Sinful Rewards 11

by Cynthia Sax

  Hawke is risking everything for me—the exposure of his identity, the well-being of his loved ones and his business. He’s uncomfortable in his tuxedo. This is obvious by the way he’s plucking at his sleeves and rolling his shoulders, his muscles straining the seams of his jacket. He’s worried about our safety, his body tense with trepidation.

  Why is my former marine making these sacrifices? So I can walk into a room and feel like I belong. There will be no one in the ballroom I like, very few people I know. Some of the attendees think I’m a whore. Some of them treat Hawke and his team like shit. Some of them didn’t return Cyndi’s phone calls when her father disowned her.

  I lift my chin. We’re going out, but not to the Magnificent Ball.

  Hawke presses the button for the elevator, the doors open, and we enter. He selects parking level one. I gaze at our reflections in the mirrored walls, admiring the fit of his jacket, the line of his pants, the shine of his shoes.

  The sophisticated clothing barely contains my primitive man. My toes curl in my heeled sandals. The tuxedo doesn’t conceal the bluntness of his features, the scars on his skin, his flattened nose, or closely cropped hair. He’s a brute and he’s mine and I wouldn’t want him to be anyone other than who he is.

  “I have an urge to lick you all over,” I whisper. “From the tip of your toes to that thin scar on your hairline.”

  Lightning flashes in his blue eyes. “None of that talk tonight.” He waves his right index finger back and forth.

  I yearn to draw it into my mouth and suck. My eyelashes lower and my lips part.

  Hawke groans. “You’re killing me, love.” His voice deepens. “I can’t be distracted.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have worn that sexy tuxedo.” I give him my most seductive smile. “I want to yank the sleeves off your jacket and bare your massive arms.”

  “That would be a more fuckin’ comfortable style,” he murmurs, fidgeting.

  “I could make you very comfortable.” I turn to him, press my breasts against his chest and trace his lapels, savoring the rich fabric.

  “Stop teasing me.” Hawke catches my wrists, removing my hands from his body. “This isn’t a game, Belinda. There could be hostiles at the event tonight. They could . . . ” He swallows hard, his jaw working. “They could hurt you.” Emotion chokes his voice.

  “They won’t hurt me,” I insist, gazing at his black bow tie.

  “They won’t because I won’t allow it.” Hawke’s grip on my wrists intensifies. “I can’t lose you, sweetheart,” he whispers, his words barely audible, as though saying them louder will make this possibility occur. “I can’t hold you as you bleed out, watch the sparkle fade from your brown eyes and the life seep from your face, knowing I’ll never kiss your lips again, never hear you laugh. I wouldn’t survive.”

  I tilt my head back and meet his gaze. Oh my God. I reel backward, pummeled in the gut by the fear in his eyes. He’s scared, no, more than scared. My brave military man is terrified, his big body trembling.

  I exhale slowly, light-headed. Hawke has seen war, urban terrorism, the worst violence humankind can dish out, and the possibility of me dying frightens him.

  “You care for me,” I state, needing to hear this.

  Lines appear between his thick eyebrows. “I would die for you, love.”

  He would die for me. I’m his apple blossom future, his dirt path home. He bought a home for me, safeguarded my mom, made my wickedest fantasies come true. If that isn’t love, it’s damn close.

  The doors open. Hawke takes my hand, walks with me into the underground parking level. A sleek black limousine takes up three spots. Mack, dressed in a black blazer, black crew neck shirt, and black dress pants, stands by an open door, his eyes twinkling.

  The limousine is a stretch Hummer, of course. I shake my head, not knowing why military men are attracted to this brand.

  “Are you ready for the ball, Cinderella?” Mack grins, the lights reflecting on his bald head.

  “We’re not going to the ball,” I declare, standing before the vehicle.

  Hawke stiffens. “We’re going. I can protect you. Trust me to do this.”

  Oh shit. Now he thinks I don’t have faith in his abilities. “I trust you to protect me. You’re the best, and no one makes me feel safer than you do,” I assure him. “But I want to know what it is like to belong, to walk into a room filled with important people and feel like I deserve to be there.”

  “You told me that.” He nods. “And we’ll make that happen . . . safely.”

  I rub my hands over his sleeves, needing to touch him, to strengthen my connection with him. “That won’t happen at the charity ball.” I smile at my confused man. “That’s not where I belong.”

  More lines etch around Hawke’s mouth and eyes. “I won’t bring you to an unsecured location. It isn’t safe and—”

  I place my fingers over his lips, stopping his panic spiral. “We’re going to the Road Gator.”

  “Fuck, yes.” Mack cheers, ripping his jacket off his big body. “I love you, Belinda Carter.”

  Ugh. I glare at the man. Does everyone use those three words casually?

  Hawke levels an equally hard glance on his subordinate. “We aren’t going to the Road Gator.” His gaze returns to my face. “You wanted red carpets and diamonds and beautiful gowns. You won’t find those there.”

  “I will find some very pretty bikes there,” I tease. His tense expression doesn’t change. I sigh. “I can see gowns and diamonds and red carpets on TV. It’s the sense of belonging I truly want.” I place my palms on his tuxedo-clad chest. “Will I be accepted at the Road Gator?”

  Hawke’s eyes soften. “They’ll welcome you with open arms, love.”

  Chapter Eight

  “WE’LL END UP at the Road Gator, but first we’ll stop in at the ball,” Hawke compromises, slipping his hand into his tuxedo jacket as though he’s reassuring himself he still has something—likely his big brick of a phone. “I want you to have your grand entrance.”

  Tension radiates from his well-dressed form. Worry lines frame his lips. My grand entrance comes at a cost I’m unwilling to pay.

  But mere words won’t change his mind.

  “It’s a beautiful summer evening.” I rub my palms over the lapels of his tuxedo, pressing my curves against his muscle. “Why don’t we drive along Lake Shore Drive, look at Lake Michigan, Navy Pier, the Shedd, and talk about our plans for the evening?” I swivel my hips against his hardness, aware that Mack, our bodyguard for the evening, is watching us.

  “Belinda—”

  Seeing the refusal in the jut of Hawke’s jaw, I cup the bulge in his pants.

  “Fuck.” My military man jerks, his eyes flashing with a savage desire. I grin at him. He shakes his head and turns to Mack. “Tell Prick to drive us along the lakefront until I tell him otherwise.”

  Bee for the win. I suppress a cheer.

  Hawke’s lips twitch. “You’re a terror, love.” He helps me into the limousine. My ass hits the leather seat. He crowds me against the wall, and the door closes.

  I wait for him to pull me onto his lap, to kiss me senseless, to flip my skirt up, shred my panties with his tremendous strength, unzip his pants and pound his cock into my moist pussy. He doesn’t move, gazing at me with a mixture of lust and frustration.

  “I’m wearing panties,” I murmur, aware that he prefers me bare, open and ready for him.

  A hurting sound comes from deep in his throat. “I can’t touch you.” Hawke’s voice is sensuously low. “You look so pretty, and I won’t be careful. I want you too much.”

  “You’ll lose control,” I whisper.

  He pulls on his collar and nods.

  I like it when he loses control. I like it very much. “Then I’ll have to touch you.” I straddle him, my loose skirt flowing around his legs.

  A bead of sweat forms on Hawke’s forehead. “Belinda.” His voice sounds choked.

  “This doesn’t look comfortable.
” I pull on his bow tie, unraveling the strip of black fabric. “Did you wear the bow tie for me?”

  “Only for you.” He gazes at me with a toe-curling hunger.

  “I appreciate the effort.” I undo the top button of his crisp white shirt. He exhales raggedly as though it had been strangling him. “You look stunning.” My rough, tough man will never look classically handsome. “But I’ve gotten used to your black T-shirts.”

  Hawke’s eyes glow. “You think my T-shirts are ugly.”

  “They’re hideous.” I smile, brushing my fingertips over his clean-shaven jaw. “I’ve also grown attached to your stubble,” I mouth along his skin, leaving a trail of glitter. “I like the way it burns.” I drag my lips down his neck, destroying my lipstick.

  “I went to a barber.” He shifts under me, pushing the ridge in his pants against my panty-clad mons. “With my scars, it’s damn near impossible to get a perfect shave.”

  I flick the tip of my tongue over the silver nick under Hawke’s chin. His stubble is sexy and practical. “Shaving is overrated.”

  I pay homage to his face, laving every ridge, every mark, every remnant of his danger-filled life. He tastes of salt and arousal, with a hint of forever, and nothing has ever felt so right, our forms entwined, our souls connected.

  He must feel this too. He must. I suck on Hawke’s right earlobe, and his eyelashes lower, gold dancing on the tips. My former marine doesn’t touch me, his hands remaining at his sides, his body tensing more and more with each caress.

  The floor vibrates under our feet. The limousine is moving. I glance over my shoulder. The driver’s partition is lowered. Hawke’s men could be watching us, listening to us, and this thrills me, pushing me to do more.

  I unbutton his jacket and slip my hands between the silk lining and his cotton shirt. His muscles undulate under my fingertips, a fine layer of material separating our skin, and his breathing quickens, the warm air stirring the painstakingly arranged curls framing my face.

  He wants me and I want him, desperately, caught in my own game. I’m no longer thinking of the charity ball, of changing my stubborn biker’s mind. All I know is him, his form beneath me, the heat rolling over his huge frame in seductive waves, the scent of leather, engine grease, and man engulfing me.

  “I ache for you, sweetheart.” Hawke’s fingers clench and unclench, clench and unclench. “My balls are ready to explode.”

  “We can’t have that.” I sink to the floor before my military man, kneeling between his legs. “I love your balls.” I fondle Hawke through his pants, savoring the length and girth of him, admiring the contrast of my small pale hands against the black fabric. “They’re two of your best body parts.”

  “What other parts do you like?” He spreads his legs wider, giving me better access to his huge form.

  “Your cock pleases me very much.” I say the dirty words loud enough for the men in the front seat to hear. “I plan to suck you dry.”

  Hawke’s nostrils flare. “You’ll muss your lipstick.”

  “I’ll survive.” Judging from the pink trail on his face, my lipstick is already destroyed. “A big, hard man”—I gently squeeze him and he presses his lips together—“once told me that passion was messy.”

  I nudge his bulge to the side and carefully unzip his pants. My fingers touch hot, bare flesh and my lips twitch. Hawke’s veneer of civility is one layer of fabric thick. Underneath his expensive tuxedo, he’s all primitive male.

  I meet his gaze. “This man also said I could be myself with him.” I nuzzle against his rigid shaft, inhaling his musk, rubbing my lips, chin, cheeks over him. “You can be yourself with me, Hawke.”

  I follow a vein in his cock, licking him from base to rim. Hawke folds his fingers into tight fists, his knuckles whitening.

  “I love you the way you are.” I flick my tongue over the bead of precum glistening on his tip, savoring his taste. His cock bobs, his response gratifyingly intense. “I’ll wear my designer dresses and you can wear your awful T-shirts and threadbare blue jeans.”

  “I can’t go to the ball in blue jeans.” Hawke’s voice is strained.

  “We’re not attending the ball.”

  My military man’s eyes, now brilliant blue with arousal, glitter with refusal. He’ll insist on going to the charity ball, striving to make me happy. His mouth opens.

  Before he protests, I push my lips over his tip, sinking down, down, down on him. He groans, his words smothered by desire, and I smile around his shaft. He’s mine now, my normally intelligent former marine unable to think. I’m in control of him, of our future.

  He taps the back of my throat and I suck, my cheeks indenting around him. Hawke lifts his ass off the limousine’s leather cushion, the rumbling in his chest growing louder. I release him and he slumps in the seat.

  “Belinda.” His chest rises and falls. “I—”

  I suck again and Hawke stops midsentence, grooves etching between his eyebrows, around his mouth. His strength is mine to wield, his reactions belonging to me. I bob up and down, taking him deep, then withdrawing, taking him deep, then withdrawing, his private curls tickling my chin, his shaft pulsing against my lips.

  “Love.” Hawke shakes, his knuckles cracking. The damn man is inflicting pain on himself in his attempt to remain still, to not grab me, muss my hair, my makeup.

  I can’t allow that. Reaching behind me, I remove the diamond comb from my hair and set it on the seat beside him. My carefully crafted curls fall, bouncing over my back and shoulders, a cascade of brown tendrils around my face.

  Hawke gazes at me with awe, his perusal heating me all over. “God. You’re so beautiful.” His fingers twitch, red crescent moons carved into his palms, yet he doesn’t touch me, waiting for my permission.

  I straighten, releasing his shaft with a juicy pop, and I meet his gaze, see the ardor in his eyes. He might not love me, not yet, but this isn’t simple lust. It can’t be.

  I smile slowly, hovering over his tip. “I need your big hands in my hair and your cock between my lips.” Using my best phone-sex voice, I give him the naughty words both of us desire. “I want you to use me like the dirty little pervert I am, fucking my face with everything you have, filling my mouth with your hot cum.”

  The tension in the air stretches, stretches, stretches. Hawke’s countenance darkens with every heartbeat. A band of emotion constricts around my chest, the waiting unbearable.

  I purse my lips, inhale, count to five, then blow over his cock head.

  “Fuck.” My military man surges forward, breaking under this light caress. I instinctively move backward. Hawke doesn’t allow me to escape him. He sinks his hands into my curls, curves his fingers over my scalp, and pulls me onto him, forcing me to take every inch of his massive cock.

  This is how wild I make him, how much I shred his restraint. I moan with happiness as he ravishes me, the sound muffled by his girth. He rides my face hard, thrusting upward, plunging into my mouth again and again. I grip his thighs, holding on, never wanting to let him go.

  The limousine’s windows are tinted, but I imagine that men gaze through the glass, watching Hawke drive his cock between my lips. My cheeks flush with excitement and my curls fall around his hips, teasing his skin. I wiggle my ass, wishing I were naked, bare to my audience. They’d see the wetness on my pussy lips, the tautness of my nipples.

  They wouldn’t judge me for this reaction. Knowing I was Hawke’s kinky freak would turn the men on, their pants tenting around their erections. They’d want to unzip, pull out their cocks, and take turns fucking my pussy while my former marine fucks my mouth. Two men, my former marine and a complete stranger, would pound into my body, their balls slapping against me, their muscular forms slick with perspiration.

  I rub my thighs together, the friction delightful. This is merely a fantasy. Hawke would never allow another man to touch me, and I don’t want to be touched. I’m his and his alone, cherished, needed, protected by his strength.

  I s
hake my head, causing my curls to bounce against him, knowing how this crazes him, my rough, tough former marine having a weakness for the softness, the length, the sheer femininity of my hair. Hawke growls, the carnal sound spiraling my excitement higher, and he drives into me harder, cupping the back of my head with his massive hands.

  My lips hum and my mind spins, my tongue cradling his shaft. I’m aware of everything—the tickle of his hair against my skin, the bloom of his cock head, the veins on his length. His grunts echo in the interior of the vehicle. The floor vibrates under my knees.

  “Look at me, love.” Hawke shakes me.

  I obey his order, meeting his gaze. His blunt face is even more severe, none of his scars hidden by stubble, and his eyes are brilliant blue, the rarest of sapphires, fierce desire reflecting in their depths.

  “You’re mine.” He thrusts deep and roars, shooting his hot cum down my throat, bathing my mouth with his essence. I swallow and swallow and swallow, while his fingers twist in my hair, his grip on me reassuringly secure.

  “Priceless,” Hawke breathes, tilting his head back. Not liking a mess, I lick him clean, laving every inch of his cock with my tongue. His fingers jerk against my scalp. “You’re priceless, Belinda.”

  I zip his tuxedo pants. “You’re sparkly.” The glitter from my face has transferred to the black fabric, adding an impossible-to-ignore splattering of shine around his groin.

  Hawke gazes down at his crotch. “Oh shit.” He rubs at the glitter. This spreads the reflective particles. “I can’t go to the ball looking like this. Everyone will know what we’ve been doing.”

  “Yep.” I smile smugly, kneeling before him. “My reputation will be destroyed, again.” I know my honorable man would never allow this.

  Hawke narrows his eyes. “You planned this, didn’t you?” He draws me upward and sets me firmly on his lap, his thighs solid under my ass. “You knew your sparkles would transfer to my pants.”