by Cynthia Sax
He stalks around the room, testing an emergency exit door, knocking on the glass window, surveying the bar. I watch him. Maybe if I learn how to do a perimeter check, Hawke will like me again.
“All clear,” Mack declares.
All clear, I silently repeat, adding that lingo to my military-speak mental dictionary. I struggle with the first hook on my corset.
“Stay in here. I’m calling Hawke.” The bodyguard shuts the door behind him.
He can call Hawke. I finally figure out my corset, unfastening the garment. Hawke won’t care. My passcard, ID, credit card, and business cards fall onto the white carpet. He doesn’t care what I do. I shimmy out of my skirt. He doesn’t care about me.
Men and women bump and grind on the dance floor, paying me no attention. Clad only in my G-string panties, I wander to the glass. No one looks at me. I splay my fingers over the cool surface. I’m completely ignored, unloved. Leaning forward, I press my breasts against the window, the contact tightening my nipples. Not one head turns.
It must be like a one-way mirror. I make faces, blowing on the glass. They can’t see me. I sway with the dancers, envisioning Hawke watching me.
Friendly, whom I’m certain is Nicolas, is part of my audience, having requested this show. I run my fingers over my body, plucking at my nipples, cupping my breasts. My thoughts return, as always, to my former marine.
If I make Hawke hard enough, he might not leave me, might not give up on us, might not be so angry with me. I swivel my hips, rocking in a tight circle, showing him all of me, my small breasts, my tight ass. I bend over, rubbing my butt against the window.
Friendly wants me naked. I slide the scrap of black silk down my legs, leaving my panties on the thick carpet. Straightening, I turn too quickly, slam against the window and wince. That’ll leave a mark on my pale skin.
I yearn for more marks, Hawke’s teeth tattooed on my nipples. Wearing only the black scarf around my neck and the dog tags I never remove, I bundle my hair up into my hands, raising its weight above my head, and then let it fall, the tendrils caressing my breasts, shoulders, back, like a hundred soft fingers.
I frown, not wanting a delicate touch, needing my former marine’s calloused palms on me, squeezing my breasts. As I attempt to simulate his grip, I watch a tall, lean, dark-skinned man and a vivacious redhead undulate before me, the couple lost in the tempo, in each other. He gazes at her as I wish Hawke would gaze at me, love and lust and a promise of forever radiating from his face.
Fuck. I stumble backward, collide with a beanbag chair, and sit with a thump on the fine leather, my legs spread. Cool air sweeps over my hot pussy. I follow its trail of sensation with my fingers, masturbating shamelessly in front of the one-way window.
My fingertips glide over my folds, dip into my empty entrance, circle my clit, glide, dip, circle, glide, dip, circle, each rotation driving my desire higher. I moan, working myself to the rhythm of the dancers, imagining Hawke is here, stroking me. Nicolas would watch, his cock pushing against the zipper of his dress pants.
I’m wet, dripping, my juices staining the chair, my musk scenting the air. Pushing two fingers deep into my pussy, I stretch myself, teasing my clit with my thumbs. It’s not enough for me, and part of me wonders if this is why Hawke isn’t satisfied with me. Am I not enough for him either?
Punishing my body for its shortcomings and my heart for its weakness, I work my body ruthlessly. My pussy hums, my legs quiver, the dancers before me collide with a wild savage abandon. I thrust my hips upward as I plunge my fingers deeper, fucking myself with increasing vigor, moisture coating my inner thighs, sweat trickling between my breasts.
I should be panting Nicolas, Nicolas, Nicolas. He orchestrated this show, arranging the room, sending the text. Instead, Hawke’s name rolls off my tongue again and again, my passion rising, swelling like a building beat.
Emotion pulls tight within me, stretching, straining. If Hawke was here, I’d wait for his command, allow him to prolong the torture, control my release.
He’s not here. He’s abandoned me. I slap my clit, relaying a chastisement he’d be too kind to administer, the pain breaking me. Biting down on my lip, I swallow my scream, bucking, crazed emotionally, physically. The room spins around me. Waves of hot and cold sweep over my form.
This bliss found alone is more bitter than sweet. This is my future, an endless solitude, because I’m not enough. I pull my fingers out of my pussy, collect my clothes, and dress, feeling like a failure, unworthy of love, of forever.
It doesn’t matter how much I change, how I try. It won’t be sufficient. I’ll always be lacking. Returning to a beanbag chair, I coil into a tight ball and wait, refusing to cry or to care.
Chapter Eight
MINUTES, PERHAPS HOURS, pass. Hawke knocks on the door, calls to me. I don’t answer, staring at the dog tags in my hands. He enters silently, the air changing, an energy surrounding him.
“It’s time to go home, Belinda,” Hawke announces, sounding weary. He’s dressed like the bouncers in a hideous black blazer, T-shirt, dress pants, military boots.
I’m Belinda, not his love or his sweetheart. These endearments might mean nothing to him, but I realize now that they represent everything to me, their absence adding to the void inside me.
I turn my face away from him and burrow deeper into the leather beanbag chair. My foot throbs like a son of a bitch. The pain in my heart sucks the light from the room.
“Cyndi is spending the night with Cole, at his hotel room.” Hawke slumps into the beanbag chair next to mine and stretches out his long legs. “We thought it best due to the media shit storm surrounding you.”
I don’t know what he’s talking about, and I don’t care. My fingertips swirl over the dog tags, round and round. I’m not giving them back. If he asks me, I’ll say no, forcing him to stay with me.
“We lost a client today,” Hawke says softly. “Officially, it was cardiac arrest—he was an older man—but I know the stress of the incident triggered it.”
He blames himself. I hear this in his voice and know this in my soul. Careful not to meet his gaze, unable to share my turbulent feelings, I slip into his lap, draping my body over his.
Hawke accepts my offer of comfort, hugging me close and nuzzling against the scarf encircling my neck. His breath wafts over my skin and his hands skim along my back, the light caresses reviving me, restoring the connection between us.
This is where I’m meant to be, where I fit, and I won’t allow him to leave me. I grip Hawke’s shoulders, holding on to my big man.
He plays with my hair, threading his thick fingers through the loose strands and brushing the tendrils away from my face. “I’ve lost so many people.” His words are quietly spoken, a low hum in the silent room. “I can’t lose you too. I wouldn’t survive.”
“I’m not leaving you.” I rub my nose against his chest, inhaling his distinct scent, relishing his heat, maybe for the last time. “You’re leaving me.” I know the signs, having been abandoned too many times not to.
“I should leave you.” Hawke wraps my hair around his fists. “I’m selfish to want you for myself. Nicolas is the better choice.”
Pain shoots across my scalp and pierces my heart. This isn’t about Nicolas. This is about me. Hawke doesn’t want me. I’m not good enough for him.
“I’ll always protect you,” Hawke vows. “But when you’re with him, you’ll have his protection also.”
“That’s bullshit.” I push against his shoulders, unable to sit still and hear these weak-assed excuses. Hawke doesn’t release me, clasping me to his massive body. “You want a reason to walk away from me, you bastard.” I form a fist with my right hand, wind up, and punch him in the gut with everything I have. The damn man doesn’t loosen his hold, doesn’t even flinch. “Find another excuse, GI Joe, because I’m not buying the Nicolas-can-better-protect-me line.”
“Belinda—”
“No.” I won’t make rejecting me easy for him. “
How is Nicolas safeguarding me from anyone? I was in his office for hours. He didn’t check on me once.” I thump Hawke’s chest with my fists. “I moved to this room and he didn’t notice I was gone.”
“He knew no one would harm you in his club.”
“Really?” I snort. “Then what is this?” I stick out my foot, waving the bruised, bloody mess in the air.
“What the fuck?” Hawke roars, leaping from his seat, taking me with him. I fall. He catches me, plunking my ass back on the beanbag chair. “You’re bleeding. God damn it.” He captures my right ankle with his huge hands. “Why didn’t Nicolas wrap your toe?” He prods the cracked nail with one trembling finger and I wince, my reaction pulling another fuck from his lips. “And why didn’t Mack call me?”
“Neither of them noticed I was hurt.” I gaze up at him, warmed by the concern on his rugged face. “No one pays attention to me, no one except you. They don’t care,” I murmur.
“Stay there,” Hawke instructs, showing no sign he’s heard my words. I don’t move, hoping he’ll come back to me. He rushes to the bar, runs water, opens and closes drawers, returns with a red-and-white first aid kit, a cloth, and a bucket of ice water.
He kneels before me as a man would kneel before the woman he loves, asking her to marry him, to be his forever. My heart squeezes with a yearning so intense, I almost shout “yes, I’ll marry you.”
Which would be foolish because he hasn’t asked. He might never ask.
And if he does ask, I shouldn’t say yes. Hawke can’t give me what I want, what I need. His job is too dangerous and doesn’t pay well, not enough to support my mom, Cyndi, my dreams. He wets a corner of the towel and dabs it over my injured toe, his normally smiling lips flat and grim.
He doesn’t care about me either, not anymore. “What is it, Hawke?” I touch his fingers, needing to know the grisly details. “What did I do wrong?”
He dips my foot in the ice water, and I hiss. It feels so bad and so good at the same time, pain and pleasure wrapped into one.
“When you were standing outside, before Nicolas offered the billion dollars.” Hawke rubs the towel over my skin. “You patted his leg, he held your hand, and—”
“I slapped his leg, hard,” I correct. “He might not have shown it, Nicolas isn’t the most emotional guy, but he felt my wrath.” I wave my fists in the air.
“After he felt your wrath”—my former marine wraps my big toe with white gauze, cradling my foot in his lap—“he said something to you and you said something to him. None of the camera phones picked it up.”
Damn. I forgot about the camera phones. It’s no wonder Hawke is pissed off. “Did you suppress the footage?”
“The incident happened outside. It was impossible to contain.” Hawke’s countenance darkens. My man doesn’t accept failure easily. “Whatever you said to Nicolas, you meant it. I saw that in your face. Your words were passionate and truthful and—” His voice breaks.
I stare at him. This is what he’s upset about? “Look at me, Hawke,” I command, and he complies, meeting my gaze. “He told me to stop moving. I told him to stop being an asshole.”
“And?” Hawke probes, clearly believing I said something significant, that I told Nicolas I cared for him or loved him or some other nonsense.
“And that was it,” I insist. “I’m with you, not him. Nicolas is a friend.”
Hawke studies me, reading my thoughts and my emotions as he always does. I wait, allowing him to see everything, hoping I’m enough for him.
“You’re with me?” he asks hesitantly, as though testing the words, the concept.
“Of course, I’m with you.” I wonder how he could doubt this. “We had sex last night and this morning. I’m living with you. You’re the man I called to rescue me, not Nicolas.”
“He smiled at you, Belinda.” Guilt edges Hawke’s voice. “Nicolas rarely smiles. And he was holding you. You patted his leg.”
“I slapped Nicolas’s leg, hard,” I repeat. “He clasped my hip to prevent me from running away . . . which I really wanted to do. And why wouldn’t I? The situation was as embarrassing as hell. He smiled because he’s proud of his asshole status.” I shake my head. “I’m attempting to teach him how to be a good friend, but it’s an impossible task. Has he apologized to you yet?”
“What?” Hawke cuts the gauze with tiny silver scissors and fastens the bandage with matching white tape.
“Ugh.” I blow out my breath. “That must be a no. I told him to apologize yesterday. When he does”—I lean forward and place my hands on Hawke’s stubble-covered cheeks, needing to touch him, to reassure myself he’s here—“try to forgive him, or he’ll never apologize to anyone ever again.”
“You asked Nicolas to apologize because you care about me.” The grooves between my military man’s eyebrows disappear. “You’re with me.”
“I’m with you,” I assure him.
Hawke presses his face into my palms, his skin firm, warm, right. “You’re teaching a billionaire how to be a good friend.”
I nod. “I send him articles.”
“Does he read them?” Hawke’s lips twitch against the heel of my left hand.
“Every article.” I smile. “He sent me one on how to deal with an asshole,” I share. “I didn’t bother trying any of the tips. I doubt they’d work on our pig-headed friend.”
“Our friend,” my former marine murmurs. “The friend you’re training.”
“Trying to train,” I correct. “He’s a work in progress.”
“And me?” Hawke slides his rough hands up my leg, heat and excitement radiating from his touch. “What are you teaching me, love?”
I beam at him, thrilled to once again be his love. “You’re learning about fashion, clearly.” I rub the fabric of his sleeve between my thumb and fingers, the surface slick, oily, disgusting. “What is this?”
He pushes the hem of my skirt upward as he progresses, exploring my right leg. “The supplier said it’s a special polyester blend, designed to wash easily and repel bloodstains.”
“It’s horrible.” And I don’t want to think about why he needs a blazer that repels bloodstains. “When I see your clothes, my first thought is how soon can I take them off.” I tug the garment down, around his bulging biceps, revealing his equally hideous T-shirt.
“That’s not a bad thing.” Hawke strips off his blazer, the cotton of his shirt pulling over his chest, accentuating every muscle. “Not at all.” He pulls his shirt over his head and tosses it aside, the tattooed wings on his chest fluttering.
“Strip faster. I need you.” I shimmy my skirt higher, exposing my neatly trimmed private curls. “Shit.” I stare down at my mons. “Where did my panties go?”
Hawke laughs, plucking at my corset’s front hooks. “You should be more concerned about your missing credit card.” He peels the silk away from my small breasts. Cool air rushes over my skin, and my nipples pucker. “You leave a trail when you’re drunk.” He replaces the cloth with his hot lips.
I moan, arching, pushing more of my breast into his mouth. “I left that trail for you.”
“I’d track you anywhere,” Hawke murmurs against my nipple. “You’re my girl.”
I’m his girl again, still, perhaps forever. “I need you inside me.” I unbuckle his belt. “Right now.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.” He looks pointedly at my damaged toe. “We could wait until you’re feeling better.”
“You might be able to wait. I can’t.” I unzip him. “And I like a little pain with my pleasure.” I reach between the folds of fabric and touch hard shaft, his lack of layers exciting me. He’s a primitive man, and he’s all mine.
“I also like your cock.” I stroke him, savoring his size. “No matter how savagely I pump my own pussy, my fingers can never replace this big beast.”
“Don’t tease that beast, Belinda.” Hawke moves my hands to his rippling abs. “He’s wild and ready for you.”
He slips his fingers into the fr
ont pocket of his pants. “It took every ounce of my control not to come when you did.” My always prepared former marine removes a condom package and rips it with his teeth. “Your white skin glistened with sweetness. I wanted to lick your fingertips clean, savor each delicious drop.” He rolls the latex over his rigid length.
“You watched me as I masturbated?” I drift my fingers over my feminine folds, titillated by this idea.
“There are cameras in here.” Hawke catches my right hand and rubs my knuckles over his condom-covered shaft, reassuring me that he’s taken precautions. “People could be watching us right now.” He lowers his body over mine, his skin warm, his muscles tensed. “They’ll see my big cock slide into your tight little pussy.”
His arousing talk is followed by action. Hawke pushes his tip deep inside me, stretching me open, forcing me to accommodate his girth.
I grip a handful of carpet on each side of the beanbag chair, thrusting my breasts upward and tilting my head back, offering myself to him. I’m his and he takes me with no hesitation, burying himself in my wetness up to his base.
“Yes.” I wrap my legs around his waist and hook my ankles over his ass, the pain in my toe giving my desire a sharp, stimulating edge. “Fuck me hard, Hawke. Show them who owns my body.”
He pulls out and then slams back into me, setting off tremors inside me, the motion rocking our funky chair. “You belong to me,” Hawke growls into my ear, his lips toying with my sensitive skin. “And only me.” He drags his mouth down my neck, between my breasts, the short hairs on his chin branding his possession over my smaller physique.
God, he’s an animal. I arch my back, submitting to him completely, and Hawke takes me with a mind-blowing ferocity, displaying a need I’ve never seen in him, our chests, hips, everything colliding, heating at the points of contact. It’s as though he truly is proving his sexual, physical, and emotional custody of me, displaying his prowess, purging all memories of his rivals, of other men.
