by Cynthia Sax
I shouldn’t wake him. He’s exhausted, and I shouldn’t bother him. Oh shit. I have to do this. He can’t squander our time together. I slap his knee. Hard.
“What? Where?” Nicolas lurches forward and looks around him, his gaze settling on my face. “Did you just hit me? Again?”
I lift my chin. “You were sleeping and—”
His phone rings.
Shit. Shit. Shit. I press my lips together, suppressing my cussing, cussing Nicolas wouldn’t appreciate. He had his damn phone on a timer.
“Back to work.” Nicolas unclips the device from my waistband. “Bee, I have to—”
“I know, you have to answer your phone.” I stand, frustrated emotionally and physically, wondering if he’ll ever kiss me senseless. “You warned me that you had only twenty minutes.” I walk toward the door, dreading his departure and the confrontation with Hawke that will follow it. “I had a good time with you.”
“We’ll do this again soon.” Nicolas brushes his lips over mine, his phone vibrating between us. “Very soon.” His voice lowers, his eyes dark with promise.
“I’d like that,” I answer, my hopes buoyed. He’ll claim me physically the next time we meet. I can last until then. I can resist Hawke. My fingers fold into fists. I can.
Nicolas opens the door, presses his phone against his ear. “Nicolas Rainer.” He stalks away from me, not once looking over his shoulder.
My phone hums against my hip. I know who it is. A six-foot-forever, tattooed hunk of temptation is calling me, and I should resist him.
Chapter Two
“BEE CARTER,” I answer my phone, trying for breezy and casual, achieving high and squeaky.
“I’ll be there in two minutes.” Hawke’s deep baritone curls my bare toes. He’s not asking for my permission. He’s coming over and there’s nothing I can do to stop him.
“You’re angry.” I sigh, hearing the dark dominance in his voice.
“I am angry, but not with you, never with you.” Hawke breathes heavily as though he’s running to see me, this possibility thrilling me. “You’re loyal, love, and you don’t switch allegiances quickly. I understand that.”
He understands me. . .too damn well. “I shouldn’t switch allegiances at all.” I pace the length of the main room, dreading, craving, anticipating his arrival. “And you shouldn’t come over. Lona sent me more scripts to memorize. I have to choose my clothes for the lunch, fix my hair and makeup, and—”
“I’m not stopping you from doing any of those things.” Hawke brushes my excuses aside, determined to meet with me. “I’m staying with you until you leave for your lunch.”
The lunch, oh God, the lunch. “Okay,” I reluctantly agree because I don’t want to be alone. This lunch has my stomach twisted into knots. “I’m going to mess this up. You know I can’t lie, and my acting abilities aren’t much better.” I boot up my laptop. “It’ll be a disaster.”
“It won’t be a disaster,” Hawke’s voice echoes.
“Are you in a tunnel?” I ask.
He chuckles, the sound low and sexy. “I’m in the stairwell, sweetheart. The elevators in these buildings are too slow.”
He’s running up the stairs, that’s how much of a rush he is in to see me. Warmth spreads across my chest. “Lona is counting on me.” This scares the shit out of me.
“If one lunch can destroy their relationship, Jacques doesn’t deserve her.” The echoing stops and my body hums with excitement. “Anything worth having is worth fighting for.”
My former marine would fight for the woman he loves. I hear this in his voice, know this in my soul. I open the door, tilt my head back, and gaze upward at Hawke. His chest rises and falls. His scent engulfs me. There’s a gleam of intent in his pale blue eyes.
He wants me and I want him. If I allow him inside, we’ll kiss, touch, do things we shouldn’t. Nicolas deserves my loyalty. I should tell Hawke to go away. I should—
Hawke captures my lips with his, the force of his embrace driving me backward. I reach for him, clasp his broad shoulders. He hooks his arms around me, securing me to him, as he kicks the door shut. Our tongues tangle and twist, dancing to the rhythm of our hearts, his stubble teasing my chin, leaving a sensual trail on my skin.
He tastes of black coffee and man. His body radiates heat, a thin layer of moisture covering his big form. Everything about him, even his no-name T-shirt and seen-better-days jeans, appeals to me. I cling to him, losing myself in his kiss.
Hawke ravishes my mouth with fierce, hard strokes, cupping my ass with his massive hands, lifting me off the floor, pressing me into his muscular form. My feet dangle, my lips throb, and my heart pounds, my world narrowing to the two of us. This is how it always is with us, his touch eroding my reason, my control.
I rub against the hard ridge in his jeans, tormenting us both with more sweet sensation. He feels so good, so right. My pussy moistens and my nipples tighten, my arousal spiraling upward.
Hawke groans into my throat and his grip on my ass intensifies, his reaction thrilling me, making me crazed. I tug on his T-shirt, seeking his bare skin, needing to feel, to taste, to explore all of my huge man.
“Not now, love.” Hawke lowers me, sliding my curves against him until my feet touch the hardwood floor. “You have the lunch to prepare for.” He pushes a strand of my brown hair away from my face, his fingers rough yet gentle, his eyes a brilliant blue. “I vowed not to distract you.”
“To hell with your vow.” My bottom lip curls. “You being here distracts me.”
The damn man laughs. “Show me the clothes.” He knows how to divert my attention.
I gather the shopping bags and bring them to the couch. Hawke sits, the couch creaking a protest under his weight. He stretches his arms along the leather back, his long legs sprawling before him. He resembles a sultan awaiting the morning’s entertainment.
“You don’t really want to see my clothes.” I frown. Judging by his personal lack of style, he’s not interested in fashion.
“Try me.” Hawke’s voice is underlain with a command I have no willpower to resist. I want to show these clothes to someone. No, not just someone. I want to show these clothes to him.
“Okay.” I shrug. “You can’t say I didn’t warn you.”
The first bag contains a red-and-white sleeveless dress from Dolce & Gabbana, the hem grazing my knees. The playful quilted silk shoulder bag included is from the same designer. The red suede sandals from Gianvito Rossi have four-inch heels. I point out every detail, unable to believe the ensemble belongs to me.
“You’ll look pretty.” Hawke’s expression is bemused.
“Pretty?” I raise my eyebrows. “This is Dolce & Gabbana.” I wave the dress in front of his rugged countenance. “It’s much more than pretty.” I shake my head. “You have no appreciation for fashion.”
“I don’t understand fashion.” He gives me one of his adorable lopsided smiles. “But I do appreciate beauty, and you’ll look beautiful in your Dolce & Gabbana number. Show me the next dress.”
The second bag contains a gray satin-crepe dress from Thornton Bregazzi. The top is fitted, the bodice dips at the bosom, and the knee-length skirt is pleated. A Maison Martin Margiela clutch and metallic leather sandals from Sophia Webster accompany the dress.
“That dress isn’t right for this lunch,” Hawke states, crossing his arms before him.
I narrow my eyes. “You’re rejecting it because of the low neckline, aren’t you?” The possessive bastard doesn’t want any other man looking at me.
“Isn’t the goal to look sweet and innocent?” he counters.
“Yes, it is. Damn it.” I reluctantly place the ensemble back in the shopping bag, ignoring the amusement reflecting in Hawke’s not-so-handsome face. “That narrows the possibilities to two.”
I reveal the contents of the third shopping bag. The light blue Chantilly lace dress from Lela Rose is cut to hug my slight curves. The sleeves are three-quarter length, the bodice is high, and
the hemline falls half an inch above the knee. A matching clutch and sandals from Reed Krakoff accompany the dress.
“This is one of the most beautiful dresses I’ve ever seen.” I drift my fingers over the delicate lace, the workmanship exquisite.
“It’s perfect,” Hawke declares.
This dress is my choice also. “You think it’s perfect because it’s light blue,” I tease him, giddy with happiness. “My outfit will match your eyes.”
Hawke’s gaze lowers to my light blue blouse. He grins, and my face heats. “I grabbed the first top in my closet this morning,” I lie.
“You grabbed the first top matching my eyes.” He laughs, the booming sound filling the room, his joy adding to my own. “Come here, love.” He pats the seat cushion beside him. “Let’s rehearse your lines.”
I fold the dress and place it in the shopping bag. “There are a gazillion scripts to memorize.” I perch on the edge of the couch, resisting the urge to snuggle closer to him. Hawke doesn’t allow this distance. He hooks his arm around my waist and pulls me onto his lap.
“Let me go.” I struggle for a couple of seconds, his hold on me unbreakable. “This won’t work.” I cease moving, accepting the inevitable, my form molding, meshing with his. “I can’t think when you touch me.”
“That’s the point.” He rests his chin on my shoulder, his warm breath wafting on my neck, and my thoughts dissipate, vanishing in a haze of arousal. “If you can say your lines without thinking, they’ll sound more natural.” His fingers splay over my fluttering stomach. “Show me the first script.”
We rehearse and rehearse and rehearse. Hawke patiently repeats the lines until I know them, mouthing the words against my skin, his body cradling mine. He has the spare time to role-play with me, I tell myself. He doesn’t have a business to manage as Nicolas does.
I don’t know why I’m encouraging Hawke. He isn’t wealthy, isn’t able to help me or help my mom, was never part of my grand plan. I shouldn’t be spending time with him, shouldn’t touch him, kiss him. Nicolas deserves my loyalty. He’s my future, my forever.
I reluctantly stand, tearing myself away from Hawke’s enticing heat and his hard body. “I should prepare for the lunch.” Not meeting his gaze, I grab the dress, shoes, and purse and stalk into the bedroom, swinging the door behind me.
The door doesn’t close. Wood smacks against calloused skin.
I pivot on my bare heels and glare at Hawke, my heart pounding and my nipples tightening with anticipation. “We don’t have time to mess around.”
“We’re not messing around.” He strides past me, drifting his palm over my stomach, and I tremble, wanting him, needing him. “You’re preparing for the lunch and I’m watching you.” Hawke reclines on my bed, folding his huge arms behind his head.
The man knows how to arouse me. I want him to watch me. “There will be no touching.” I set my pretty ensemble on the foot of the bed, by his ugly black army boots, the contrast increasing my excitement. “My makeup and hair have to be perfect.”
I pull my blouse over my head, revealing my white silk bra and the dog tags I’m holding for Hawke. He reaches for me, beckoning with his scarred fingers.
I hesitate for a moment, tempted by his touch, longing to take his hands, to forget about the lunch, about everything except him. It wouldn’t be right. Lona, my new friend, is counting on me.
I step backward. “No touching.” I wave the garment in the air.
“Give me your clothes.” Hawke flattens his massive palms, his skin calloused yet clean. “I’ll fold them for you.”
My eyebrows lift. I’m very particular about my clothing and he’s. . .not.
“I’m a marine,” Hawke comments dryly, reading my mind as he always does. “I know how to fold clothes.”
“I’m trusting you with this.” I place my flimsy blouse in his huge hands. He brings the fabric to his nose and inhales deeply. A silly smile softens his face and my cheeks heat. He savors my scent.
I unzip my pants and shimmy out of the flowing white linen. “You’re a pervert.” I’m a pervert also, standing before him in my white bra and skimpy white G-string panties, enjoying his perusal of my near-naked form.
Hawke carefully creases my blouse into a neat square, the corner crisp, the dimensions ideal. He wasn’t lying. He knows how to fold clothes. “You like that I’m a pervert.”
I say nothing as I hand him my pants because I do like it. Hawke repeats his routine, smelling, savoring, folding, his open enjoyment thrilling me.
I wait until he’s completed his ritual and then I unhook my bra, removing the scrap of silk. The cool air tightens my nipples. Light reflects off the dog tags nestled between my small breasts. The mark my former marine left on my pale skin remains.
Hawke’s body hardens, his eyes darken, and his nostrils flare, his reaction gratifyingly immediate and ardent. “The sweet-and-innocent look you’re trying to achieve requires a bra.” His voice lowers.
“The bra is built into the dress.” I hold out the undergarment. He winds the straps around his fingers, white silk embracing tanned skin, the contrast enthralling me.
“The laundry hamper is over there.” I point to the white wicker bin. Hawke runs his hands over the cups of the bra and I feel his caress as though he’s stroking my bare breasts, my nipples aching for his touch.
Focus, Bee. I sit at the vanity, clad only in my skimpy G-string panties, the seat cool against my ass cheeks, and I apply my attention to my hair. Lona requested that I wear my straight locks loose and natural. Hawke gazes at me as I brush the strands, his eyelids partially lowered, a small smile on his lips.
This can’t be exciting for him yet he says nothing, watching me. I move to makeup. Lona’s instructions are specific, naming brands and colors. Not having her selections, I improvise, striving for the same light look.
Hawke lies on my bed, his huge form still and his breathing level, one of his hands resting on the stack of clothes beside him. He’s falling asleep. My lips twist. What is it about me that makes men comatose?
“You’re bored.” I pat pressed powder over my shiny nose. “You don’t have to stay.” I force the words, wanting him to stay, to keep me company.
“There’s nowhere on earth I’d rather be than right here.” Hawke’s low rumble rolls over me, lighting fires we have no time to tend. “There are many reasons to go to war. Some men fight for their children. Some men fight for the glory. Some men fight because their fathers fought and their grandfathers fought. I fought to protect moments like these, the quiet moments everyone takes for granted.”
I meet his gaze in the mirror, not expecting poetry from my rough, tough military man. “You don’t take them for granted.”
“No, I don’t.” Sadness flits across Hawke’s face. “I’ve seen too much to do that.”
“Is that why you watch me?” I skim pink gloss across my lips.
“No.” He chuckles. “I watch you because I’m a pervert.” I smile. Before I met him, I thought I was alone in my perversions. “And I watch you because you like it, because you’re mine.” Hawke places the clothing he’d folded in the laundry hamper, not questioning my need for neatness even with my dirty garments, treating the fabric as carefully as he treats me.
I say nothing as I slip into the dress because I’m not his. Nicolas is the man I should want. Hawke pushes my hair over my shoulder and zips my dress, his fingertips pressing along my spine, leaving a trail of decadent sensation.
“You look beautiful.” He brushes my tendrils back once more, his touch reverent.
I gaze at our reflections in the vanity’s mirror. Hawke is huge, clad in his hideous black T-shirt and faded blue jeans, all muscles and blunt features, a shadow of stubble shading his chin. I’m smaller, wearing a delicate designer dress, my makeup and hair flawless. We shouldn’t fit and we shouldn’t look right together, yet we do, his maleness framing my slighter form, emphasizing my femininity.
“You’re perfect,” he murmurs.
>
“I’m not perfect.” I examine myself more critically. The ball chain and dog tags show through the clinging fabric of my dress. “These will have to go in my purse.” I regretfully remove them, missing their weight. “This will be temporary,” I assure him. “I won’t lose them.” I place them in my purse, adding my phone, condo passcard, a limo chit, and other essentials.
“Are you packing for war?” Hawke teases as he retrieves the shoebox.
“I don’t know what I’ll need.” I step into the shoes.
“If you forget anything, call me.” He kneels at my feet and fastens the tiny straps, his rough fingertips grazing over my feet, teasing my sensitive skin. “I’ll answer my phone.”
“Ha.” I roll my eyes. “Careful with the shoes,” I caution.
“If I can defuse a bomb, I can secure your tiny feet.” Hawke pinches my toes and I yelp. “You’re wearing open-toed shoes,” he observes, his head bowed over my strappy sandals. A silver scar is carved through his hair, visible proof of his dangerous past. “Last night, when you watched the surveillance video, you pointed out the closed-toe shoes on one guest and the expensive shoes the waiter was wearing.” He straightens to his full impressive height. “Are shoes that important?”
I stare at him, his question ridiculous. “Only a man would ask that.”
“Not only a man,” he mutters. “I—”
My phone hums. I open my purse and gaze at the small screen. “The car is waiting for me. I have to go.” I hurry through the condo, my heart pounding and my palms moistening. Can I do this? Do I have a choice?
Hawke keeps pace, holding the door open for me, following me into the hallway and closing the door securely behind us. “You’ll be fine, love.” His fingers curl around mine.
“I won’t be fine.” I press the button for the elevator six times, taking out my anxiety on the little plastic circle. “I’ve forgotten my damn lines already.”
“Everyone gets nervous before battle.” Hawke enters the elevator with me. “It’ll come back to you.”
