stage. I stare at the rich red velvet curtains hanging in front of me, warmed by Hawke’s love, my hands placed over my breasts, my shoulders squared, my spine straight, and my legs spread. The crowd quiets, holding their collective breath.

  I turn.

  Hawke no longer sits in his seat.

  Nicolas has taken his place. He’s dressed in an expensive black suit, his shirt a startling white under the bright lights, his black tie knotted tightly. He’s handsome, perfect, and very, very angry, his face hard, his brown eyes piercing.

  He knows. My stomach twists with dread and disappointment. Nicolas knows I was dancing for Hawke, that I chose the bad-boy biker over him, my unwavering, reliable billionaire. No man wants sloppy seconds. No man claims a woman a rival rejected.

  And I have been rejected. Hawke has left me as I knew he would, walking away and not looking back. Nicolas would have given me everything, his closely guarded heart, his loyalty, his wealth, his forever.

  I freeze for one heartbreaking moment, captured by the hot spotlight, tortured by the magnitude of my mistake. The music continues, the thumping, driving beat relentless. The crowd chants, uncaring of my emotional turmoil, wanting to see more.

  The show must go on.

  I swivel my hips and squeeze my breasts, seeking to correct my error, to please and pacify Nicolas. He stares at me with cold eyes as I inch my hands lower and lower. When my fingers slip under my curves, revealing my taut pink nipples, men cheer, fists pumping the air. Nicolas’s expression doesn’t change.

  Desperation builds within me. I grind downward, lowering my silk-covered pussy until his handsome face is between my
knees. He must see my wetness, glimpse my pinkness through the fabric, smell my readiness.

  This blatant sexual offering doesn’t appease Nicolas. Anger rolls off his lean body, the waves of bone-chilling cold permeating my skin, freezing my heart. He’s not the lonely man who called me from the club. He’s the arrogant asshole with no patience for liars. And I lied to him, betrayed him. He’ll never forgive me.

  I can’t save our relationship. This realization hits me with a bone-bending force, the staggering emotional blow bringing me to my hands and knees. I’ve fucked us up beyond all redemption. There’s nothing more I can do, other than walk away with the remnants of my pride intact. I push against the stage’s wooden slats, preparing to straighten, to end this with some dignity.

  Nicolas places one cool hand on my thigh, stopping me. His eyes are hard, his grip firm, his fingers smooth, unblemished by the ugliness of life.

  “I’ll pay for the dance.” He runs the edge of a crisp dollar bill over the curve of my ass, teasing my skin, and I tremble, unable to escape him.

  “And nothing more.” Nicolas tucks the bill into the top of my stocking, his fingertips hovering inches away from my pussy.

  He wants to fuck me, and I won’t deny him. This one dance is all I deserve, all I’m worth. Nicolas cups my mons, his clasp on me tight, and I spread my legs wider, giving him access to me, to my body, my mind and heart retreating to a safe place no man can touch.

  As Nicolas moves behind me, the rasp of his zipper signaling his intentions, men line up along the stage, waving dollar bills. They all want one dance and nothing more. My heart twists. I’ve thrown away my chance at forever.

  Chapter Seven

  THE MORNING ARRIVES an hour earlier than it usually does. I need the extra time to prepare for today, the day Mr. Peterson announces my full-time status. My joy is marred by the previous night’s dream.

  It was just a dream . . . wasn’t it? I hop out of bed and pad over to the window, the hardwood cool under my bare feet. Parting the curtains, I gaze at the park and locate Nicolas quickly, and my uneasiness dissipates.

  My billionaire sits on the same bench he occupies every morning, his black suit, white shirt, burgundy tie reassuringly normal, the arrangement of papers and devices around his lean form soothingly predictable.

  Nicolas is as unbending as the big maple tree standing in the center of the green space. I can depend on him, rely on him.

  His lips curl upward and I blink. God, he’s handsome. I sigh. And he’s rich. He can be charming when he chooses to be, and when I saw him yesterday, I felt much more than platonic friendship.

  But Nicolas’s consistency is his best feature. His routine is set in stone. I can count on him being in the same place at the same time every day.

  My gaze lifts to the balcony of three eleven north. Unlike some people.

  The balcony is empty, the space dark. There’s no sign of Hawke. My shoulders sag, my disappointment foolish. I can’t rely on tattooed bikers. My dad taught me that lesson. Hawke simply reinforces this truth.

  I stare at the balcony, willing him to appear. Minutes pass. Nothing happens. My gaze lowers to Nicolas. He clenches a pen between his teeth as he studies a piece of paper, thought lines furrowing his forehead, his black eyebrows knitted together. He’s the only man I should want to see.

  I move away from the window, wander into the bathroom, shower, and dry my hair, navigating without thinking through my morning routine. Nicolas and I are the same this way, thriving on the normal.

  He’s Friendly. I’m certain of this. Nicolas gives me challenges because he, himself, enjoys challenges. That’s why he opened a club after repeated success in the luxury condominium market. And the challenges he gives me are sexual because he secretly shares my perversions. He enjoys watching me.

  And I enjoy being watched.

  There’s no reason to think about Hawke, no reason at all.

  I don a matching-bra-and-panty set, the black silk cupping my curves. Going bare is not an option today, as I’ve chosen my favorite suit to wear. It has a gray tweed jacket paired with a full, flirty shirt, the hem skimming midthigh. I can’t risk a wardrobe malfunction at my own party. That would be extremely embarrassing.

  I stand in front of my closet, torn between ballerina flats and the increasingly creaky imitation Louboutins. I finally decide upon the heels, as I need the extra height. My hair is twisted into a knot at my nape, and my makeup is light.

  With my Salvatore Ferragamo purse on my arm, I sashay into the main living room-kitchen, certain that I’ll impress Cyndi with my fashion style.

  There’s no one to impress, as Cyndi isn’t yet home. My shoulders slump, my happiness deflating. Her bedroom is dark and the rest of the condo unit is neat. The crystal bowl on the red countertop remains filled with candy. She didn’t make it rain jelly beans during the night, prompting another blistering memo from the building management.

  I suspect Nicolas doesn’t write those infamous memos. His texts are short, and his telephone calls are even curter. As Cyndi would say, he isn’t a big talker.

  This shouldn’t bother me. We have a lifetime to get to know each other. I don’t need to know his entire history in the first week. He’ll answer all of my questions . . . eventually.

  I rummage through the fridge, locate a tub of raspberry yogurt. Throwing granola on top gives it some crunch, some substance. I stand at the window and eat slowly, hoping Cyndi shows up before I have to leave. I need her well-wishes today. My stomach swirls with nerves.

  Three eleven north remains dark . . . not that I care, about Hawke, or any man other than Nicolas. The park is also empty, the wooden bench unoccupied. My billionaire has left for the day. I should leave also.

  There’s no need to wait around for certain people to return. I lift my gaze to the balcony. Or for a delivery from Friendly, my mysterious texter. I toss the empty tub in the trash and put the dirty spoon in the dishwasher. The reward bonanza must be over. I struggle to contain my disappointment. It was fun while it lasted.

  I have Nicolas and a full-time job. That’s enough, more than enough. I certainly shouldn’t pine over some tattooed biker or require any affirmation from an unknown man. I push my beautiful purse into the crook of my elbow.

  The locks buzz. The doorknob rattles. The front door swings open. “I have a delivery,” Cyndi sings, holding up a small cardboard box in one hand, her high heels clutched in her fingers.

  The box is brown, unmarked, mine. Exhilaration zings through me. Who am I fooling? I do need the affirmation. I deserve it. Damn it.

  “My reward!” I run to retrieve the box.

  “Hey.” Cyndi turns, barring me from my reward. She’s wearing the same dress she wore last night, the blue fabric clinging to her curves, and she smells of alcohol and men’s aftershave. “This delivery could be for me.”

  “It isn’t.” I grin. As I bounce on the balls of my feet, my shoes creak, the sound embarrassingly loud.

  “You’re right. It isn’t.” Cyndi sets the box on the hardwood floor. “It’s small. Do you think it’s jewelry? Or shoes?”

  “It could be shoes,” I agree, kneeling beside her. “I hope it is. I need shoes desperately. Mine creak.”

  My best friend’s eyebrows lift. “Was that your shoes? I thought I was rooming with the Tin Man.” Before I can stop her, she rips the box open and peers inside. Her arm extends.

  “Don’t touch them.” I grab her wrists.

  “Relax.” Cyndi twists her arms, easily breaking my grip. “It’s not shoes.”

  “Oh.” I sigh, slumping. “That’s a bummer.” I really do need new shoes.

  “It might or might not be a bummer.” She reaches inside the box. “It’s an envelope.” Cyndi hands the square brown envelope to me. “A very thick envelope. Oh.” Her eyes widen and her lips round. “It’s an invitation to R.” Her body shakes. “Bee, we’re finally going!”

  “It’s thick for an invitation.” I should know, having mailed hundreds
of invitations to the Magnificent Ball.

  “He wrote you a love letter.” Cyndi isn’t dissuaded, my best friend fixated on gaining admittance to Nicolas’s club. “Or you could be right. Your secret admirer is Rainer and he sent you a memo.” She laughs, her blonde curls bouncing around her flushed face. “It has been brought to my attention that you are my ideal partner.”

  I grin. “You’re an idiot.” I turn the envelope in my hands, examining it from every angle, prolonging the suspense. It could be anything—money, a gift card, reservations at a ritzy restaurant.

  “You’re too slow.” Cyndi snatches the envelope from me and tears it open. “Your Reward,” she reads. The message is the same as yesterday’s. The black font on the white card stock is also identical. “He’s not a big talker.” She flicks the card to me.

  I catch it and slip it into my purse. Nicolas might not be a romantic, but I am. I’ll keep these early mementoes of our relationship.

  “Limo chits,” Cyndi calls out, waving the papers. “Your secret admirer doesn’t like that you take the bus,” she states with approval. My best friend has never taken public transportation, not once in all of the years I’ve known her.

  “I don’t like taking the bus. I was late to work yesterday.” I examine the coupons. The chits prepay for limousine services. “Is this the same company Nicolas uses?”

  “Nicolas?” Cyndi’s eyes widen. “Are you two lovebirds on a first-name basis now? ‘I love you, Nicolas.’ ‘I love you, Bee.’” She makes kissy noises, smooching her arm.

  I roll my eyes. “Is this the same service Rainer uses?”

  Cyndi tilts her head. “He’s a billionaire. He doesn’t use a service. His driver is a full-time employee.”

  That makes sense, as Nicolas doesn’t form temporary relationships. That’s one of the many things I like about him. “I still think it must be him. He’s the only guy I know who uses a limo.”