by Cynthia Sax
Hawke knows cats, having grown up on a farm. He’ll take care of her, and I’ll take care of him. I turn my attention back to his lunch, needing to do something, anything.
“Can you stop at Target and buy her a collar?” I cover his sandwiches with plastic wrap and pack them neatly in a brown paper bag. “It doesn’t have to be an expensive collar, just something so she realizes she’s ours.”
“I’ll do that.” Hawke watches me. “I’ll ensure she’s well fed and she’s aware that we’re coming back for her.” He understands.
He grabs the lunch I prepared for him and links his fingers with mine. “Gisele wasn’t the topic I wanted to talk to you about.”
“I know you have to work.” I walk with him to the door. “You’ll be careful? You won’t get distracted or—”
“This isn’t an assignment,” Hawke says brusquely. “This is fallout from this morning’s overseas shitstorm.” He squeezes my fingers. “I won’t be endangering my team. I’ll be facing an irate client.”
I don’t know why he has to face the client. What does the management team at the Organization do? “At least no one will be shooting at you.”
“True.” Hawke’s expression brightens. “You worry about me.”
“Of course, I worry about you.” I have nightmares every damn night about him.
“Because you love me,” he adds.
“I don’t love you,” I retort, the words flying out of my mouth before I can temper them. I slap my hands over my lips. “Oh shit.” I must have hurt his feelings. “I mean—”
“I know exactly what you mean, sweetheart.” Hawke’s pale blue eyes light up with happiness. “You love me.” He rubs his right thumb between my eyebrows, smoothing the crease there. “You chose me over Nicolas. Everyone knows he’s a billionaire, he cares about the clothes he wears, can buy you pretty things. I understand some women find him handsome.”
All women find Nicolas handsome. He has a face kissed by the gods. I study my tattooed biker. Hawke’s countenance, however, is much more interesting.
“I like you,” I confess. This seems inadequate. “A lot,” I amend.
Hawke chuckles, not believing a word I said. “Trust this man you like a lot to take care of himself and of you.” He brushes his lips over mine. “When I return, we’ll talk. Until then, no leaving the building, no selling your things online, and no fretting about money.” He taps my nose and I blink. “Can you do that for me?”
“Okay,” I grumble. “But I don’t love you.” Love takes time to grow. It is steady and lasting, a slow-burning flame, not a raging wildfire. “I like you and maybe there’s a bit of lust, but that’s it.”
He lifts his eyebrows. “Maybe there’s a bit of lust?”
Before I can respond, Hawke hooks his arms around my waist, pulls me into his unrelenting body, and covers my lips with his, the force of his embrace driving my head backward. I gasp, surprised, and he surges inside me, stroking his tongue along mine.
I grip his shoulders, swaying into his big form, swept away by passion. He ravishes my mouth for three heartbeats, our tongues tangling, twining, and then he pulls away. I look up at him, dazed and unsteady.
“That’s not a bit of lust, love.” His lips curl with aggravatingly adorable male smugness. “And that’s certainly not like.” Hawke opens the door. “Think about that while I’m gone.” He strides along the hallway, his tread soundless, his shoulders broad.
I watch him until he disappears from view because that’s the nice thing to do. It’s certainly not because I love him. I close the door. Love doesn’t happen this quickly.
I find my cleaning supplies and sweep the main room. Cyndi might believe she’s in love with Cole, and maybe she’s right. But what Hawke and I have is lust paired with liking, which might or might not deepen into more.
I tidy the condo, this task restoring some of my calm, allowing me to think rationally. Loving a man with a dangerous job would be foolish, and I’m not a foolish woman. I’m careful, cautious, and clearly not in love. At all.
To prove this to myself, I call Nicolas, my friend and Hawke’s perceived rival. The phone rings twice.
“This is Nicolas Rainer,” he answers, his tone businesslike.
“This is Bee Carter.” I mimic his curtness. “Are you busy or can you talk?” I walk toward the window. He’s not sitting in his park. His bench is unoccupied.
“I’m always busy,” the billionaire admits. “But I can talk.” There’s a long pause. “I miss you, Bee.”
I hear the loneliness in Nicolas’s voice, and my heart twists. “I miss you too.” I’ve grown accustomed to seeing his gorgeous face every day. “You can call or come over anytime,” I impulsively offer, wishing to see him. “Bring ice cream if you do. Hawke’s men finished the last tub yesterday.”
There’s a clicking sound as though Nicolas is typing on a keyboard. “I have half an hour to spare this evening.” He must have been checking his schedule.
And he’s blocked a precious half hour for me. I smile. “We can bake chocolate chip cookies.” My phone buzzes. I ignore it, concentrating on Nicolas.
“I enjoy eating chocolate chip cookies,” my sweet-loving billionaire admits. “But baking isn’t a skill this asshole has.”
“I’ll teach you that skill.” I grin. True assholes don’t make self-deprecating jokes. “I learned how to bake from the best,” I boast, thinking of Karl.
“I’d like that.” Nicolas’s voice lilts, my billionaire sounding enchantingly animated. “I’ll call before I come over.” There’s a click and silence. One of these days, I have to train him to say good-bye.
I could send him an article on phone etiquette. He could practice tonight, when he calls about our date. I lift my chin. And I am treating this as a date. He’s a man. I’m a woman. We’re spending time together. That’s not the action of a woman in love with someone else.
My feelings for Hawke are manageable, nothing to be concerned about. I ignore my guilt. I’m not in love with him.
If I say this enough times, I’ll convince myself.
My phone hums again. I glance at the small screen and I suck in my breath. There’s a message from Friendly, my mysterious texter.
Friendly: Enter Room 501 North, lie facedown on the massage table, and don’t move. Good girls earn rewards.
Friendly isn’t Nicolas. I uncovered that shocking truth this morning.
He isn’t Hawke. I look around my military man’s bare condo, his living space supplied by the Organization, his employer. As much as I wish Hawke was Friendly, the finances simply don’t add up. He can’t afford the rewards Friendly sends me.
Friendly could be Lona. I nibble on the inside of my cheek. The high-class escort has the money to buy beautiful things. She knows my sizes, having supplied a dress for the ill-fated dinner with Francois and his dad. The suit Friendly sent was Chanel, Lona’s favorite designer.
The only alternative is a stranger, and a stranger wouldn’t send expensive gifts, not wanting anything in return. He or she would have approached me by now, perhaps taking advantage of my newfound fame, using the footage of my exploits to blackmail me into more deviant acts. My mysterious texter hasn’t done this.
No. I shake my head. Friendly has to be Lona.
Lona is my friend and she respects Hawke. She might have even designed the challenges with him in mind or involved him somehow. This possibility titillates me. Lona certainly wouldn’t hurt me, wouldn’t knowingly create trouble for us. I slip out the door, the electronic locks buzz behind me, and I trek along the hallway.
The retiring escort could be seeking to expand my horizons, give me a little bit of sexual sophistication. Hawke is a man of the world, literally, having traveled during his tours of duty with the Marines. The woman he loves will be adventurous.
Not that I want him to love me. I press the up button for the elevator. The doors open. I select the fifth floor and lean against the back wall. We have lust and a mutual respect for each o
ther. That’s enough.
My pale face reflects in the mirrored walls. I’m acutely aware of my panty-less state, cool air whooshing up my skirt, caressing my ass and mons. The pervert in me wants to lift the fabric, to look at myself, uncaring of the security cameras or who might be watching them.
I press my palms against my skirt, forcing myself to remain still. My acts of exhibitionism belong to Hawke and to Friendly. They control the situations, ensuring only people they trust see my sexual exploits. With them, I’m safe. I can indulge in my fantasies without worrying.
I don’t know what today’s fantasy is. This challenge is different from the others, requiring me to do nothing except lie on a table, fully clothed. Remembering my lack of panties, I wiggle. I’ll be partially, not fully clothed. The massage table could be modified. I’ve seen pictures of chairs with built-in vibrators. This would place Friendly in control, this possibility both scaring and exciting me.
The elevator doors open and I walk toward five oh one north. The hallway is empty. There’s no one to see me meet with Friendly. I glance up at the security cameras. Only Hawke’s team will know I’m here. I wave my passcard over the sensor, the light turns green, and I enter the condo.
The setup is the same as yesterday, with chairs arranged around a raised stage. The only differences are the red leather massage table replacing the chair and the red feather set beside the silk-covered box on the glass table.
My audience, including Friendly, hasn’t yet arrived, the chairs empty, the space silent. I venture closer to the stage. The massage table appears unmodified except for the red bolster pillow in the middle. I relax. There aren’t any restraints or cuffs, restricting movement. I can leave at any time.
The feather also puts me at ease. No one ever harmed anyone with a feather. I open the box and peer inside. This glass dildo has green spirals of ridges around its thick shaft. I squirm, imagining how this would feel inside me.
The message didn’t say to use the feather or the sex toy. I’m to lie facedown and not move. I nibble on the inside of my cheek. Does this mean someone else will be wielding these objects, a stranger, not of my choosing, will be tickling me with the feather, plunging the dildo into my pussy?
Should I do this? The stranger wouldn’t be touching me, not directly. It wouldn’t be much different from if I used the dildo on myself. But she or he will be close enough to smell, taste, touch my pussy.
God. That excites me.
I can stop this encounter at any time. There’s nothing keeping me here. I lie on the massage table. The pillow, positioned at my mons, tilts my ass in the air. I’m covered by my long skirt yet I feel exposed, vulnerable.
Which is silly because, according to Cyndi, a frequent spa visitor, massage clients wear much less clothing. My sexually free best friend has gleefully shared stories about male masseurs rubbing down their clients’ naked bodies, how some of the women secretly get off on the contact. That’s socially acceptable. This experience isn’t much different.
Except masseurs don’t fuck their clients with glass dildos. I push away my concerns and place my face in the cradle. The leather is in mint condition, reassuringly smelling of disinfectant. My view is of black wooden stage floor.
A click echoes in the space, a spotlight shines down on me, and I tense. The show has started and I’m the sole attraction. I wait and wait and wait, my fears compounding. Shit. I can’t do this. I can’t allow a stranger to touch me.
I grip the edge of the table, preparing to brace myself upward, to leave, and an energy fills the room, an electric charge I’ve felt only with one other person. Hawke has arrived. He must have.
I was right. My lips curl upward. Lona is Friendly and she’s incorporated my military man into these challenges.. He saved her from a stalker. She’s doing this for him, in return, I reason, lowering my hands to my sides. Neither of them would allow me to be hurt.
Wood creaks. Unfamiliar cologne teases my nostrils and I blink, confused. Hawke is present. Why is this stranger approaching me? My always vigilant former marine is possessive, branding my body with his love bites, interrupting Nicolas’s attempts to kiss me, growling when Francois talks dirty to me in French. Why would he allow another man to touch me now?
He wouldn’t.
Hawke would never trust my sexual satisfaction to anyone else. I know this as I know the scar on his chin, the wings tattooed across his collarbone, the way he walks, laughs, smells.
I draw a deep breath, analyzing the scent. It’s late in the day, yet the cologne is abnormally strong, as though it has been freshly applied.
I relax. The man approaching me is Hawke. He must have splashed the cologne on his skin to camouflage his natural aroma, a scent I’d recognize.
For some unknown reason, he wants to create the illusion that a stranger is touching me, looking at me, perhaps fucking me. I hope he’s not doing this for me. Having another man’s hands on my body is no fantasy of mine, my loyalty belonging to my military man.
Softness brushes against my left palm. I close my eyes, concentrating on the sense of touch. He sweeps the length of the feather over my fingers, allowing me to identify its shape and feel, offering reassurance that this is the object he’s using to caress me. Only Hawke would be this careful with me, soothing my fears, allowing me to fully enjoy this decadent experience.
He swirls the tip over my palm, tracing my life, heart, head lines, exploring every inch of my hand, and I slip fully into the moment. The feather flits over my hand, up my left arm, across the hair draped over my shoulders, and down my right arm, ending its journey at my fingertips.
The feather lifts and there’s nothing, only his scent and body heat. How many people are watching us? Are the seats filled with horny men? Hawke’s beloved face fills my mind and the feather returns, dancing around my ankles, distracting me. He glides the vane up one leg and down the other, turning at the hem of my skirt, repeating the motion again and again, up and down, up and down.
My inner freak wants more. I spread my legs wider. The feather drifts to the inside of my legs, skimming along that sensitive skin. This isn’t enough. I wave my ass. He swats my calf with the feather and I smile. This punishment is laughable, a butterfly’s wings having more force than his reprimand.
My skirt lifts, the hot spotlight shining down on my upper thighs, ass, pussy lips. The fabric is gathered over my lower back. I’m on display. My body is bare from the waist down and propped in the air by the pillow, allowing everyone in the audience to see my nudity. This excites me, wetting my pussy.
The feather flutters over my thighs, my ass, veering close to my pussy yet never touching my sensitive flesh. The man at my side follows the scratch on my skin, the curve of my hips, the slope of my legs. He tickles the top of the crevice between my ass cheeks, his teasing making me tense, but he doesn’t venture near this forbidden hole, doesn’t push against my boundaries. His care of my body makes me heat even more. Moisture drips down my thighs, my arousal shamefully visible.
He must see the beads of liquid glistening on my pussy lips, smell my musk. Is he hard, his cock pressing against his faded blue jeans? Or is he naked? I shift on the table, unable to stay still, stimulated by this possibility. Are there no layers of clothing dividing us? How far will he go and how much will I allow, not knowing for certain he’s Hawke?
The tip of his feather brushes over my feminine folds and I tremble. He wets the vane once, twice, three times, and then draws designs on my skin with my own juices.
A good girl might get off on these gentle caresses. I’m Hawke’s kinky little pervert. This teasing won’t plunge me over the edge. I open my eyes, needing to be filled, to have a hard cock inside me, requiring a tinge of pain to edge my pleasure.
Hawke knows this. The feather flutters to the floor and lands in my field of vision. The crimson vane is a pop of color against the black stage, as vivid as my red Salvatore Ferragamo purse paired with my black Chanel suit, the combination pleasing me.
Cool glass bumps against my left palm. He drags the dildo slowly over my skin, ensuring I feel every smooth spiralled ridge. I squirm, eager to have its length inside me, and he slaps my fingers with the sex toy, silently reprimanding me for my impatience.
I scowl at the floor. “I’m ready.” My voice is obscenely loud in the silent room. “Fuck me with it.”
The dildo vibrates against my palm. Is the damn man laughing at me? I shift on the massage table, tempted to take my release into my own hands.
The dildo vanishes from my skin. I jerk as it’s pressed against my hot pussy, the weight on my clit exquisite, awakening the bundle of nerves. He slides the sex toy along my feminine folds, wetting the surface. Each raised coil stimulates me and I moan. This is what I want, what I need.
I arch my back, giving him more access to me, and he strokes me up and down, up and down, his rhythm growing faster, harder. My body hums, my nipples taut against the table, my pussy clenching and unclenching around nothing, seeking the toy’s flared tip.
How many men are watching me, witnessing my reaction, wishing they could replace the dildo with their cocks? In my fantasy, they’re as naked, as exposed as I am, stroking their shafts as Hawke strokes me, their gazes fixed on my pussy.
“That feels good.” I undulate against the massage table, rubbing my breasts over the surface, rolling my hips, giving our audience a show. “But it could feel so much better.”
My tormentor, the man my heart says is Hawke, pushes the tip inside me, stretching me open, and I moan my approval, the girth divine. The dildo invades me, one delicious coil at a time, sending tremors of delight over my form. I feel each bump, the unique experience curling my fingers and toes.
“I want all of it,” I demand, my voice husky. “Every glorious inch.”
He gives me what I need, thrusting the dildo into my pussy up to its hilt, and I cry out, gripping the edge of the massage table with my fingers, not wishing to fly into the precipice of fulfillment this quickly, yearning to savor this experience.
