by Cynthia Sax
I chew on the inside of my cheek. If I accept his challenge, my billionaire will have this naughty photo forever. He wouldn’t show it to others—I trust Nicolas to be discreet—but it would exist.
What would Hawke think of that? My former marine’s blunt face fills my thoughts. He stands on his balcony naked, encourages my exhibitionist exploits, coaxing me to dry hump his leg in public. My lips lift. He wouldn’t care.
And Nicolas could have taken photos of me already. I’ve stripped in front of the window, multiple times. He could have a collection of naughty Bee Carter images.
Yes. I nod. I’ll do this, now, before I talk myself out of this recklessness.
“Is there somewhere I can make a private call?” I ask Eighty Proof.
“I’ll take her to Hawke’s office, Eighty.” Mack stands.
I follow him through the space, contemplating his words. Hawke has an office at a biker bar? I jog to match Mack’s much-longer stride. Why would a security professional have an office anywhere?
The biker opens the door. “No one will disturb you here.”
“Thank you, Mack.” I step into the small, windowless room and lock the door behind me. The air smells of Hawke’s distinctive scent, the combination of leather, engine grease, and man arousing me, prepping me for the sexy photo Friendly requested.
I pace around Hawke’s office, exploring his personal space. The gray industrial carpet under my ballerina flats is in mint condition, not a strand frayed, not a speck of dust soiling the low weave. The walls are painted a shade lighter than the carpet and they’re blank, no artwork alleviating their starkness.
I pull my blue blouse over my head. The cool air tightens my silk-covered nipples, escalating my desire. His office resembles a black evening gown paired with black shoes. It needs a vivid pop of color to complete the look.
I fold my top and place it neatly on a corner of the unfinished pine desk. This huge piece of furniture appears to be handcrafted, the dovetail joints slightly imperfect, the handles an inch off center. It isn’t designer or color coordinated with the black leather captain’s chair or gray guest chairs, but it brings a warmth, a glimmer of personality, to the sparsely decorated room.
I set my phone on the desk, unzip my pants, and wiggle, shimmering out of the garment. The fabric falls to the carpet. I step out of the black circle, retrieve my pants, creasing them into a tidy square, and place them on top of my blouse.
Air brushes over my bare ass, the skimpy G-string panties I’m wearing providing no protection, no barrier from curious gazes. I fantasize that the gray metal cabinets lining the far wall are spectators, men looking at my near-naked body, wanting me.
I drag my fingertips along the top of the desk, the surface clean. Hawke’s neatness pleases me. He might be rough and tough, but he maintains his office, his bike, even his boots with a military precision. I could live with a man like that.
Not that I’ll live with Hawke or with Nicolas. I’ll soon be starting a new life in a yet-to-determined city where no one has heard about me, about the gossip. Before I depart, I’ll give both of my men this gift, this reminder of me, a woman they once knew.
I brush away my sadness and concentrate on my task. The text said to strip naked. I unhook my white bra, shrug, drop the silk cups into my palms, and place the garment on the pile of clothing. My nipples are taut, my breasts aching for Hawke’s rough touch. I squeeze my curves and release, squeeze my curves and release, setting off a pulse of desire through my body.
My pussy moistens, my musk scenting the air. Hawke will smell me, know I was here, in his space. I toy with the ribbons of my panties, playing with the audience existing only in my mind. There are many faces flashing through my fantasy, but my tattooed biker is my focus. He’s the man I want to please.
I push my panties downward, sliding white silk along my pale legs, the sensation decadent. The damp scrap of delicate fabric is added to my stack.
A ball chain encircles my neck, the dog tags warmed by my skin. Ballerina flats remain on my feet. I strut around Hawke’s office, cupping my bare breasts, savoring the brush of skin against skin, feeling sexy, free, and very, very naughty.
Outside this room, big badass bikers are drinking, playing pool, trading war stories. One wooden door divides me from them, and this door could open at any time, exposing my naked body to their sexually hungry gazes.
They’ll want me, need me, their cocks hardening, their eyes glittering with appreciation. They won’t touch me because I belong to Hawke. I’m his girl, safe, respected.
Nicolas, a.k.a. Friendly, might have requested the photo, but Hawke is the man I’m posing for. I’ll send my former marine a copy, to look at during breaks between high-risk assignments. My lips flatten. I position my phone on the desk, pointing the built-in camera toward me and setting the device on delay.
I brace my feet apart and bend over the desk, flattening my breasts against the hard surface. My nipples and mons are hidden by the wood, and my ass is tilted toward the ceiling. I spread my hair over my bare back, allowing a suggestion of curves, creating a sexy, not skanky pose.
The phone’s camera flashes. I study the image and frown. The angle in this first naughty selfie is unflattering, my face appearing humongous. I delete this photo.
It requires a couple of takes before I’m happy with the results. The photo I choose is erotic yet tasteful. Although my body is clearly naked, nothing sinful is showing, and it is visually stunning. The overhead lights cast reddish highlights in my hair and illuminate a hint of ass. My smile is seductive, my eyes soft. I’m beautiful, a woman worthy of forever.
Pleased and a little bit surprised by the results, I nod, embracing this side of me. If this image was forwarded to the world, I’d be proud, not upset.
I send the photo to Friendly, a man I’m almost certain is Nicolas, and to Hawke, the most honorable man I’ve ever met, trusting both men with this intimate portrait of me.
The challenge has been satisfied. I’ve earned my reward and I should stop, put the phone away, dress, but I can’t, not yet. This is my military man’s office. I round the desk to his chair. He deserves an extra image, a more risqué pose.
I sit on the soft leather and swivel my hips, grinding my wetness into the seat. Hawke will smell my hot pussy for days, weeks, my scent filling his nostrils, arousing him.
I prop my shoe-covered feet on his desk and spread my legs, opening myself completely to the cold camera phone’s lens. Moisture glistens on my pink feminine folds, darkening my neatly trimmed brown private curls. No good girl would ever risk this decadent stance, my face, body, everything exposed. My arms shake with excitement.
I trust Hawke not to forward this photo, to protect it as he would protect me, but something could go wrong. The email could go missing in cyberspace. Someone could hack his device. My trepidation increases.
If that happens, what consequences will I face? I force myself to think rationally. Hawke will track down the images and erase them as he erased the footage taken at the restaurant and the blog posts covering the gossip.
He might be unsuccessful. The blog posts have been replicating faster than his team can remove them. This could happen with the photo also. I chew on the inside of my cheek. In this worst-case scenario, my naked selfie would go viral. Everyone would think I was a slut.
My lips twist. Everyone already thinks I’m a whore. I hold the phone in front of me, my fingers trembling, and I summon my sultriest smile.
“This is for you, Hawke.” I snap the photo.
I gaze down at the display and suck in my breath. The woman on the small screen is unrecognizable. She isn’t any man’s potential wife, helpmate, or mother of his children. She’s a temptress, a hot-blooded vixen, a bad girl, ready, willing, and waiting for her man to fuck her hard, to drive into her empty entrance with his thick, rigid cock, to use her for his own savage release.
This is how Hawke sees me.
Yet he respects me. He brought me to the Road G
ator, his favorite bar, a place he often frequents. I’ve met his friends, his coworkers. He’s told everyone I’m his girl, claiming me publicly and proudly.
My fingers hover over the screen. The previous photo was artistically beautiful, but Hawke, my savage man, will prefer this wilder, more natural image of me. I know this in my soul.
I have to send it.
My fingertips tap against the display, a silent declaration of my faith in him, of my belief that he won’t judge me, won’t betray me.
Will Hawke look at the image while he’s meeting with his team? If he does, he’ll grow hard and the men around him will know my message aroused him, that he wants me. My body hums with need, my desire building with each erotic thought. He isn’t alone. He can’t stroke his cock, cup his balls, bring himself to release.
I’m hidden in my military man’s neat and tidy office. The door is closed. I could touch myself, find satisfaction in this private space.
I won’t. Hawke is waiting until tonight to come. I’ll wait also, making our first—perhaps our last—sexual encounter special.
I dress quickly, clip the phone to my waistband, and smooth the wrinkles out of my blouse and pants. Will Mack, Prick, the other men know what I’ve been doing in here, reading the truth on my face?
Hawke says I’m a terrible liar, and I’ve heard how the men torment each other. They’ll make embarrassing comments, tease me, and I’ll die from the humiliation, shriveling into a mortifying heap at their feet. I run my hands over my hair, taming the flyaway strands until I can’t delay my exit any longer.
My heart pounds as I open the door a smidgeon and peek through the crack. No one is waiting for me. The bar buzzes with conversation, the low drone punctuated by the crack of pool balls. There’s no mention of my name, of Hawke’s name.
I was naughty and no one noticed. Relief mixes with an irrational disappointment. I enter the main room and close the door behind me. Heads turn. This, I expect. I’m Hawke’s girl, the mixture of respect and fear the men feel for my former marine transferred to me.
I retrace my steps, passing Mack and the butterfly tattoo woman. He smacks his lips against her forehead, gives her ass a firm squeeze, and pushes away from the wall, following me.
My face heats. “You should stay with your lady friend.”
“My lady friend understands the job.” The bald man shrugs, the chains on his belt jingling with every step. “A distracted marine is a dead marine.”
Do I distract Hawke, by calling him, asking him for help? I frown, not liking this thought. “I’m fine on my own.”
“You might be fine,” Mack concedes. “But if I don’t follow Hawke’s fuckin’ orders, I won’t be. I’m to protect what little there is of you.”
“I’m not little. I’m average-sized.” My forehead wrinkles. “Why are you worried about following Hawke’s orders? Is he your boss?” How many men does Hawke manage?
“I report to Dawg. Dawg reports to Hawke.” Mack shrugs. “When he says ‘Jump,’ I say ‘How fuckin’ high, sir?’”
I frown. Hawke is managing a manager. Why isn’t he paid better?
And why do I care? He isn’t my future.
Mack and I approach the bar. Men scramble out of our corner seats. Eighty Proof, the bartender, places a fresh cleaning cloth and a refilled spray bottle of polish in front of my spot.
I climb onto my bar stool. “They didn’t have to move.”
“It’s the least they could do.” Mack settles on the bar stool beside mine. “The French corporal is a frog and a ground pounder, but he’s one of our own and you defended him.”
I have no idea what a ground pounder is, and I have no reason to learn this or any other military term. I won’t be part of Hawke’s unusual world for much longer.
I scrub the cleaning cloth over the bar’s wooden surface, trying to distract myself. Shit. I have to ask. “What’s a ground pounder?”
Mack grins.
Chapter Six
FORTY MINUTES LATER, my brain is overflowing with military and biker speak. The guys joke and laugh, exchanging rather racy, sometimes extremely graphic, and horrifyingly violent stories. Several of the old ladies have joined us, sitting on their guys’ laps.
I shouldn’t fit in. I’m not dressed in black leather. I don’t sport any tatts or scars or excessive body hair. Eighty Proof, the bartender, sets another ginger ale and lime in front of me. I’m not drinking, don’t ride, haven’t served our country.
Yet they don’t seem to care. I’m one of them. My chest warms. I’m accepted, comfortable, and safe. I belong here.
A muscular arm hooks around my waist. A bolt of electric awareness flows from my form to the man’s large frame. I react this way to only one person. A smile curls my lips. “I almost gave up on you.”
“Liar.” Hawke laughs, the sound coiling deep in my stomach. “You were having a good time.” He pulls me snug against his muscle, his grip thrillingly secure. “And you’d never give up on me.” He presses his mouth to my neck and I tremble, his lips firm and hot, branding my skin. “You’re my girl.”
Why does that sound so right? I tilt my head to the side, giving him more access to me, encouraging him without words.
“Are you ready to go?” Hawke mouths against my earlobe, tormenting me with his slow seduction, his stubble leaving a delicious burn on my cheek.
I nod, unable to speak, my brain fried by our connection. This physical, emotional, spiritual link grows stronger with every touch. I have to walk away from him, to end this, while I still can.
Hawke flips me over and slings me across his right shoulder, the impact pushing the air from my lungs. “We’re leaving.” He slaps my ass, the sound loud, the contact titillating. The men cheer and my face heats.
“I have to stop being picked up at bars,” I muse, splaying my fingers over my abductor’s lower back, enthralled by his rippling muscles.
Hawke’s shoulders shake as he laughs. “You’re priceless, love.”
I like that he appreciates my humor. I like it too damn much.
My arrogant man strides out of the bar as though I weigh nothing, his gait smooth, his tread silent. The door opens and I blink, the bright sun contrasting intensely against the darkness of the Road Gator. “It feels later than it is.”
“That’s because you missed me.” Hawke rubs my throbbing ass, the warmth of his palm felt through the thin fabric of my pants. “I got your photos.”
“Did you?” I whisper, my cheeks on fire.
“Yes, ma’am.” He lowers me to the pavement, sliding my curves along his hard body, escalating my awareness of him. “Who were you thinking about when you posed for those photos?” His pale blue eyes glow, the damn man knowing exactly whom I was thinking about.
“My mind was blank,” I lie, not meeting his gaze.
One corner of his lips hitches upward, white teeth flashing in his tanned face. “You were thinking about me.” There’s no doubt in Hawke’s voice. “That was your fuck-me face.” He grabs my helmet from the seat of his bike and plunks it on my head. “You only look at me that way.”
“How do you know I only look at you that way?” I fold my arms in front of me, trying to hide the embarrassing state of my nipples, the tightened tips pressing against the flimsy fabric of my blouse. “You don’t.” I glare at his square chin, acutely aware of the men surrounding us, listening to our conversation.
“I know you.” Hawke brushes his scarred knuckles over my breasts and I shudder, his caress divine. “Only I make you lose control.”
“I’m leaving tomorrow,” I remind him, pushing for the response I want.
“Hmmm . . . ” Hawke fastens my helmet’s straps, taking care of me, his gentle actions contradicting his lack of concern over my departure.
“Not that you care,” I mumble under my breath.
“You’re right.” He grasps my waist and lifts me onto his big bike. “I don’t care.”
“You’ve made that perfectly clear.” I try to pu
sh him away from me.
He doesn’t budge, standing like a massive mountain in front of me, blocking the sun’s rays. “Do you want me to care?” Lines etch between his thick eyebrows.
He’s big and homely and brutish and yes, damn it, I want him to care. But I can’t and won’t tell him that, won’t show him he’s slicing my heart into thin pieces with every callous comment.
“It doesn’t matter to me what you think.” My bottom lip curls.
Hawke’s shoulders shake. This is a serious matter, and he’s laughing at me. I glower at his T-shirt-clad chest.
“Oh, sweetheart, it does matter to you.” He cups my chin, raising my gaze to his. “I’ve lived all over the world. I love Chicago, it’s a great city, but it wouldn’t be home without you.”
It wouldn’t be home without me. I blink, confused by his response. “Then why don’t you care that I’m leaving Chicago?”
His eyes flash with understanding. “I don’t care that we’re leaving Chicago.”
“What?” I gape at him.
Hawke treats me to that lopsided smile of his I love. “You’re my girl.” He brushes his right thumb over my parted lips, tracing their shape. “Where you go, I go.”
“I don’t understand,” I lie. I understand his words, but I can’t believe in them. The average man doesn’t uproot his life to chase a woman he barely knows.
“If you leave Chicago, I’m leaving also.” Hawke isn’t the average man. He cups my cheeks, capturing my face between his huge hands. “I’ll follow you.”
No one has ever followed me. I press against his coarse, creased palms. “You’d quit your job and move away from your friends?”
“My job can be done from anywhere.” Hawke leans his forehead against mine, his hot breath wafting on my skin. “Our friends are bikers.” His eyes sparkle.
Our friends. I glance toward the entrance to the Road Gator, the green neon sign glowing. “But you belong in there.” Why would he walk away from that sense of home?
“You belong in there too.” His voice is soft.
