Sinful Rewards 5: A Billionaires and Bikers Novella

by Cynthia Sax

  “I’m the daughter of Happydale’s wild woman. I’ve been called worse things.” I feign nonchalance, having solved that problem by leaving my hometown and those rumors behind. I don’t want to leave Chicago and I don’t want to leave Hawke, but I might not have a choice. Gossip never goes away.

  “I should have been there,” Hawke murmurs, continuing to blame himself.

  “You would have starved to death. The portions were tiny,” I joke, snuggling deeper into his warm form. We stand as one, the wind whipping my hair and dress, the clouds ominously dark over our heads.

  “How could he call you or any other woman a whore?” Hawke rests his square chin on top of my head.

  “War messed him up pretty badly, and he was lashing out, trying to hurt someone, anyone.” My lips flatten as I remember the pain in Francois’s face.

  “He hurt you.” Hawke glides his hands over my hair. “That’s unacceptable, love. What’s being done to mitigate the damage? How many people were at the restaurant?”

  “Including staff? There were hundreds of people.” I nuzzle against him, savoring his heat. “Everyone has phones and other devices. It’s impossible to stop the gossip.”

  Not that anyone tried to stop the gossip. Lona has lived with it for years. I doubt she realizes what Francois’s scene has done, how this will change my life.

  “I’ve done the impossible before today.” Hawke steps backward and gazes down at me, his blue eyes reflecting a heart-thumping intent. “I’ll do it again.” My former marine will battle the world for me, fight to make this right. “Leave this problem to me.”

  “If anyone can fix this, you can.” The weight on my shoulders dissipates, my concerns dissolving. He’ll stem the tide of gossip, restore my good-girl persona, and everything will return to normal. I don’t have to worry about Cyndi’s dad evicting me from the condo, losing her as a friend, or my relationship with Nicolas ending.

  “I’ll do everything I can to fix this.” Hawke sweeps loose strands away from my face. “You’re my girl.” He brushes his lips over mine, his embrace achingly tender and seductively sweet. An erotic heat spreads up my body. “If you need me, call me. Anytime.” He pinches my chin, the slight sting of pain returning me to reality.

  My reality sucks. My bottom lip curls. I’d much rather stay in a Hawke-induced passion fog. “Okay. I’ll call you.” I’ll call him and torment him, making him as sexually frustrated as I am.

  Hawke’s eyes glimmer with amusement. “I’m doing this for you, love.” He turns me around and pushes me gently toward the building’s entrance. “Go. Clean your condo. It’s a mess.”

  I remember the state in which we left the space. “Oh, God. It is a mess.” I hurry into the building.

  Hawke chuckles. The damn man knows how to distract me.

  Chapter Five

  I RUSH PAST the sleeping security guard and take the elevator to the third floor, hoping Cyndi hasn’t returned from her trip to LA. It’s my self-assigned responsibility to keep her dad’s condo neat. The hallway is empty. That’s not unusual. I often wonder if we have the floor to ourselves, our neighbors rarely seen.

  I wave my passcard over the sensor and open the door. The condo is quiet and dark. There’s no sign of my roommate. I turn on all the lights, scattering the rodents I know exist only in my imagination, and I change into my cleaning clothes, a faded T-shirt and the black yoga pants with the quarter-sized hole right under my tailbone. If Hawke was watching me from his condo, he would see my panties.

  He’s not watching me because he’s cleaning up another type of mess. His task is more challenging than mine. Stopping the flow of gossip is like forcing yourself to love someone you don’t—almost impossible.

  I will manage it, though. I will love Nicolas. And Hawke will repair my reputation, allowing Nicolas to care for me, to claim me forever. My plan will work and everything will be fine.

  I tidy the main room first, erasing all signs of Nicolas, of Hawke, of me. Cleaning makes me feel better, more confident. I might not be able to control the rest of the world, but I can make my living spaces neat.

  As I swipe a wet cloth over the kitchen counter, Cyndi texts me. She’s decided to stay another day due to the bad weather. Bad weather has never hampered her plans before today. She wants to stay another day in LA.

  I sweep my rainbow-colored as-seen-on-TV duster over the top of the picture frame. This is the longest length of time Cyndi has ever spent with one of her lovers. She must really like Cole. While I’m happy for her, this happiness is tempered by unease. She’s not only my best friend. She’s my roommate, a roommate whose dad owns this place, and he’ll desire a paying tenant to live here once Cyndi moves out.

  I’ll be homeless. Again.

  Pushing away my worries, I place my three gorgeous new dresses in my closet and arrange my shoes, skimming my fingers over my authentic Louboutins, their presence giving me joy. People might disappoint me. Fashion never does.

  I place the new purses beside the red leather Salvatore Ferragamo. The new outfits are beautiful, but the black Chanel suit, Louboutin heels, and the Salvatore Ferragamo purse are all that I truly need. They’re timeless and can be worn again and again.

  I certainly don’t need the worn, ragged knockoff Ralph Lauren messenger bag that Hawke fixed for me. It’s unusable and I don’t know why I kept it. I should throw it in the garbage.

  And I will.

  Tomorrow.

  Today, I have bigger concerns. I wander to the window. The huge maple tree in the park sways in the wind. The sky is frighteningly dark, the clouds low and thick, blocking all of the sun’s rays. It’ll rain soon, hard.

  My stomach twists with guilt and worry. Hawke has ventured out in this horrible weather, trying to fix the disaster at lunch. I text him. “Are you inside?”

  He doesn’t reply, and I pace the length of the room, walking back and forth, back and forth. He must be on his bike. When it rains, the roads will become slippery. Bikes are dangerous even when conditions are dry. My anxiety spirals upward.

  I send him another text. “I have limo chits. If it rains, call me.”

  There’s no answer. Lightning zigzags across the sky and thunder rolls. I hug my stomach. He’s putting himself in danger to save my reputation. That’s not worth it.

  My phone hums and I expel the breath I didn’t know I was holding. Hawke has finally replied. I look at the small screen.

  Friendly: Touch yourself in front of the window. Good girls earn rewards.

  I glance at the window. The day has turned as dark as night and the wind rattles balcony railings. Hawke is riding his bike in this chaos. I can’t think about Friendly, Nicolas, or rewards at this time.

  I call Hawke. The phone rings twice.

  “Is your condo clean, love?” he asks, his voice reassuringly deep.

  “Yes,” I answer. If he was in his condo, he’d know this answer. He’d be watching me with his binoculars, standing on his balcony.

  But he’s not in his condo. Where is he?

  I listen closely. Engines rumble and horns honk. Tires squeal.

  “You’re on the road, aren’t you? You’re riding your bike in this weather.” My pitch rises. “It’s dangerous, Hawke. I trust you, but the other drivers go nuts when it rains.” I can’t control my words, all of my anxiety pouring out my mouth. “They do—”

  “I’ll leave my bike at the office and borrow the Hummer.” He stops my meltdown. “The Hummer has bulletproof glass and a reinforced frame. It’s built like a tank. It can survive anything.”

  Why does a security guard need a vehicle that can survive anything? “I’d feel better if you drove the Hummer,” I admit, looking out the window. “Hurry home.”

  “I will, sweetheart.” There’s a click and silence.

  I lean my forehead against the cool glass. My body is so tightly strung, I can’t unwind. I study Friendly’s message. His suggestion would make me relax.

  But to touch myself when Hawke isn’t her
e doesn’t feel right.

  I text Nicolas, reminding him to have one of his trained security staff with him at all times. Bad guys take advantage of the weather. I’ve seen that in movies. Although my billionaire doesn’t reply to my text, I know he’s seen the message. He always has his phone with him.

  I wander into the main room, plop my ass on the couch, turn on the TV, flip through the channels. For some bizarre reason, I stop on a show about farming. The outfits are atrocious. I see where Hawke gets his style. One man is wearing denim overalls, a garment that should be worn only by toddlers.

  The dirt is everywhere. The farmers touch worms and other insects, break soil in their hands, pitch God knows what out of barn stalls with their pitchforks. Not one farmer is seen washing his hands before returning to the house. I could never fit in on a farm.

  I walk to the kitchen, take the lasagna out of the fridge, and pop it in the microwave. I don’t fit in at the fancy French restaurant either. Yes, I looked the part, but I didn’t know the unspoken rules, wasn’t accepted as one of them. On TV, the cocktail parties and red-carpet events appear glamorous and fun, as though everyone belongs, as though everyone is having a great time.

  No one is called a whore and no one is hissed at. The reality was much harsher. It was almost as though I shared the space with Tara clones, duplicates of my high school nemesis, all of the customers, even the staff, disapproving of me, judging me.

  I grab a fork and return to the couch with my lasagna. The restaurant food was pretty yet devoid of substance, the portions not large enough to satisfy a supermodel. I devour my second lunch, the pasta much more hearty. The restaurant waiter and maitre d’ treated me as though I was a piece of gum they’d scraped off the bottom of their shoes. Nothing, not even the chairs, were designed for comfort. I tuck my feet under my ass and hunch over the plate, scraping the surface clean.

  My phone hums. I glance at my screen and my toes curl. I’ve received a message from Hawke. I set the empty plate and fork on one of the end tables and read.

  Boyfriend: You’re looking even smaller than usual. Is my girl cold, sad, missing me?

  He knows I’ve curled myself into a ball. I bounce to my feet and fly across the room to the window. Hawke’s condo remains as dark as the skies around us and his balcony is empty.

  “Are you home?” I text back. “Are you watching me?”

  “I’m not home but I’m always watching you,” is his reply. “The infrared and the high-zoom cameras point toward your condo, and I can access them wherever I am. I can see your face now. You’re smiling.”

  I’m smiling because he’s watching me. Nicolas, aka Friendly, is watching me also. The tension in my body remains and my not-so-mysterious texter has already suggested the ideal way to relieve it.

  “I’ll give you something to watch.” I smile as I hit Send. Both of my hardworking men will get a show today.

  I saunter into my bedroom and shut the door behind me. This is naughty, the naughtiest challenge I’ve been given, but I don’t have much to lose. My good-girl reputation is now shot to hell. The two men I care about are watching me. I’ll give them what they want, what I want.

  The curtains are open. I haven’t closed them since my drunken night with Hawke. My nipples tighten and my pussy moistens as I remember his fingers plunging inside me, stretching me open. I drag the chair toward the window, positioning it in front of the glass. Lightning strikes in the distance and thunder follows as the storm approaches.

  I tug my T-shirt over my head, revealing my pale skin, bare breasts. The worn cotton garment is folded neatly and set on the bed. I pull down my yoga pants, place those next to the T-shirt.

  Clad only in my white G-string panties, I walk toward the window, placing my bare feet directly in front of me on the hardwood floor, swaying my hips seductively. I’m a seductress, a siren calling to my men, a raging sea of clouds between us, waves of moisture-filled air slapping against the panes of glass, crashing over the building.

  Cupping my small breasts with my hands, I shamelessly offer myself to them. My body is Hawke’s or Nicolas’s if they dare to claim me. I pivot on my heels, slowly turning, swiveling my hips, allowing them to see all of me, the white ribbons disappearing between my ass cheeks, the length of my lean legs, the rippling sheet of brown hair cascading down my back.

  As I face away from the window, I stop and play with the ribbons, teasing my men, toying with them, making them as crazed and aroused as I am. When I can’t wait another minute, I bend over, sliding the silken straps downward, pressing my ass against the pane, shuddering as my heated flesh connects with cool glass, the contrast deliciously sexy.

  I step out of my panties, fold the scrap of fabric, and set it with my discarded clothing. Completely naked, I straighten and turn, my chin raised, my hands resting on my hips, my breasts thrust out, and my feet braced apart. I’m proud, powerful, and female, in control of myself and of them. A billionaire’s passion and a former marine’s release depend on me. I decide what they see, when and how hard they come.

  Today, they’ll come when I do. I drag my chair in front of the window and lower to the seat, the wood hard against my ass, and I hook my legs over the armrests, opening myself completely to them. They’ll see everything, my brown private curls, my pink pussy lips, my tight little entrance.

  My hands tremble as I drift them over my breasts, my stomach, my mons. Hawke, Nicolas, other men are watching me as I pleasure myself. I thread through my short curls and dip my fingertips into my wetness. My body hums with excitement.

  I skim my fingers over my pink folds, up and down, up and down, imagining Hawke’s coarse hands on me and Nicolas’s dark eyes watching us. They’re both hard, needing, wanting me.

  I circle my clit with my thumbs, moaning softly, my desire building with the approaching storm. My billionaire’s cock presses against his expensive dress pants. My tattooed biker’s shaft tents the worn denim of his jeans. Are they fondling themselves as I am, touching their bodies?

  I stroke and circle, working myself with two hands, thinking of the man I should want and the man I do want. My breasts ache and my pussy drips with wetness. The hum within me becomes a rumble, louder than the rolling thunder.

  I push a finger inside my empty entrance and all thoughts of Nicolas, my handsome billionaire, vanish. There’s only Hawke and the need to match his thickness, his forcefulness, his rough touch. I add a second, then a third finger, and murmur with disappointment, as this isn’t enough, won’t ever be enough. There’s no substitute for my big military man.

  He’s not here to satisfy me, and my release can’t wait. I drive my fingers in and out, in and out of my pussy, swiping my clit with each thrust, trying to mimic how he’d ravished me, wishing his rugged face was positioned between my spread legs, his breath wafting on my inner thighs.

  “Hawke,” I call, lifting into my hands, fucking my fingers with everything I have. The tension in my body intensifies, my muscles, ligaments, everything tightening. Lightning flashes, thunder cracks, the wind moans, the energy of the storm meshing with my desire, escalating my need.

  I frantically, desperately hump my hands, shamelessly seeking release, wild with a savage wanting, my body displayed for my audience. My pussy juices coat my palms, splatter my upper thighs, as raindrops speckle the windowpane.

  I’m close, as close as the storm, my arms and legs shaking, my inner walls closing around my fingers, increasing the delectable friction, elevating my desperate yearning. Release is within sight yet remains out of reach.

  If Hawke was here, touching me, he’d know what to do, what I required to push me over the edge, to break me. He’d tell me about the men observing us, wanting me. My arousal escalates. While our audience watched, my big man would claim my pussy for his own, filling me with his fingers, covering my mons with his big hands, pressing down on my clit.

  I whimper and wiggle as I attempt to replicate his hold, the need within me unbearable. My touch isn’t enough, as I don�
��t have his strength. My fingers are too soft, too small. I need to be rough, ruthless. My legs quiver.

  I lift my right hand and slap my clit with all the power in my slight form. Pain cracks through me, as jagged as a bolt of lightning, and I scream Hawke’s name, coming with a shoulder-shaking ferocity. My pussy clenches on my fingers. My body convulses. The room flashes light and dark, colors splintering in my mind.

  I ride my inner storm, lost on a sea of passion, having no Hawke to anchor me, to keep me secure. My tremors ease. I slip my fingers from my pussy and gaze at the balcony for three eleven north. He’d lick them clean.

  Without thinking, I push my fingers into my mouth and suck the cream off my skin. No good girl would ever taste herself, but I’m not a good girl. Leaning back in my chair, naked, exposed, and sated, I smile. I’m Hawke’s kinky little pervert.

  Lightning illuminates the black clouds and thunder rolls. Rain pours from the sky, a heavy deluge of moisture battering the windowpanes. I lower my feet to the floor and watch nature’s primitive display.

  Chapter Six

  THE STORM DOESN’T ease. I wash my hands and dress in my nightclothes—my threadbare boy shorts and camisole. It’s early in the evening and I return to the main room, lounge on the couch, not ready for bed but having no plans to leave the condo either.

  I text Hawke, asking him where he is. He replies within seconds, saying he’ll be home soon, whatever his definition of soon is. I send a similar message to Nicolas, feeling guilty that I thought of him second. This juggling-men business is tricky. I don’t like it. At all.

  Nicolas doesn’t reply. I haven’t heard from him since this morning. He could be busy or he could be kidnapped by the bad men Hawke is supposed to be protecting him from.

  Except Hawke isn’t protecting him because he’s working on my problem. Which means, oh my God, Nicolas could be dead. I call his number.

  “Nicolas Rainer,” he answers on the third ring, his voice curt.

  “You’re alive.” My shoulders lower, the tension easing from my body. “Did you receive my message about having extra bodyguards today? Because I’ve seen movies, and I know the bad guys always use storms to cover up their activities.” I’m rambling and I can’t stop. “In the movies, the police or the secret service or whoever is supposed to be keeping the peace are busy dealing with weather-related emergencies and they never notice.”