by Jo Raven
“It looks like…” I wet my lips, glance up at him.
“The strips of my flogger,” he supplies the answer, looking smug.
“Why?” Strange question to ask when given a platinum bracelet that has to cost a fortune, I know, but why would he buy me anything? I’m just his fuckbuddy.
“To always remind you that you like it.” His gaze dips to my cleavage, darkening. “That you beg for it. For me.”
“I don’t beg for you.” I scoff, getting scared, all too aware he might have seen through me, realized I feel more for him that I’d ever admit, even to myself. “It’s just sex.”
“Yeah.” He turns his face away. “Yeah, it is. Damn good sex, though.” From the side, I watch his mouth tilt up in a smirk. “And now you’ll wear my flogger on your wrist.”
“Maybe.”
He faces me again. “You will, Doll. Because in the bedroom you’re mine.”
***
I mull over his words as he drives me to yet another boutique hotel. I swear, we must have tried them all over the past few months.
In the bedroom you’re mine.
You’ll wear my flogger on your wrist.
He’s marking me. Like a lion, marking his females.
But why? He doesn’t need to do that. Not him. Not with me. He can literally have any girl he likes.
Unless he really does like me that much, which is… insanity. If he did like me, he’d have asked me out. He’d try to be a boyfriend for me, not someone I see when he’s in town, not someone I only see at night and have sex with in random hotel rooms.
I finger the bracelet as we enter the hotel. It hangs heavy on my wrist. Definitely expensive stuff. Should I give it back?
It almost feels like he’s paying me for sex.
Although when he turns to me and smiles, when he takes my hand and lifts it to his warm lips, that thought flees. He’s never treated me badly. Never implied I’m cheap.
“You look more gorgeous than ever,” he whispers.
See? Makes it so difficult to be angry with him. Difficult to hate him when he’s only giving me pleasure. Difficult to send away.
As Dorothy put it a few days ago, why send away a man who can make you come so hard you see stars? She claims that the mere mention of his name makes me moan.
She’s lying, of course. She can’t know that. I only do that when she’s not around.
Soon enough we’re inside a luxurious room, and he grins at me as he tugs me toward the bathroom. He’s playful, and I’d much rather have his more intense, forceful side tonight.
He lets go of my hand to plug the huge bathtub and turns on the water. He winks at me over his shoulder. “I’ve traveled a lot. Wanna wash me clean?”
Despite my anxious turn of thoughts, the image is enough to make me throb between my legs. “No water for washing in Mexico?”
“I tried drowning in tequila,” he mutters, and I’m not sure he’s joking. “Didn’t work out so well.”
“Miss your friend, huh?”
“Damn right. I’m worried about him.” He drags me close, then starts undressing me. “Missed you, too.”
“You can’t,” I whisper.
“Can’t what?”
“Say things like that to me.”
“Why not?” His hands still on the zipper of my dress.
“Because of your promise. Because there can never be anything real between us.”
He gives a dry laugh. “What’s more real than sex?”
“You know what I mean.”
He says nothing after that, his grin frozen in place, kind of manic. His hands are moving, though, taking off my dress, cupping my boobs, stroking down my flanks. His mouth finds my mouth, and he pushes me back against the tiled wall of the bathroom, kissing me hard.
He lifts my hand with the bracelet on, drags the metal against his cheek. His lashes are lowered, hiding his eyes. “You make me feel good. Like everything’s fine in the world.”
“Then why can’t you be with me?” I ask, before I can stop the words. “Is it because of what you said? Danger?”
Stop, stupid mouth! I barely know him—except for his awesome body, that is. I don’t really want to be his girlfriend.
Do I?
“Forget about that,” he mutters.
“But I—”
“I needed to see you.” A crease forms between his brows as he releases my hand and takes a step back. He pushes his hair out of his eyes. Such a boyish gesture. He looks so young like this.
I keep forgetting he’s barely older than myself. And tonight he looks oddly lost in thought. Lost inside his own head.
Drawing a deep breath, inhaling his scent, I put my hands on his jacket and push it off his shoulders. He blinks, as if caught off guard, and lets me peel the jacket off him, then his T-shirt. His chest rises and falls sharply when I skim his pecs and broad ribcage, then undo his jeans and push them down, too.
Then groans when I go to my knees to take off his biker boots, socks and pants, leaving him naked.
When I stand back up, he puts his hands possessively on my ass and mashes my body to his, grinding his stirring hard-on between us. He’s kissing me again, and doesn’t stop as he tugs me toward the tub.
I toe off my shoes and he breaks the kiss to help me inside the warm water. The tub is half-full by now and when he climbs inside and pulls me down, on top of him, that’s more than enough.
“I want you,” he whispers and squeezes my boobs in his big hands, then bends forward to lick my nipples. “Couldn’t think of much less during my trip. Fuck…”
He leans back when I put my hand between us and tug on the piercing, then curl my fingers around his thick cock, eyes closing. He’s so hard, it feels like he’s close to coming.
I know his body. I can feel his approaching orgasm in the way his legs shake underneath me, the way his balls are drawn up tight.
Lifting up, I guide him inside me—because I missed him, too, and I want him desperately.
He arches up when I sink on top of him, grabbing the rims of the tub in a white-knuckled grip, his jaw tight. He slips deep inside me, the feeling overwhelming, his cock stroking every pleasurable spot until I can’t keep quiet anymore and moan out loud.
The pleasure is making me light-headed. I grip his shoulders to steady myself, bending over him, and he thrusts up.
I cry out at the fullness. It’s perfect. I’m panting with it, unable to think past the fact he’s sheathed inside me again, fitting me, stretching me, making me…
Making me his.
I falter, and he stops moving, watching me from heavy-lidded eyes. His body is still arched backward, his hands still gripping the rims of the tub, the tendons in his neck corded. His cock pulses inside me, a steady tickle that tells me he’s on the cusp of shooting his load.
But he’s struggling to wait and see if I’m okay.
I lift up, sink back down on him—and that’s obviously the signal he’s been waiting for, because he rocks his hips up and starts pounding into me in fast, rhythmic thrusts that begin to unravel me.
No roses. No flogger. Just him and his cock, his beautiful body and that vulnerable, oddly naked expression on his face.
“Hawk!” I try for more, but my belly is clenched so tight I can’t speak, and then my core spasms around him, hurtling me into pleasure.
His thrusts stutter, and faintly I hear him cry out as heat floods my pussy, making me clench again.
“Hell, babe.” He lets his head thunk back, on the edge of the tub, eyes closed, pale lashes fanning on his cheekbones. “It’s like… it gets better every goddamn time.”
I shake my head, because it feels that way to me, too, but I can’t. Can’t let myself think, or ask any more stupid, embarrassing questions.
We’ve covered that topic already.
Then he reaches for my hands, eyes fluttering open.
“Hold me,” he says, and I suck in a sharp breath.
This isn’t part of sex. Of sex-buddyi
ng. Neither was the bracelet. What’s going on?
“Hawk… I can’t,” I whisper, vaguely aware I’m repeating to him what he said to me earlier tonight.
“Damn.” He gives me a rueful smile. “Of course not.” He rubs both hands over his face. “It’s just… it’s the fucking anniversary of my grandpa’s death. I shouldn’t have called you tonight.” He starts to get up, sloshing water as his words sink in. “I’d better go find something to drink.”
Sounds like his grandfather was important to him. I have so many questions—when did he die? Who was he? It’s the first time Hawk lets a glimpse of his real self peek through, and I don’t know what to do about it.
Except…
“Wait.” I slide my arms around his neck and rest my cheek on his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
He doesn’t move a muscle, perfectly still in my hold, his heart hammering wildly against my boobs. “Me too, Gorgeous. For everything.”
He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t ask. I just hug him, and gradually he lifts his arms and hugs me back.
Chapter Six
“So when are you going to tell me about your boyfriend?” Mom asks, sitting at my kitchen table and sipping black coffee.
“Boyfriend?” I frown, cradling my own mug of milk-with-coffee and leaning against the counter. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“Well then, no idea how you call it these days.” She waves a manicured hand and smiles at me. It’s kind of creepy how much she looks like me. And kind of nice, too. “That young man who’s holding your hand in the picture.”
“The” picture is the only photo of me and Hawk the tabloids have managed to score so far. It made quite the splash last month. We’re walking into a restaurant, and he’s holding my hand, glancing over his shoulders as the paparazzi flashes went off.
Needless to say we fled the restaurant and had dessert in bed instead.
“Don’t you know who that guy is, Mom?”
“Some rich guy or other. The Fleming heir.” She sighs. “Don’t tell me you’re just friends.”
Trust Mom not to know who Hawk really is. It’s a miracle she saw the picture. I bet one of her friends showed it to her.
“Yeah, he’s rich. And we’re not really together. We only went out for a while.”
That’s not a lie.
I mean, he’s vanished again. No phone calls, no texts.
I can’t take this anymore. This constant vanishing act that has me wondering if something happened to him, or if he just decided he got bored with me.
It’s easier to put things into perspective when I haven’t seen his face in a while. When I haven’t heard his sexy voice.
This has to stop.
“Honey…” Mom beckons for me to approach and I do, because curiosity killed the cat and I’m ten times worse. “Come here.”
“What is it, Mom?”
I sit beside her, and she takes my hands. It reminds me eerily of Hawk in the bathtub, taking my hands to ask me to hold him.
“You’re beautiful, honey. You’re intelligent, and educated, and amazing. I hope what happened between me and your dad, this divorce, didn’t affect you negatively. Because it didn’t work out between us, it doesn’t mean you can’t have a fabulous relationship, get married, have a happy life with your partner.” She wrinkles her nose. “That what you call it nowadays, is it? Partner.”
“Mom.” I try in vain to disentangle my hands from hers. She’s strong. “It’s not that. Hawk and I were never meant to be together.”
“How do you know that if you don’t give him a chance?”
“I gave him lots of chances, Mom,” I mumble, finally wrenching my hands free. “He doesn’t want a relationship. And I don’t really know him well enough to know if I want one, either. With him, I mean.”
Her eyes, so eerily similar to mine, fill up. “You have feelings for him. I can tell from the way you talk about him, from the way you say his name.”
Damn. And here I thought I felt nothing anymore.
“Everything will be okay, love,” she says and claps her hands, putting on a bright smile. “I know. Let’s go get a mani-pedi together. And shop. It will make us both feel so much better.”
So I let her take me along and pretend to have fun, because otherwise I’d have to admit to myself that my heart is aching.
***
It’s late next week, long after Mom has left back to New York and I’ve returned to the grind of classes and assignments, when I receive a call from an unknown number.
I’m in the process of getting a coffee from the cafeteria at school, so I let the call go to voicemail and pay for my drink, then grab the Styrofoam cup and head toward my parked car.
My phone rings again.
Crap.
Rooting around in my purse where you can find anything from expired candy to usb sticks and a broken flashlight, I finally locate my phone and connect the damn call.
“Yeah?”
“Layla Green?” The voice is deep, deeper than Hawk’s, and definitely masculine.
“Who is this?”
“Layla, Hawk needs you. Why aren’t you with him?”
What the hell? “What are you talking about?” I mutter. “Hawk doesn’t need me. And again, who are you?”
“Rook. A friend.”
“Funny. He never talked about you.”
“Maybe you weren’t paying attention.”
Jesus. “Look, Hawk and I aren’t together. We just fuck.”
“You mean you’re fucking around with him.”
I shrug. I’m in a funk. Might as well let this guy think that. “How the hell did you get my number?”
“I borrowed Hawk’s cell. Look…” He sighs. “If he means anything to you at all, come see him. He’s at the James Hollister. By Patterson Park.”
“What’s that?”
“A high-end private clinic. He and his damn bike got into some sort of accident a few days ago. He’s okay, but he hit his head pretty hard and they’re keeping him in for observation.”
Oh God. I’m standing there frozen, the cell clutched in my hand.
Accident? “I didn’t know—”
“I’ll leave your name at the reception desk,” he says briskly and disconnects.
Just when I thought I had Hawk and my feelings for him figured out, he twists my heart all over again.
***
The grounds of the clinic are spotless. Bright green lawns and perfectly trimmed hedges, and a white building with huge glass windows and a massive entrance, the five broad steps leading to it sparkling in the watery sunlight.
A man is sitting behind the immaculate white desk, and in his pale blue suit, with his brown hair swept over his forehead and dark-rimmed glasses, he wouldn’t be out of place in a period drama movie.
“May I help you?” he asks, glancing at me over those damn glasses. His brow creases. “Ms…?”
“Green. Layla Green. I’m here to see Hawk.” I blink when he gives me a blank look. “Mr. Jamie Fleming.”
“Oh right, Mr. Fleming. Mr. Carter said you’d drop by.” He waves at an orderly who’s coming down the hall. “Sarah, please escort Ms. Green to Mr. Fleming’s room.”
Nodding at him, I follow the orderly down a long corridor, then we ride up two floors in the elevator and come out in another spotless passage.
“This way, please,” the orderly says, and I follow her quiet steps past numbered doors, my mind numb.
We stop at number 2, and she knocks on the door. “Mr. Fleming.” She pokes her head inside, although I haven’t heard an answer. “Ms. Green here to see you.”
She steps back and I enter the room. It’s big, as expected, with glass doors opening to a balcony. There’s a table and leather-padded chairs, and a double bed.
Hawk is sitting on it, his back propped on a mountain of pillows, hands resting on his legs. He’s dressed in pale gray pajamas and a white sweater. His scruff has grown into a beard, and his hair is so long he’s peering through i
t at me.
His gray eyes look a bit too wide at finding me there.
“Hot Body?” he asks, and that breaks me out of my trance.
I close the door behind me and walk toward him. “Hi.”
