by Cynthia Sax
I hurry out of the alleyway, skid to a stop, turn my head to the left and to the right, disoriented. What am I doing and why isn’t he touching me?
“You’re looking for my pretty bike.” Hawke chuckles. “Come on.” He grabs my hand and drags me forward. I jog, seeking to match his pace. “We parked in front of the diner.”
“I know where we parked,” I retort. “I didn’t know why we stopped.”
Hawke lifts me onto his machine, plunking my ass on the edge of the seat. “We stopped because I was one sweet touch away from showing the entire town my junk.” He places the helmet on my head and fastens the straps. “Did you want that?”
Did I want that? Did I want people to watch me as I sank to my knees before Hawke, as I pulled down his jeans, released his cock, stroked him, sucked on him?
I hesitate a moment before shaking my head.
“You did want that.” Hawke runs a calloused fingertip along my cheek and I tremble, needing him, craving him. “You’re so damn perfect for me.” He skims his fingers over my lips. I dart my tongue between the seams, tasting the salt of his skin. “We’ll go somewhere more private than this yet public enough to excite you.” His eyes gleam. “Then you can do with me whatever you wish.”
“You’re assuming I want to do something.” I feign a frown.
“You do.” Hawke laughs as he mounts the bike.
The damn man is right. I want to lick him all over, explore every inch of his rock-hard body. He tugs on my knees, sliding me closer to him. I straddle his hips, wrap my arms around his chest, and push my body against his, torturing both of us. We fit together perfectly, my curves meshing with his muscle.
“Hold on, love.” Hawke revs the throttle, the seat vibrates under me, through me, and my arousal spirals skyward. I moan into his shoulder blades, mouthing the cotton of his black T-shirt, and his body shakes, my badass biker finding joy in my sexual frustration, his mirth obscured by the roaring engine.
Two can play at this game. I cup the ridge in Hawke’s jeans with both of my hands, he curses, and we jet forward, the motion propelling me backward. I cling tighter to his denim-covered cock. Hawke rides even faster, his spine rigid against my breasts.
In mere minutes, we blast past Happydale’s city limits sign, the sign I’d changed with a thick black marker when I left, subtracting one from the town’s population. Hawke continues to ride, moving in sync with his machine, traveling toward his perfect spot.
I’m not as patient as he is. I pop his fly, one button at a time, releasing his junk, as he calls his long, thick cock. My rebel marine doesn’t believe in underwear, all of him gloriously accessible.
I push the flaps away from him and curl my fingers around his shaft, relishing his girth, his size. He’s the biggest man I’ve ever held. . .not that I’ve held a lot of men. My dating life consisted of boring, safe boys.
There’s nothing boring or safe about Hawke. As the wind plucks at our clothes and the pavement blurs beneath us, I pump him slowly, steadily, concentrating on learning his size and shape, pleasing him, trusting my tattooed biker to pay attention to the road, to find us a place to stop, to finish this.
I know I shouldn’t touch him. Any of the drivers passing us can see me fondle Hawke, can see my fingers wrapped around his cock. They’ll know I’m naughty, I’m a pervert, unworthy of a good man like Nicolas.
He’s my future, the man I should want, the billionaire who could solve all of my money problems, rescuing my mom and me from a lifetime of struggling. He’s also Friendly, my mysterious texter, the source of my luxurious rewards.
Hawke is much too familiar with bussing tables for my comfort. I suspect he’s working for Nicolas, living paycheck to paycheck, unable to furnish the condo his boss supplied. His fashion style consists of no-name T-shirts and worn denim. He has no means of helping anyone.
But I want him with a mind-melting passion. Touching him, pleasing him isn’t a choice. It’s a necessity. My fingers fly over his shaft as I work him with all of the earnestness in my soul.
Hawke turns the bike down a rural gravel road. Tall grass surrounds us, and I haven’t seen another building in miles. We bounce over dips and my ass smacks the seat, my skin warming at the points of impact. I release his cock, clutch his thighs, and our speed slows.
We leave the road and enter an unfenced field. Blades of grass whip over my legs. The smell of freshly tilled ground, hot, horny man, and a hardworking motorcycle fill my nostrils. There are no sounds of other vehicles or signs of civilization.
We roll to a stop, and before the sound of the engine fades, I’m flat on my back on the ground with Hawke’s lips covering mine. He ravishes my mouth with frenzied strokes of his tongue, his hard cock pressing against my stomach. I reach down and stroke him. A groan rumbles up his chest, into me, swallowed by my throat.
He’s mine, this dominant man. In this heated moment, I’m everything to him. Hawke can’t find satisfaction without me. I mold my hand along his shaft and he rocks against me, controlling the speed and the intensity, teaching me how he wants to be touched.
He won’t last long. His shaft already swells and his balls hug his base. He breathes hard into me, his chest heaving. I sweep my thumb over his cock head, spreading his precum along his skin, and he shudders, his lips moving against mine, his words smothered by my mouth.
I don’t need to hear his words. I know what he wants, what he needs. Hawke yanks my blouse upward, exposing my pale skin, and shifts his huge form over me. His eyes glitter with intent as he humps my hand faster and faster. The possessive bastard wishes to mark me again, in the most primitive way a man can mark a woman.
His savagery makes me want him even more. I bite down on his bottom lip and pull, needing to tattoo him as he plans to tattoo me.
This breaks my former marine. Hawke drives forward, throws his head back, and roars my name into the clear blue sky, the cords on his neck lifting, his biceps bulging. Spurts of hot cum splash over my fingers, onto my flat stomach, branding me with his essence, his scent.
He thrusts once, twice more and collapses, flattening me. The air whooshes from my lungs, the backpack digs farther into my spine, and I mumble my unhappiness, smothered by the man I shouldn’t want or need.
Hawke laughs shakily and rolls onto his back, taking me with him. “You’re still wearing your helmet.” He removes both the sweaty contraption and my hair elastic, threads his fingers through the loosened tendrils. “And your backpack.” He pushes the straps off my shoulders.
“You’re still wearing your shirt.” I pluck at the black cotton. “We flattened Karl’s lasagna.” I rest my cheek on Hawke’s chest, the sun’s rays and his body heat warming me. “And I’m a sticky mess.”
“You smell like me. The sun will dry the stickiness.” Hawke plucks a leaf from my hair. “You’ve seen me without my shirt.” He twines a strand around his index finger. “And I don’t mind eating flattened lasagna.”
“The lasagna wasn’t for you,” I mutter.
“Then I really don’t mind,” Hawke replies smugly.
He knows the pasta is meant for Nicolas, for my date with the billionaire tonight. I scowl, angry with Hawke and angry with myself. I should have taken better care of the lasagna. I also shouldn’t have given a hand job to one of Nicolas’s employees.
I raise my head and meet Hawke’s gaze. “If you say anything to anyone about today, I’ll kick your ass.” It feels good to say the cuss word.
“I never kiss and tell, sweetheart.” Hawke cups my right breast. He doesn’t have to kiss and tell. He left his teeth marks around my nipple, the dog tags hang between my curves, and his scent covers me.
“But one of these days”—he lowers his face to mine—“I’d like to see you try to kick my ass,” he murmurs. “Marines are trained in hand-to-hand combat.”
I lean forward until the tip of my nose touches his. “I don’t plan to use my hands,” I whisper, our lips a breath apart. “I have a knee, and I know where your jun
k is.”
He laughs, his chest shaking under my body. “You’re priceless.”
I ride his mirth, his joy dissipating some of my worries. If he’s not concerned about Nicolas’s reaction, there’s no need for me to be anxious.
Which means I shouldn’t ask about Nicolas. There’s no reason to ask. He doesn’t care. I shouldn’t care. Oh, shit. I have to ask. “Is Nicolas your boss?”
Hawke stiffens. “Did he say he was my boss?” His face darkens.
“No.” I hold up my hands in mock surrender. “He said nothing, but he has Ellen’s number in his phone and she works for the Organization and he owns quite a few companies.” I’m rambling. I should shut up now, leave it alone.
I can’t. “If he doesn’t own the company. . .” I tap my index finger against my lips, considering the other possibilities. “Is he a client?”
Hawke shifts under me, clearly uncomfortable with this conversation. “The Organization doesn’t divulge information about our clients. We can neither confirm nor deny a relationship with—”
“So he’s a client,” I conclude.
Hawke sighs, his chest rising and falling.
“I know. I know.” I wave my right hand. “You can neither confirm nor deny the relationship.” By not saying anything, he has confirmed my guess. Nicolas has hired the Organization, a company employing former marines, to protect him. “Is he in danger?”
“I can’t discuss clients, love.” Hawke’s stance on client privacy is as unrelenting as the mountains he resembles. “And I really don’t want to talk about the man you’re having dinner with.”
“Okay,” I reply, but it’s not okay. Nicolas is supposed to be my safe, reliable choice, not a source of possible danger. “I guess wealthy people are targets.” I gaze at Hawke, watching his face for verification.
“You’re wonderfully stubborn.” He shakes his head. “Yes, they’re targets. The intended victim of the bombing that killed Rock was an extremely wealthy man.” Hawke rests his palms on my ass, his grip on the denim reassuringly secure. “Some people will do anything to gain money or power.”
My former marine now protects these wealthy, powerful people, people like Nicolas, the man I should be thinking of, touching, wanting.
“Facing that risk is still better than the alternative—being poor, unable to afford food, a clean, secure place to stay.” I draw lazy circles on Hawke’s pecs with my fingertips.
His muscles ripple under the cotton. “Being poor isn’t the only alternative. There are ways to hide wealth and protect loved ones.”
I twist my lips, finding the concept of hiding wealth bizarre. Money buys security and purchases acceptance. No one turns away or ridicules rich people. They belong.
“He owns a company,” I doggedly counter, determined to rationalize Nicolas’s decision. My billionaire has employees, real estate, other holdings. “That’s difficult to conceal.”
“He owns a privately held company,” Hawke amends. “He doesn’t have to tell the public, the press, or even his employees that he owns the company. He made a conscious choice to be in the spotlight.”
“Employees have to report to someone,” I argue. “They’ll know.”
“They’ll know their direct manager’s name.” Hawke nods, conceding my point. “They won’t know if their manager reports to someone else.”
Shit. He’s right. They won’t know if they’re reporting to a manager or to the owner. “Hiring protection seems like a simpler solution.” I lay my head on his chest, confident that he’ll safeguard Nicolas. “You’d never allow anything bad to happen to him.”
Hawke rubs my back and says nothing.
Chapter Four
WE LAY IN each other’s arms, enjoying the sun, the fresh air, and each other. Insects chirp and birds sing. Hawke chews on a stem of grass and talks about the small apple orchard his family owns in Upstate New York, his happily married parents, and his boyhood adventures with Rock, the trouble the two of them would get into.
He doesn’t mention his time in the marines or his job or his plans for the future. Do these plans include me? I touch the dog tags nestled under my blouse.
Not that my plans include him. I turn in Hawke’s arms and face the sky. Nicolas is the right man for me. He’s the solution to all of my issues, a man who will commit to forever, be able to help my mom, give us both the stability we need.
I should end it with Hawke. Now. His palms slide under my blouse, his rough skin skimming along my stomach, his touch dissolving my determination. Or I could say good-bye when we return to the condo. He cups my silk-covered breasts, and I inhale sharply. One more encounter won’t change anything.
Even I know this is a lie. Hawke squeezes and releases my curves, squeezes and releases, escalating my passion. This is good but not enough. I pull the blouse over my head and unhook my bra, removing the barriers between us. Holding the garments in my hands, I hesitate.
“Passion isn’t tidy, love.” Hawke chuckles, takes the clothing from me, and tosses the items aside. I frown, the mess bothering me. His palms cover me, his calluses meeting my softness, and my protests fade. I arch, pushing into the decadent sensation.
“You’re wearing my mark.” Hawke encircles my right nipple, tracing the bruise, puckering my aching flesh. “Everyone knows you belong to me.”
“Yes.” I belong to my badass biker. He molds my breasts, teasing me. The dog tags are nestled between my curves, the metal reflecting the light, adding shine and sparkle. The sun warms my bare skin.
“Everyone knows,” I murmur, the thought exciting me. I’m topless in an open field. Anyone could be watching us, looking at my bare breasts. I wiggle with happiness, grinding my ass into Hawke’s groin.
“Touch yourself.” He mouths my right earlobe.
I’ve never touched myself in front of another person, have never given myself pleasure in public, but I can’t see Hawke’s face, can’t see our audience. . .if we have one. My hands glide over my fluttering stomach. I unfasten my belt, unzip my jeans, thread my fingertips through my private curls, under the denim, under the silk, finding my clit.
A moan escapes my lips and Hawke’s grip on my breasts tightens. “That’s it, love.” His deep voice rolls over me, enthralling me, putting me in an erotic trance, a place where no one and nothing else matters. There’s only the two of us and the need building within me. “Rub that sweet little pussy of yours, make it nice and wet for me.”
I comply, stroking over my folds. “Already wet,” I pant, moisture coating my fingertips. “Been wet all day.”
He groans. “I felt your heat during the ride.” His hardness presses against my ass. “Smelled you at the diner.” His stubble-covered cheek brushes against mine, the burn thrilling me. “Show me your fingers.”
This is wrong, so very wrong. I hold them up. Moisture glistens on my skin. Hawke fastens his lips around my fingers and sucks, the tug of his mouth making my pussy clench, constricting around nothing, my body frustratingly empty.
“Delicious.” He smacks his lips. I tremble, captivated by his open appreciation, having never had a man love the taste of me before now.
“Make yourself come for me.” My former marine issues his next command. “I want you to scream my name when you break.”
He rolls my nipples between his fingers and I squirm, returning my hands to my pussy, my body primed from the hours of being with him, unable to touch him.
“Tell everyone listening, everyone watching, who has you,” Hawke murmurs.
God, he knows the words I need to hear. I work my pussy harder, faster. He speaks to my inner pervert, addressing the yearnings no good girl would ever have, revealing the secrets I’ve kept hidden. I circle my clit, winding my passion around me. He pulls on my nipples, elongating my flesh, adding the pain I crave.
“You like that, don’t you?” Hawke chuckles.
“Yes,” I admit, past the point of shame. I lift into my fingers and he helps me, pushing his hips upward, our bodies mo
ving as one. We struggle together for my satisfaction, his entire focus on me. I’m the center of his universe, his devoted attention compounding my desire.
It might not be caring or love, but it is a damn good facsimile and I take it, greedily soaking it in, reveling under his hands. Hawke plucks at my breasts and nibbles on my neck, mumbling words I no longer have the brainpower to grasp. My arms and thighs shake. Moisture soaks my hands, my musk scenting the air.
My need stretches tight, the tension reaching unbearable levels. “Hawke,” I plead, undulating on top of his hard body, frantic for release. He’ll know what I want, what I need.
He pinches my nipples, pain shoots through me, and I shatter, breaking into a thousand jagged pieces, screaming his name as I propel myself upward. Hawke doesn’t allow me to escape, strapping his arms around my chest, holding me to him. I kick and twist, struggling to be freed, tremors of pleasure coursing over me, increasing in intensity, cresting, then easing.
I sag against Hawke, my brain numbed by bliss, my arms and legs twitching. He pulls on my wrist, lifts my hands to his face, and licks each finger clean, sucking slowly, thoroughly, not missing a drop of liquid. I quiver, docilely bowing to his sexy ministering.
As my rational thought returns, I stare up at the sky and wonder what I’ve done. I’m lying half-naked in a field, being held by a man who is not my future. This spontaneous encounter could ruin everything, could ruin me. If Nicolas finds out about us. . .
My body temperature drops. He can’t find out.
“This isn’t right, what we’re doing.” I stand, fasten my jeans, find my bra, my blouse, dressing quickly, not looking at Hawke, upset with myself. “What I’m doing.”
“You did nothing wrong,” my tattooed biker, the man I shouldn’t want, says. “There’s no reason to feel guilty.” He retrieves my fallen phone, presses a button, taps the device against his, and hands it to me.
“This isn’t me,” I mumble, clipping the phone to my belt and donning the backpack. Juggling lovers isn’t something I’d ever do. I give my loyalty, my commitment to one man, and that man is Nicolas. . .isn’t it? “I had a plan.”
