by Cynthia Sax
It’s true. My mom rarely asks for help. I had to force her, at first, to take money from me, her own daughter. “We also both have a weakness for tattooed bikers.” I follow his towel with mine, drying the surface.
Hawke stops abruptly and I bump into him. “There are many reasons to ride, even more reasons to get tattoos.” He gazes down at me, his pale blue eyes flashing with fierce emotion. “Don’t ever compare me to your MIA dad, Belinda.” Anger rolls off him in dark, heavy waves.
I swallow hard, daunted by the force of his fury. We stare at each other for several agonizingly long, heart-pounding moments. I can’t bear to have him angry at me, can’t stomach the possibility of losing him, this rift between us more terrifying than the darkness.
“Tell me about your tattoos.” My voice lifts into a plea. Talk to me, I beg him with my eyes.
Hawke hesitates for a moment as though he suspects I’m trying to distract him. . .which I am. He then pulls his black T-shirt over his head. Muscles ripple under tanned skin, silver scars and black ink decorating the golden surface. My mouth dries and my pussy moistens. There’s not an inch of excess flesh on his fit form.
“This stands for United States Marine Corps.” He places my hand over the USMC printed on his left pec. He’s warm and smooth and I spread my fingers, seeking to touch more of him. “All four men in the fireteam, including Rock and myself, got matching tattoos.” Hawke rubs the barbed wired tattoo encircling his right bicep.
“You got this tattoo for Rock.” I cover his hand, stopping his motion. He always touches the tattoo when he thinks of his best friend.
“Yeah.” Hawke looks across the room at bare wall, his jaw jutting. “Losing him was like losing my right arm.”
As no words will heal his pain, I don’t say anything, my feelings best conveyed by touch. I flatten my breasts against Hawke’s chest, rest my cheek over his wildly beating heart, press one of my hands against his back and the other against his hand. We stand in silence in the small kitchen, with the air conditioner whirring, struggling to compensate for the power outage.
The tension in Hawke’s rigid form gradually eases. He drops his T-shirt on the floor and lowers his hands to my hips. “I got the other tattoo for my mom. She’s always telling me to be more cautious. The two of you will get along.” His voice warms.
The two of us will get along. I tilt my head back and gaze upward. A small smile curls his lips. He assumes I’ll meet his mom.
“She’d tell me bedtime stories as a kid, not the normal child-friendly fairy tales, the bloodthirsty myths about Greek gods and vicious monsters.” One corner of his lips hitches higher than the other. He doesn’t have to say he loved these stories. I see it in his eyes. “When I first earned my driver’s license, my car got into a little bit of a fender bender and my mom tore into me as only moms can.” He swipes his fingers over the small scar on his chin.
“Your car got into a little bit of a fender bender.” I raise my eyebrows. “But you didn’t?” It’s not like him to dodge responsibility.
“Rock couldn’t have driven my car into that tree.” Hawke shrugs his broad shoulders. “Because he didn’t have his driver’s license yet.”
The two of them must have been hell on wheels. . .literally. “I pity your poor mom,” I murmur.
“That’s funny. My mom says the same thing about my future wife.” Hawke chuckles, the low rumbling sound making my stomach flutter. “After she yelled loud enough for the neighbors to hear her, she said to be more careful. I made a smart-assed comment about how she’d told me that a thousand times. She said I should write it down. So that night, Rock and I took the dented car to the city and I wrote it down permanently.”
“Oh my God.” I stare at the huge tattoo stretching across his collarbone. “She must have killed you.”
He winces. “I didn’t leave our land for two whole months.”
I drift my fingers over the beautifully depicted wings extending from a sun, each feather different and delicate, finely honed softness etched on his hard body. “How does this tattoo caution you to be careful?”
“Do you know the story of Icarus?”
I scrunch my nose, searching my memories. “Is he the guy who fashioned wings out of wax and feathers and flew too close to the sun?” I circle the sun in the middle of Hawke’s tattoo. “He dared to dream and he died, falling into the sea.” As I dared to dream, only to slam headfirst into a harsh reality.
Hawke’s forehead furrows. “Icarus was escaping from prison, love. He was seeking freedom, and, if he’d been a little more cautious and had listened to his parent, he would have made it to safety.”
I gaze at his tattoo, having never considered this interpretation of the classic Greek story. “He should have been more cautious.” I trace the inked feathers with my fingertips. “He should have taken the Hummer.” I follow my hands with my tongue, licking the salt off his skin.
Hawke shudders, his grip on my hips tightening, the ridge in his jeans pushing against my stomach. He wants me. Badly. I swirl around the thick scar slashing his right nipple, teasing him.
He groans, the sound rolling up his body. “You’re killing me, Belinda.” He cups my ass, lifting me off the floor, and he walks with me into my bedroom. “I have to touch all of you.”
“You forgot your T-shirt.” I wave my arm. He’s left it on the kitchen floor.
“Passion is messy, love.” Hawke kicks the door shut behind us and tosses me onto the center of the bed. I bounce. He yanks off his jeans, the buttons popping.
I gaze at him with open admiration, excitement unfurling low in my stomach. He kicks off his boots and strips naked in mere seconds, his cock fully erect, jutting from a base of neatly trimmed brown curls. He’s huge and aroused and mine, his scars attesting to his violent career, his savage nature.
The future is uncertain. We might have only tonight, this one moment. I spread my thighs in a clear invitation and he stalks toward me, his eyes darkening to a brilliant blue. The curtains are open and the storm continues to rage. All of my focus is on him, my tattooed biker, my tortured military man.
I reach out, wrap my fingers around his shaft, and he jerks. “Easy,” I coo, comforting him as I would comfort a wild beast. “Let me touch you.” I cup his balls, weighing them, rolling him in my hands. Hawke’s lips flatten and his eyelids lower as he stands straight and still beside the bed.
I pump him with one hand as I explore the cascade of defined flesh over his abdominal muscles, the indent of his hipbones, the power of his upper thighs, committing every scar, every inch of him to memory.
A dab of precum forms on his cock head. I look upward and our gazes meet. My intentions must reflect in my eyes because a strangled noise originates from deep in Hawke’s throat. I slowly extend my tongue and flick the tip over him, tasting his unique flavor. His cock bobs. His hands, held by his side, clench into massive fists.
It’s not enough. I lick my lips, savoring him, needing more. Hawke’s eyes widen, his gaze fixed on my mouth as I push my flesh over his, taking his cock head into my heat. I prod his slit, tease his rim, slap his shaft with the flat of my tongue.
“Fuck, love. You’re slaying me.” He shakes, beads of sweat pearling on his golden skin, adding sparkle and shine. Hawke doesn’t need clothing. His huge form is best displayed nude, covered only with the remnants of desire.
I suck on his cock head and then release him. “You’ll survive.” I repeat the words he often says to me and gently squeeze his balls.
“I’ll come if you touch me like that.” He pushes on my shoulders, easily flattening me against the mattress, and he straddles my thighs. “I know shit-all about fashion, but I do know you’re overdressed.” Hawke grips the bodice of my camisole and tugs. The shredding of fabric is thrillingly loud.
He’s a brute, my brute. He rips my boy shorts as effortlessly, rendering me completely naked, captured beneath him, at his mercy.
“Hey.” I feign a frown, wiggling under him. “Those
are my nightclothes.”
“Those were your nightclothes.” He cups my breasts and pulls on my nipples, the slight pain heightening my arousal. The dog tags slip into the valley between my curves. “You’ll sleep in my T-shirts from now on.”
I curl my fingers over his shoulders, holding on to him. “Your T-shirts are hideous,” I pant, my chest tight with emotion.
“Hideous?” He tweaks my nipples, punishing me for my insolence, and I yelp, my shoulders rising off the mattress. “They’re practical.” His eyes shine with amusement and passion. “I buy them in bulk.” He lowers his head and covers my right nipple with his mouth, sucking lustily.
“I know.” I hold him to me. Anyone gazing across at three eleven south will see my mountain of a man devouring my nipple, ravishing my naked body. I struggle to spread my legs wider, to show them more. He shifts his weight, allowing me to move, giving him access to my wet pussy lips, my empty entrance.
The damn man ignores my blatant offering, moving his attentions to my left breast, making both of my nipples throb with bliss. I squirm, disgruntled, and he chuckles against my skin, his stubble leaving a burning trail across my curves, lighting fires I’ve grown to crave.
“Hawke.” I thread my fingers through his short hair, seeking a handhold on his scalp. “Where are your condoms? I need you inside me.”
“No condoms are needed tonight,” he murmurs, covering my mons with one of his big hands. My eyelashes flutter, the pressure on my clit exactly right. “You’re not ready.”
He’s right. I’m not ready. But we might not have another encounter and I want him to fuck me, at least once, leaving me with one memory to relive in my dreams again and again. “Hawke.”
“No.” He surges up my body and captures my lips with his, silencing my protests. His shaft has replaced his hand, pushing against my mons. I bend my knees, moist feminine folds connect with unrelenting cock, and we both groan, the sounds swallowed by our mouths.
Hawke braces the brunt of his weight with his arms, allowing me a taste of his strength, his hips cradled between my thighs. I suck on his tongue and rock against him, slicking his shaft with my wetness, branding his skin with my musk.
He belongs to me, this primitive man, and I belong to him, trusting him not to hurt me, to always safeguard me from harm. I drift my fingers over his tattooed wings, the feathers twitching under my touch. My body responds to his touch, my legs quivering, more moisture coating his rigid length.
“That’s it, love.” Hawke’s voice deepens. “Take what you need from me,” he mouths along my neck, the combination of soft lips, sharp teeth, and rough stubble escalating my passions.
I hook my ankles below his tailbone and dig my heels into his clenched ass cheeks, urging him to move. He complies, rubbing his chest against my nipples, sliding his shaft along my pussy lips, skimming his rim over my clit.
“Yes.” I gaze up at his rugged face. His eyes are as dark as night and his skin glistens with effort. “Don’t hold back, Hawke.” I push my hips upward, meeting his thrusts halfway as he fucks me without entry, giving me a sample of his sexual prowess.
I won’t survive the entire experience. This sample loosens my grip on reality, the room echoing with our desire. The bed rocks, the headboard knocking against the wall, Hawke grunts, each animalistic sound severing more of my control, and I pant, restrained by his large form, enslaved by his touch. Every gulp of air contains his scent, his taste lingering on my lips, my tongue.
My tremors build. “Harder,” I urge, digging my fingernails into his shoulders, marking him, putting my brand, my label on his one-of-a-kind physique. “Faster.” I smack his ass with my heels.
Hawke growls as he obeys my command, the cords on his neck rising, a thin sheen of moisture covering our bodies, bonding us even tighter. I need more. My lips part in an unspoken plea.
Understanding flickers in his eyes. He glances at the window, redirecting my attention. “They’re watching us as we fuck.” He breathes heavily, working, straining for my satisfaction. “They see my cock glide along your pink pussy lips, your breasts jiggle with each thrust, my balls slap against your tight ass.”
“Oh, God.” He knows what to say. They’re watching him rut against me, ravishing my curves with his hard muscle, a primitive creature mounting his mate. Everything inside me tightens. Our hips slap together, heat flowing from the points of contact. My arms and legs gyrate. I’ve lost control. I—
Hawke dips his head, nips my neck, and I scream, launching my body upward, shattering into a thousand sparkling pieces, tiny diamonds exploding in my mind.
He roars his reply, driving me downward with his hips, pinning my ass to the mattress. Hard spurts of liquid heat coat my quivering stomach, branding me as his. I writhe and wiggle, fighting to be freed, unable to move far, his weight restricting me.
Hawke shudders, his arms fold, and he flattens me. Air whooshes from my lungs. I squeak, my arms and legs thrashing.
He chuckles. “Sorry, love.” He rolls onto his back, taking me with him, his arms strapped around my waist.
“I’m a mess.” I squirm, my skin covered with cum.
“You’re a hot mess.” Hawke reaches between us and rubs his essence into my skin. The possessive bastard wants his scent on me.
I should protest, clean myself up, dress. My eyelids flutter. I’ll do all of this later. “Will you stay with me tonight?” I yawn. “The power might go off again, and I don’t want to be alone.”
“You’re never alone, sweetheart.” Hawke moves me under the sheets, sliding my skin along the soft cotton. “I’m always a phone call away.” He joins me, spooning his big body around my smaller form, his heat comforting me. “And yes, I’ll stay with you tonight. There’s no place I’d rather be.”
“Thank you.” I cover his scarred hands with my fingertips. “For everything.”
Chapter Eight
THE SOUND OF knuckles rapping against wood interrupts my dreamless sleep. A cold blast of air connects with my bare back, drawing a whimper from deep in my throat. A door opens and voices murmur, irritating me. I cover my head with a pillow, trying to block the noise.
“Wake up, Belinda.” The pillow is removed, stubble grazes my skin, and rough fingers pull on my shoulders. I wiggle, holding on to the edge of the mattress. “Love.” Hawke tugs more vigorously on me, the damn man not giving up.
“I’m awake. What do you want?” I roll onto my back and glower upward. The room is bright. All of the lights are turned on and Hawke gazes down at me, his expression soft, his eyes reflecting a level of caring I must be imagining. I blink. “Am I dreaming?”
“No, sweetheart. You’re not dreaming.” He chuckles. “Though I’m happy to hear you dream about me.” He glides his coarse fingertips over my sensitive breasts and I quiver. “You’re trembling. Are you cold?” His chest is bare, covered with golden skin, dark ink, and silver scars. His faded blue jeans hang low on his narrow hips.
“I’m freezing.” I roll toward him. “Cuddle with me, share some of your delicious body heat.”
“My T-shirt will keep you warm.” Hawke tugs one of his hideous black T-shirts over my head. The cotton is sinfully soft and smells of him—his distinctive mixture of engine grease, leather, and man. “There’s been an emergency and I have to leave.” He brushes his lips over mine, igniting fires he has no intention of tending. “I’ve set one of the lanterns on the nightstand. Your phone is beside it. Call if you need me.”
“I need sleep,” I grumble, my bottom lip curling.
He gives me one of his adorable lopsided smiles. “Go back to bed.” He tucks me under the blankets and brushes my hair back from my face. “You don’t have to worry about anything, Belinda.” He skims his fingers along my jawbone. “I’ll take care of you.”
“I know you will,” I murmur, no doubt in my mind. The darkness surrounds me, beckoning. “Don’t fly too close to the sun.”
“I won’t, love.” His voice drifts away.
I DON�
��T KNOW how long I sleep. I do know it isn’t long enough. The doorbell wakes me, the buzzing in my ears driving me nuts. “What the hell?” I toss the covers back and stomp toward the closed door, grabbing a pair of shorts as I move. My nipples ache. My skin is tight with dried cum. My hair sticks to my cheeks. I must look horrid, Hawke’s hideous T-shirt covering my knees and elbows.
The main room is impeccably neat. Sun streams through the windows. All of Hawke’s equipment is gone. The floor appears to have been swept. Cyndi’s messy room remains dark. There’s no sign of my roommate.
Which is a good thing. I don a pair of shorts, my bare feet smacking against the hardwood. Because when she arrives and hooks back into Chicago society, some bitch will tell her about her whore of a roommate and she’ll turf me out on my ass.
I glare through the peephole. Jacob, the security guard, stands in front of the luggage trolley. There appears to be a flower garden growing out of its racks.
I force a smile to my lips and open the door. “Good morning, Jacob.”
“Good morning, Bee.” The middle-aged man beams. He has a reason to be happy. He naps all day at his desk. “I have a delivery for you from our mutual friend.” He hands me a thick white business envelope. My name is written in Lona’s distinctive black flowing script.
“Thank you.” I stick the envelope in the back of my shorts. This must be the payment for the disastrous lunch. One thousand dollars no longer seems enough to compensate me for my efforts. The lunch will cost me my home, my friends, Nicolas, and maybe even Hawke.
“These were delivered this morning.” Jacob gives me a bouquet of pretty pink roses and a bottle of fancy wine. In a week or more, these two gifts will be forgotten, the flowers wilted, the wine consumed. The label comes from the vineyard owned by Jacques and Francois. A note is tucked between the blooms.
Forgive me, ma petite.
Francois
I’m not little. I bite back my scream. “These are from a not-so-mysterious admirer.” I force a joke, setting both gifts temporarily on the floor. Francois’s pursuit is flattering but futile. I’ll forever associate him with his hateful words, with the cringeworthy lunch, with pain and embarrassment.
