Sinful Rewards 9

by Cynthia Sax

  “Faster.” I kick his sides, greedily wanting more.

  Hawke growls at me, his expression feral, his fucking turning wild and unrestrained. Sweat shimmers over his golden skin, his silver scars, his black tattoos. He presses his fingertips into my ass, bruising, marking me, and I relish this pain, my form shaking, my pussy walls constricting around his cock.

  This is what I crave, what I can find only with him. He uses me, cherishes me, protects me, the combination exciting my inner pervert while appeasing my need for security. We rut like two savage creatures, all of me feeling each thrust, and I know I’m safe. He won’t judge me, won’t allow anyone to harm me.

  God. I pant, struggling to breathe, passion binding my chest. I might be safe, but I’ll soon be insane. He’s driving me mad, dangling me over the edge of fulfillment.

  I need one more push to find release. “Hawke?”

  “Yeah.” He lunges forward, driving completely into me, seals his lips around my right nipple, and sucks, the pressure decadent. I scream, flying into the erotic abyss, plummeting down, down, down, my spine bowed, my head and arms flung backward.

  Hawke catches me, bellowing my name, holding me against him as he thrusts two more times into my pussy, finding his own satisfaction. I wiggle and writhe but he doesn’t let me go, doesn’t allow me to fall, to hurt myself, safeguarding me even while he’s lost in rapture.

  I slump over him, quivering with aftershocks, moist with effort and dazed with bliss. Hawke rubs my back, my ass, my thighs, his big hands unsteady on my skin. His chest heaves under me, his breathing gradually leveling.

  “I like how you take care of me, love.” His voice is hoarse. “I like it too much.”

  I like it too much also, and this scares me. He’s not my forever man. Hawke is poor, unable to help my mom, Cyndi, me. He’s determined to get himself blown up, taking risky, low-paying assignments, and I won’t have another man leave me, even if this departure wouldn’t be his choice.

  Our relationship is temporary. I burrow my face into Hawke’s chest. It has to be.

  Chapter Two

  WE SHOWER SEPARATELY. I hand him his towel. Hawke hands me mine. He tends to my bruised toe. I place a dab of toothpaste on his toothbrush.

  Our morning routine feels disturbingly comfortable and right, as though we’ve been living together for years, not days. I moisturize my face and covertly watch Hawke while he trims his perma-stubble. He stands unabashedly naked in front of the mirror, his bare feet braced apart, his ass tight.

  I can’t grow accustomed to this, to him. Hawke skims his hand over my lower back as he passes me. My nipples tighten and I scowl, dismayed by my body’s instant reaction to his touch.

  My fashion-impaired man chooses the next hideous black T-shirt and frayed blue jeans in the tiny corner of the closet he uses. “What’s wrong, love?” He dons his utilitarian clothing quickly. I doubt he ever thinks about his clothing.

  My dressing isn’t as simple. “I have no idea what to wear,” I grumble, focusing on this small problem, a problem I might be able to solve. “It’s a sundress type of day, but I can’t pair it with sandals.” I search through the plastic storage boxes. “I have that bandage on my toe.” I stick out my foot. “Everyone will see it.”

  “No one will see it.” Hawke isn’t looking at my toe. He’s frowning at his ugly brick of a phone. “You’re not leaving the condo complex today.”

  “I could leave the condo complex today.” The outfit I choose, a playful, white-cotton strapless sundress matching the white gauze on my toe, belies my words. “You never know.” I don white panties. No bra is necessary.

  Hawke would claim the panties aren’t needed either . . . if he was paying attention to me. “I know.” He continues to gaze at his phone. “You’re not going anywhere.” Tension radiates from him.

  “Why?” I pick up my silver brush. “Has another situation gone FUBAR?” I sit on the bed and run the bristles through my hair, separating the wet strands. “I’ll look at surveillance videos for you.” If I locate all of the hostiles, Hawke might not die. He’ll be safe. “Send me the video footage.”

  “A situation has gone FUBAR, but there’s no need to look at the surveillance videos.” Hawke sits beside me, the mattress dipping under his ass. “This is why you’re staying inside today.” He holds out his phone.

  I look at the display. Reporters crowd around Mrs. Schroeder, the snippety tenant in seven nineteen south, as she walks her yappy little dog. They shove mics and cameras in her face, asking her if she knows Belinda Carter.

  I lower my brush. It’s utter bedlam and I’m the focus. “Why are they asking her about me?” I frown. “Is this about the hooker rumors because—”

  “This isn’t about the hooker rumors.” Hawke stops my flow of words. “Thanks to your friend, Nicolas, we have new concerns.”

  “This is due to the incident at the club, isn’t it?” I blow out my breath. By trying to fix the situation, Nicolas has created a bigger mess. “Those are TV cameras.” I point at the screen, recognizing the logo of a local station. “Don’t they have legitimate news to cover?”

  “You are legitimate news.” Hawke’s face hardens. “Nicolas Rainer, Chicago’s most elusive bachelor, offered you a billion dollars to have sex with him. His friend, an even more reclusive billionaire, vouched for him. Sex, money, and mystery all combine to make you today’s top story.”

  “I’m a top story.” I turn these words over in my mind, having dreamed of this moment. My gaze returns to chaos depicted on Hawke’s phone. “I didn’t think it would be like this.” In my dreams, there’s a red velvet rope separating the reporters and myself, a barrier no one dares to cross. I’m safe, secure, loved, not hunted and harassed.

  “It is like this.” My former marine’s expression is grim. “Every fucking time.”

  “Well, I don’t like it.” I shudder. “I’ll be trampled by overzealous men carrying cameras. It’ll be worse than last night at Nicolas’s club.”

  “You won’t be trampled because you won’t be going outside,” Hawke states bluntly. “While the TV stations are here, you won’t take one step out of the building. After they leave, you won’t go anywhere without my men accompanying you. Understand?”

  “No, I don’t understand.” I lift my chin, unwilling to agree to anything without knowing the facts. “How is this different from the stalker situation?”

  “The TV cameras could attract a more dangerous type of hostile.” Hawke rakes his fingers over his scalp, the pink trails on his skin visible through his short hair. “While a stalker is focused on one person, this potential hostile seeks media coverage of his cause. He inflicts maximum causalities and causes extreme damage to increase viewership, uncaring of his own safety.”

  My eyes widen. “He could hurt you.” I bounce to my feet, ignoring the pain in my toe. “I’ve put you in danger.”

  “Belinda—”

  “I’ll move out.” I rummage through one of the storage boxes, looking for my battered messenger bag, the purse he fixed. “I don’t know where I’ll go, but when I find a place, I’ll issue a statement, draw the Hollywood hostiles away from you.”

  “Come here,” he orders.

  I’m unable to find my purse. “You’ll be safe.” I realize I’ve opened the wrong storage box, my mind preoccupied with the situation. “I—”

  Hawke scoops me into his arms. I shriek, flailing my arms and legs. My big brute dumps me nonchalantly on the bed. “I’m safe and you’re not going anywhere.” He sits behind me. “You’re the target of the Hollywood hostiles, not me.”

  “You could be one of their casualties.” I scurry away from him.

  He draws me back, positioning me between his thighs. “If you remain inside the condo complex, there won’t be any casualties.” My former marine wraps his arms around my chest and bends his knees, creating a protective cage with his body.

  This is why I have to leave. He’ll sacrifice himself to keep me safe.

 
“The hostile could blow up the building with you inside it.” My voice breaks. My dreams could become reality.

  “Everyone and everything coming into the building is monitored.” Hawke nuzzles his chin into my wet hair. “Stay here and no one will get hurt.”

  Nicolas said something similar when I worried about his safety. “Are you sure?” I ask, needing Hawke’s reassurance.

  “I’m sure.”

  Some, but not all, of my tension dissipates. “I can’t stay in the condo building forever.” Although his safety is paramount, it isn’t my only concern. I have to earn income, my best friend and my mom requiring my financial help.

  “The TV crews won’t be here tomorrow.” Hawke sounds certain about this, and he would know, I remind myself. He deals with these types of situations every day.

  “Okay,” I concede, my shoulders lowering. “I won’t leave the building today.”

  “Good girl.” His lips hum against my earlobe. I lean back, into him, his presence comforting me, and he holds me, rubbing his newly trimmed stubble against my cheek and my neck, leaving a trail of tantalizing heat.

  “This situation must be creating more work for your team,” I not-so-casually mention, acutely aware of the burden I’ve placed on my honorable man’s broad shoulders.

  “They’re trained for this, love.” Hawke doesn’t refute my assumption.

  He must have called in a shitload of favors for me. I worry the inside of my cheek with my teeth, not knowing how I’ll ever repay him. “My business with Cyndi will be a success.”

  Hawke releases me. “Yeah, it will be.” He stands, clips his ugly phone to his even uglier belt. “I have to leave for a bit, but I’ll be back for a late lunch.” He moves away from me.

  “Are you taking an assignment?” I follow him into the main room, my stomach churning. Will today be the day I lose him?

  “It’s not an assignment, love.” Hawke glances at me, his expression understanding. “I’m discussing contract terms with a prospective client.” He grabs his black leather jacket off his chair. “There’s zero risk.”

  That’s bullshit. There’s always a risk. “The camera crews—”

  “Will leave me alone,” he assures me. “They don’t want to speak with me. No one ever talks to the bodyguard.”

  They don’t realize he’s much more than that, and this bothers him. I read this truth in his countenance. “Should I give them a statement, tell them about us?” I curl my fingers around his palms. “Will that makes things better?”

  Hawke links his fingers with mine, tightening our connection. “No statements. If the media knows about us, I won’t be able to move around freely. They’ll watch me, interfere with surveillance, place you in even more danger.” His lips flatten. “I can’t lose you, Belinda.”

  “You won’t lose me.” I hold on to my tormented man’s hands. “And I won’t lose you.” We’re a fucked-up pair. He worries about me being in the spotlight, and I fret about him, due to his violent job. Our relationship is doomed, yet I can’t let us go.

  “I’m safe here,” I remind him.

  “You’re safe here.” Hawke pulls me into his arms, hugging me to his warm, hard body. “Stay in the building.”

  “I will.” I lean forward, rising on my aching toes, and I kiss his chin. “Don’t take any unnecessary risks.”

  “There aren’t many risks to take in a contract negotiation.” Hawke laughs, the low sound fluttering my stomach. “Our legal team won’t allow it.”

  He squeezes my hip and strides out the door, his tread soundless and his gait smooth. I watch him until he disappears from sight.

  He’ll be surrounded by lawyers, not hostiles. I relax. He’ll survive today. I limp to the kitchen nook, whimpering, not attempting to disguise my pain. Why should I? I’m alone, Hawke isn’t here to fret over me, and my toe hurts like a son of a bitch. Damn it.

  I open the cabinet closest to the fridge, searching for ingredients, preparing to make my famous macaroni and cheese. A brand-new pasta maker, still in the box, fills the space. It’s the same model and design as the professional machine Karl uses. A zing of excitement surges through me and I’m tempted to rip the box open, to use this wonderful device.

  I don’t touch the package because I know how expensive this pasta machine is. If Hawke returns it for a refund, the money we receive could pay for my mom’s rent, or utilities, or more marketing for the business Cyndi and I have started.

  And, other than laziness, there’s no reason to open the box. Karl insisted I perfect making pasta by hand before he allowed me to use a machine.

  I plunk one of my favorite big bowls on the counter and measure the flour, humming happily. Soon, I’m lost in the joy of cooking, my worries and fears forgotten.

  The doorbell rings at a quarter past eleven. I gaze with dismay at the tray of uncooked noodles. Hawke said he’d be taking a late lunch. The macaroni and cheese isn’t close to completion.

  I hobble to the door, peek through the peephole, and relax. It isn’t Hawke. Jacob, the security guard from the south building, stands in the hallway, a luggage trolley positioned behind him.

  I open the door and smile. “Good morning, Jacob. Are you covering both of the buildings now?”

  “Mr. Rainer wouldn’t approve of that, Miss Bee.” The middle-aged man grins. “You received some deliveries.” He hands me a bouquet of cut flowers and a bottle of wine. The label is from Francois’s winery, the California-based army man not relenting in his pursuit of me.

  “I waited for my break to relay them.” Jacob sets a small brown box on the floor before me. “With the confusion outside, I wanted to ensure you received them.”

  “Thank you.” I study the box, recognizing the plain label, the lack of other identifying marks. Friendly, the mysterious texter I’m 90 percent certain is Nicolas, hasn’t forgotten about me either. “I’m sorry that I’m causing so much trouble for the security team.”

  “There’s no trouble that your macaroni and cheese can’t fix.” Jacob looks pointedly over my shoulder at the freshly rolled noodles. “Don’t forget about us when you’re preparing lunch, Miss Bee.”

  I laugh. “I won’t.” I’ll make everyone I inconvenienced, including a certain stressed-out former marine and his workaholic billionaire rival, pasta. “I’ll prepare enough for everyone.” This is the least I can do.

  “I’m looking forward to it.” Jacob pushes the luggage trolley down the hallway, the wheels silent on the rich blue oriental carpet.

  I close the door and kneel before the box, my palms moist with anticipation. Last night, I stripped in front of the one-way mirror in a private room at Nicolas’s club, and now he’s sent me a reward for completing his sexy challenge.

  I ignore the guilt churning in my gut. Hawke knew other men might have seen my striptease in the club. He was okay with that. No, he was more than okay. He was aroused, fucking me unconscious in that same private room.

  Hawke also wouldn’t begrudge me this gift. I open the flaps and gaze inside the box. Your Reward, the same message Friendly always sends, is printed on heavy card stock, the black arial font contrasting vividly with the white paper.

  I brush this note aside and inhale sharply. Black Giuseppe Zanotti T-strap sandals with five-inch heels are nestled in brown tissue paper. They’re beautiful, functional works of art, and I sigh. I’ll never wear them.

  They’ll be sold, along with my other designer treasures, the proceeds used to pay my mom’s rent, Cyndi’s expenses, Hawke’s groceries. I transfer the entire box to one of the plastic storage containers, my heart filled with regret. I can’t even try the shoes on, due to the drunkards at Nicolas’s club and the gauze wrapped around my big toe.

  I place the bottle of wine on the kitchen counter and find a vase for the flowers. They’re pretty, delicate pink and lavender daisies interspersed with greenery and baby’s breath, but when the petals wilt, they’ll create a cleaning nightmare, attracting rodents and other disgusting creatures.
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br />   The flowers will die and the wine will be consumed. Neither of Francois’s gifts will last, unlike the Giuseppe Zanotti shoes, my red Salvatore Ferragamo purse, Friendly’s other rewards. The dog tags around my neck are designed to withstand even the elements. Touching the oval pieces of metal, I feel the connection with Hawke, my former marine.

  Putting these thoughts out of my head, I wash my hands and roll more pasta dough around the wire I found, shaping the macaroni noodles and piling them on the baking sheet. Not knowing how large the building’s security team is, I err on the side of excess, making multiple batches. The remaining pasta can be frozen and eaten later.

  The doorbell rings for the second time today. Jacob must have forgotten to give me a package. I swing the door open and stare, my mouth dropping open.

  A stunningly beautiful woman stands in the hallway. Her cheekbones are high. Her lips are succulently full. Her eyes resemble decadently rich chocolate.

  She’s unfortunately dressed in an ugly brown T-shirt, even uglier combat pants, and clunky military boots. Even with her brown hair pulled back from her gorgeous face and her lack of makeup, she’s instantly recognizable.

  My heart pounds. She’s the closed-toe-shoe-wearing woman from Hawke’s surveillance videos, the possible security threat.

  “No.” I slam the door. Wood connects with bare palms, the woman blocking the door, her movements scarily fast.

  She’s a hostile. She must be. “Shit.” I run to Hawke’s bedroom, seeking to put a door between us, my toe aching with each step. Boots clunk against the hardwood floor, the woman following right on my bare heels. She prevents this door from closing also, standing on the threshold.

  “No.” I back away from her, searching for a weapon. There’s nothing. The room is too damn clean, everything put away neatly in trunks and plastic boxes. I grab the silver hairbrush I’d left on the bed, prepared to bash her over the head if I have to, and I press against the window, hoping my former marine is monitoring his own condo as closely as he monitors my former bedroom.