by Unknown
All of my thoughts are orphaned when Sloan announces in an exceptionally apparent tone that she’s ready to let go. And hearing her, watching her, feeling her tighten around my cock… To say it’s my undoing would be putting it mildly. Coming at the same time Sloan does is otherworldly. That might sound a bit too grandiose, but it’s all that for me.
I roll over in a sleepy daze to see Sloan sitting at my desk, across the room. My laptop is open and she’s on my website watching videos.
“Not getting enough of me in the raw?”
Sloan slams the laptop shut, her silhouette against the window rigid. “Jesus, you scared me!”
I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. “Why are you watching those?”
“I have no idea?” Her voice is husky with tears as she sniffles. “Curiosity.”
“Are you crying?” I stroll over to her and crouch at her side. Her knees are pinned together, her hands buried between them.
“I am.” She blows out a breath as I stroke her cheek. “There’s a lot of wrong stuff in front of us. I’m not quite sure how we’re going to figure all of it out.”
“I’ll tell you how. Together. You want to talk tonight?”
“No, actually, I think I’m going to walk home.”
I hold her biceps as she crosses her arms over her goose-bumped chest. “Why the fuck would you walk home? It’s one in the morning. Stay. Come back to bed. Please stop fretting.” I place my forehead against hers; maybe I can’t solve everything tonight but hell if I’m letting her walk out of here in her current mood.
“I’m tired, I’m sort of stressed out, and I’m not good company right now.”
“I’m in love, I’m here for you,and I’m going to hold you in my arms all night and for the rest—”
“Please don’t say for the rest of my life,” she whispers as silver tears shine in streams down her skin. You have no idea how complicated we are.”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure I know. Seems like it’s getting more full of twists and turns by the second.”
“You’ve gone running already and served me French toast in bed. What time did you get up?” I drag a massive bite of French toast along with a chunk of bacon through the pool of syrup on my plate and devour it as Hawke walks around to my side with a small pitcher of orange juice.
“Five. Apparently sex and talking doesn’t exhaust me the way it does you.” He sets the pitcher on the nightstand, kicks his running shoes off, then settles in next to me on the bed, a plethora of electronics in his lap.
“Exhaust? Ha. You killed me, on both counts. Walking might not be an option today, and hell, I have work to do. Unpacking and moving. I have so much to do.” I nudge him with my elbow.
He nudges me back, giving me an electric smile. “I’ll let you boss me around if you let me help you.”
“‘Let me’? Be clear—it will happen. You’ll be bossed.”
“Sexy little dom, try me.” He winks at me then focuses on his phone. “Hey, Sam just shot me a text—wants to have a barbeque tonight or tomorrow night. You want to go? And if you do, which night?”
I swallow a bite and chase it with a long swig of orange juice. I can do this, be friends with his female friends. Friends he’s fucked. Fucked at work. I have things he’ll need to get over too. “Either is good. Please thank her for including me.”
“Tonight, then?”
“Yeah.” I let out a big breath. “In that case, I’m dragging your ass to my place to work.”
“I’m there. I’m anywhere you need me.” He chuckles, sex clearly on his brain based on the lip-licking display he’s offering.
“I’m amazed you didn’t ring my bell this morning. Lip licker.”
“I wanted to. You were dead asleep. I figure we have lots of time to wake up next to each other.” He takes my chin in his fingers and steers my face to his. “And don’t go getting all uppity based on what I just said. It wasn’t a proposal.”
“Scared you, haven’t I? Now you’re rescinding comments as fast as you toss them out. Nice U-turn technique.”
Hawke pulls his shirt off and rubs it across my face. I’m sure he thinks I’m going to hate the sweaty smell of him, but I love it. Makes me think of the T-shirt of his I stole before I moved overseas, the shirt I laid over my pillow that gave me comfort through everything.
“Well, you do have an awfully quick whip, and I don’t like that sting. Felt it a few too many times since you’ve been back.”
“What a softie.”
“Softie?” he says, stealing a bite of my bacon. “That would be about the last thing you might want to call me.” He points out his well-tented shorts.
“Oh, nice.” I roll my eyes. “This conversation got you hard? Or is it a post-running boner?”
“It’s a Sloan McQueen boner. What’re you going to do about it?”
“Drag it through syrup and eat like the fine piece of pork it’s presenting itself to be.”
He kisses my neck and then whispers, “You filthy thing.”
“I’ll show you filthy. Take your shorts off.”
Hawke pulls his shorts down to expose his erection as I set my breakfast tray aside.
“Why am I surprised every time I see you hard?”
“I don’t know. Why are you?” he asks as he straddles me while he rubs the bead of liquid from his tip up and down his length.
He obviously knows what he looks like, based on what he does for a living. But to watch him stroke it the way he is, as his eyes pierce mine, is unreal. Add to that the cocky little smile on the edge of his lips as he takes full pleasure in me watching, and well, it’s a little twisted. But I love him for it.
“I don’t know, but man, you have one gorgeous cock.”
“It’s all yours,” he says, practically spoon-feeding me.
I don’t know what to focus on: it, his beautiful hands, or his get-off-able forearms. “Technically it’s not just mine, but thanks.”
“That was cheap. It’s yours and you know what I mean. Now, suck it like you believe me.”
“Bring it over here.”
Hawke spreads his thighs over my face as he places one hand on the headboard and his other hand on my neck. I could call this a very turned-on state of mind, but that would diminish how unbelievably sexy this situation really is. Turned on is nice; this is decadent.
He slides his length over my tongue as I cup his balls with one hand and the root of his cock in the other. He starts slowly—just the tip. He plays it across my mouth then in and out. His eyes never leave mine, which adds a river of heat to the space between us. I gave Hawke some blow jobs way back, but hell if I knew what I was doing. I don’t think it mattered much because he came regardless of what I did. Hand job, blow job—you name it. I could have given him an elbow job and he’d have been thrilled.
“Ah, Christ, Sloan, that’s it. Yeah… Good… So…”
He sinks himself into my mouth and groans out a long, deep, pleasure-filled sound. Shit, is he sexy. This might be the best view ever of Hawke Slater. The way he towers over me, his muscles wet with sweat and hardened from strain. Then, as he comes apart, I think two things. Heaven, is the first. I’m in Heaven with him no matter what we’re doing. I’m inexplicably hijacked by everything about him. The second thing: Hell. That’s the part that has me flipping out. Because, if he leaves me, I’ll be going back there. I’ve been to Hell; it’s an ugly place, regardless of whether or not you’re the devil.
“Sloan, fuck. Girl, that was… Ahhh, God. That was crazy. We’re good together. Still.” Hawke plunks himself down next to me, the smile on his face making my guts zing.
“Yeah, we’re good. I can’t deny it. But you’re kind of crazy, even if it is for me.”
“Now there’s some progress. So, what’s the plan, beyond the quick shower I need to take?”
I stretch my body out and let out a big groan, thinking about how much there is to get done over at my place. “Take your shower then meet me at my house. I
need a quick one too.”
“Why not join me?” Hawke says, rolling my body onto his.
“Did I say ‘crazy’? I meant you’re a randy beast.”
“Beast? You seem to like my beast.” He thrusts his hips up to mine, palming my ass while he bites my neck.
“If I shower with you, we’ll end up fucking again, and ah…Little Miss needs a coffee break or she won’t want to put out later. I’ll meet you at my place.”
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed after giving him a kiss. As I look around for my clothes, I remember he stripped them off elsewhere.
“Why do you need to shower? You don’t feel sufficiently washed after that? Did I miss a drop?” I open the drawers on an immense, dark-wood dresser.
He watches me with an amused look on his face, seemingly not a bit flustered that I’m poking around in his things. “You missed nothing. I may just change your nickname from Cricket to Hoover.”
“What are you, eighteen?” I pull a gray T-shirt from the bottom drawer, appreciating how nicely folded and organized everything is.
He’s all smiles as I slip it over my head. I keep looking through his things. I finger the brass hardware on one of three top drawers, wondering if he’ll stop me at some point. Jackpot. Junk drawer.
“As a matter of fact…” He chuckles. “What are you looking for, detective? My dirty laundry is hardly going to be found in my drawers.”
“Where is it, then? You must have something hidden away that I need to dig up.” Why in God’s name that just came out of my mouth is beyond me. Maybe the load of semen I just knocked back made me drunk.
I keep poking around in the drawer but find nothing—until my fingers come across a small box. Now that’s something. I pull the drawer out more to peek at it. A robin’s-egg-blue box tied with a white ribbon. Amazing that a tiny box can hold so many questions and so many answers.
I glance over to Hawke, who’s lying on his stomach, facing away from me. I need to look, need to see what’s in there. It’s that size. Did he ask someone else while I was gone, or is he for real when he says he wants me? I steal another glance at him. Then I zone in on the box.
“You don’t want to open that,” Hawke says, jumping off the bed and coming up behind me.
“What?” I slide it under a bunch of receipts. Shit.
“Don’t, Sloan.” Hawke grabs my shoulders and turns my body toward him, then shuts the drawer behind me.
I’m sure my face is crimson. “So, he does have a secret after all? The man has something to hide?” My heart is racing. I should have looked. Thank God I didn’t look.
“You really want to play with fire? You of all people want Pandora’s box?” he says, caging me with his arms, shaking his head while looking down.
“What was it?”
He grinds his jaw. “It’s a was. Leave it alone.” He bends down to open a drawer on the bottom row and pulls a pair of black briefs out. He kicks the drawer shut then slides the briefs on swiftly.
I swallow hard and press on. “Who was she?”
“Sloan, don’t,” he says. His jaw continues to tick angrily as he looks at me with his hands on his hips.
“Oh. Right. I need to fill you in on my last decade, but yours is, what? Untouchable?”
He slams his hand on the dresser top, making me jump away from him. “Hardly. What have I not told you? I’m an open book.”
“Obviously not. I’d hardly call your current state of histrionics ‘open book.’”
He storms to me, one second from my face as he grabs my shoulders. It’s close, as in, I might kiss you. It’s close, as in, I’m about to explode. Then he goes off.
“Are you for fucking real? You want to know? Great. Sit down.”
A cold sweat films my body as I perch on the edge of the bed. He yanks the drawer so hard that it slides out, spilling the contents across the floor. The blue box rolls then lands upside down. Metaphor? They seem to be everywhere these days.
“Here you go.” He grabs my wrist, flips my hand over, then awkwardly smashes the box into it. “It’s all yours and whoever she was!” he yells. “I’m still trying to figure her out. A happy fucking open book that’s about to get slammed again.”
I bite my nerves back. This is what I think it is—I’m certain. I pull the white ribbon and take the top off the box as my heart skids through my rib cage. A wide band with small, diamond-encrusted flowers stares up at me. It’s delicate and bold. More beautiful than anything I would have ever dreamt a girl could want. Not just the band—the emotion that hits me as I realize what it really means—or could mean. Could have meant.
“Hawke, was this?”
“Yeah. For you. Whoever you are.” He closes his eyes as he drags his hands down his face.
Seeing him like this rips a hole in my heart and forces the sting in my eyes to overflow.
“I’m sorry. I thought…” I stifle a sob.
“I’m sorry too. But you’ve been hearing a lot of that from me lately. Your turn, Miss Open Book. Care to enlighten me yet?”
“Hawke, don’t. Not now.”
His gaze is angry and spiteful, filled with ten years of worry and questions.
He targets his head toward the windows then walks over to them, his back to me as he speaks in a somber tone. “Oh yeah. That’s right. You need time. Your book is more complicated than mine is. Mine was about one girl. A girl I loved and a woman I still want to love. It’s complicated, all right. Though you seem to give complicated a new name these days.” He gazes over his shoulder and looks me up and down, assessing me.
I feel naked at his perusal, and not in a sexy way. Naked and polluted.
He looks out the window again, talking at the glass instead of at me. “You do what you want with that. I’m done being obvious. It’s your turn. I hope you plan on taking it somewhere along the line here.”
I stand up and walk over to him. “You’re really pissed?” I say, touching his back.
He shrugs me off as if I’m toxic. “Pissed? Nah. I’m a boatload of things. ‘Pissed’ isn’t how I’d describe it. This game-playing is crap. You knew damn well what was in that box the second you touched it. Don’t for a fucking second tell me you thought that was for someone else.”
“Jesus. No, I didn’t think it was for me. I would never have assumed—”
“Assumed?” he shouts. “I’m gonna shut up now, or I’m going to regret the next few things that are sitting on my tongue. You ought to start assuming.”
“Fine. I’ll assume you want me to leave now.”
“Well, there’s a first time for everything.”
“God, you’re an ass!” I sob out.
“No, you don’t get to do that to me. You don’t get to pull that shit with me,” Hawke says, poking one finger against my chest, forcing me to back up. “Tell me, Sloan. What exactly is true about you? My open book is in your hand right now. That right there, darlin’. As for what’s in your heart? Hell if I know. Ten years of a lie. Now there’s some truth, isn’t there?”
Well, that was a lot of self-control gone to hell in a handbasket. Good Lord, what just happened? I need a redo on that conversation. Yeah, that’s going to happen. Just like Sloan is going walk back into my house and spill her guts. Tell me everything she’s harboring. Aggghhh! Fuck me!
I didn’t need to do that. None of it. I bought the ring years ago from Tiffany’s once I’d started making some cash. It was my way of sending a message out into the universe. A cry for help. I wanted every living organism in the world to know she was mine. It was my promise to her, whether she knew it or not. Whether she wanted me or not. No one could get between us, even though she cut herself off from me.
Nice going, Slater, and welcome back to square one. A little reminder, dude: This is the one woman you want. The only woman you have ever wanted. You moron.
After a way-too-lengthy fire-hot shower—where I tried to figure out my make-up plan—I head out the door. Not that she’ll want to be anywhere
near me. I’m scrubbed clean but feel as if I’m wearing jerk like a bad suit. I arrive at her front stoop and finger in her security code, chuckling that mine is the same. Of course it is. Instead of announcing myself, I wander in and take a look around. Open boxes and bubble wrap are scattered in chaotic piles, looking like some pissed-off girl took my confession to heart.
I walk through every room—with Sloan nowhere to be found—then grab a box cutter off the kitchen counter and stroll into her library, seeking out the one box I’ll be stealing today.
Ten boxes are stacked in the corner. Here goes. Hopefully my opening boxes doesn’t piss her off too. Though she did rather freely snoop through my dresser earlier.
Box one. Multicolored knit baby booties. God love her, there must be fifty or more. Sloan, this is sad. Breaks my heart for her.
Box two. Bird nests individually wrapped in tissue. A note on each as to where they were found. Sweet—this is the girl I know.
Box three. Bedroom toys. This makes me laugh. Nice assortment, kitten. I set that box aside, after poking around to see what sorts of things she’s into. Someone needs to go shopping with the industry’s Papa Bear. That someone is going to have an awfully steamy night once she forgives me.
Box four. Letters tied up in a string. All of them from me. All open at the top edge. Shit, she really did read them. Fuck, I loved her. Love her.
Box five. Bingo. I open the box and get a whiff of charcoal and rice paper, which takes me back more than a few years. Gravestone rubbings. Beautiful. Each one layered in archival paper, each a work of art.
Slowly, I go through them, every one a story unto itself. It was one of the things Sloan and I loved about making them together—the stories. We’d come up with tales about who the people were based on the few words on their tombstones as we rubbed charcoal over rice paper. The names and dates fascinated us as they magically appeared. We would deduce their ages then try to figure out what could have happened to them. A whole life summed up in two dates, a name, and, once in a while, a small phrase. Beloved Father. Friend to All. Our collections were touchingly beautiful.
