by Cynthia Sax
I should sever my link with him.
The elevator doors open and I stride through the lobby, my ballerina flats smacking against the tiled floor. Jacob, the security guard, sleeps behind his desk, his head bowed, his hands folded over his rounded stomach.
I hesitate for a heartbeat before pushing against the front door. Hawke told me to call him before I left the building. I doubt this includes simply standing outside the entrance.
Does it? I stare up at the blue sky.
Not wishing to disobey him, I push his number on my phone and press the device against my ear.
“Where are you, sweetheart?” Hawke answers after the second ring.
“I’m standing outside the condo building.” I release the pins from my hair and my straight locks cascade over my shoulders, gloriously free. “I needed some fresh air.”
“I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.” Hawke sounds breathless, as though he’s running. I can’t imagine Nicolas ever being in such a rush to see me. “How did it go?”
“He told me what he did.” I thread my fingers through my hair, separating the strands. “How you asked him to help you and how he . . . didn’t.” I avoid labeling Nicolas’s actions as a betrayal. “You know how I feel about friendships. That you fought with Nicolas because of me—” I’m unable to say more, my voice cracking.
“Our fight wasn’t due to him wanting you, love.” Hawke’s voice echoes and my heart beats faster. He isn’t waiting for the elevator. He’s taking the stairs. “I was angry with him because he wasn’t playing fair.”
Playing fair. My stomach sinks. His relationship with me is a game. “Is that why you convinced him to overlook the gossip about me, because you wanted to play fair?” I curl my bottom lip. Am I a prize the men are competing over?
“I want you to have a choice.”
He wants me to choose him. My hopes revive. He must care about me, a little. “A wise man told me I always have a choice,” I state primly, Hawke being that wise man. “I’ve been alone my entire life. I could continue to be alone.”
“You’re not alone,” he drawls, his voice low and deep. “You have me.”
I have him, Nicolas, and Cyndi, none of them deserting me. I consider my next words carefully, wishing to repair the friendship between my biker and my billionaire. “Nicolas is addicted to his devices. Turning his phone off for twenty minutes is a big deal for him.”
“I noticed.” Hawke’s tone is dry.
“Yet, he relinquished his phone for an entire day, not knowing if he’d ever get it back, so you could meet me,” I point out. “That was a big sacrifice for him.”
“He met you first,” Hawke grumbles.
“Nicolas gave me a choice.” I use his words. “And I’m not with him right now, am I?”
“No, you’re not.”
“But Nicolas is still my friend.” I stroll back and forth in front of the building, unable to remain still. “I’ll continue to see him,” I warn, thinking of the animosity between Nicolas and Cyndi, not wanting to repeat that experience with Hawke and Nicolas.
“I would never ask you to turn your back on a friend,” Hawke assures me.
My tattooed biker understands me. My billionaire doesn’t. Can love grow without understanding?
“I can’t talk with you while riding.” A drone of an engine underlies Hawke’s words. “I’ll see you in less than a minute.” The phone clicks, the background noise silenced.
My phone immediately hums. Francois’s number is displayed on the small screen. The Frenchman is persistent, earning my begrudging admiration. I should answer, should forgive him.
And I will.
But not yet.
I clip the phone to the waistband of my pants and wait for Hawke to arrive, wondering why my heart beats faster. We have no future. He can’t give me what I want, what my mom and I need.
The doors open behind me, air whooshing against glass. The person leaving the building could be a stalker, one of Lona’s crazy clients thinking I’m her replacement. I pivot on my heels.
Mrs. Schroeder from seven nineteen south exits, and I release my breath. The elderly woman is wearing a pale pink designer jogging suit, a white sun visor, and matching sneakers, and carries Sam, her tiny dog, in her arms, a pale pink leash around his neck.
“Good morning, Mrs. Schroeder.” I smile.
The gray-haired lady glances at me, her top lip curls, and she turns away with a sniff, pointing her nose in the air. Oh hell. My face heats. She snubbed me.
Her reaction shouldn’t hurt me. I’ve watched women reject my mom all of my life. I should be immune from the pain.
I’m not. I shiver, the warm summer day cooling, all of the joy zapped from being outside. This was a mistake. I should return to the condo where I’m safe, protected, accepted.
An engine rumbles. I don’t turn around, don’t face Hawke, not wishing for him to see my unhappiness. Instead, my gaze follows Mrs. Schroeder as she strolls away.
Moments pass and the noise fades. Hawke doesn’t say anything, allowing me to regain my composure.
I lift my chin. Who the hell cares what one bitter old woman thinks? I know who I am, what I’ve done, and I’m not ashamed, not of my actions nor of my mom. My fingers curl into tight fists.
“Do you want me to have her killed, love?” Hawke drawls, not a hint of humor in his voice.
I turn. My rough, tough former marine sits on his massive bike, the chrome polished and the tires spotless. The helmet he had designed for me is perched on the seat behind him.
Hawke is wearing his usual frayed blue jeans, hideous black T-shirt, body-clinging leather jacket, big army boots. Sunglasses cover his eyes and stubble darkens his square chin, his head bare, his brown hair cut ruthlessly short.
He’s big and bad and mine, all of his attention on me. My nipples tighten. His chin lowers and his lips curl into that lopsided smile I’ve grown to love.
Love. Shit. My shoulders square. I shouldn’t use that word around him.
“I’d rather not harm women,” Hawke adds. “I’ll make an exception to protect you.”
He’s joking . . . I hope. “Mrs. Schroeder is pushing ninety. I think I can take her.” I force my smile.
Hawke chuckles, the sound low and deep and arousing, moistening my pussy. I want him with all of the reckless passion in my foolish heart, my body humming with awareness.
“Come here, Belinda.” He reaches out his right hand. “I need to touch you.”
I need to be touched. When he holds me, everything is possible. My world rights itself, and the missing pieces in my soul fall into place.
“I shouldn’t spend time with you.” I move toward him, drawn by the energy surrounding him, my gaze fixed on his rugged face. “Nicolas tried to kiss me and I pulled away from him.” I brush against Hawke’s leg, the contact sending a pulse of awareness up my form. “That’s your fault.”
“Yeah, it is.” Hawke grins at me, unapologetic. “I see the color of your shirt matches my eyes today.” He hooks his arm around my waist and hauls my body against his, my breasts smacking against his chest, my thighs straddling his right knee, the pressure against my pant-covered clit divine.
“It’s a blouse, not a shirt.” I drift my fingertips over the short coarse hairs on his chin, back and forth, back and forth, and his expression softens.
“And I can’t see your eyes because you’re wearing your ugly sunglasses.” I tap the frames, spying my reflection in the glass, my face flushed, my lips parted.
“You’ll have to get used to them, sweetheart.” Hawke removes his sunglasses and clips them to the collar of his T-shirt. “Getting a bug in the eye hurts like a son of a bitch.”
I twist my lips. “Fashion takes sacrifice. Looking good—”
Hawke lifts his knee, pressing his leg against my pussy, and my words fade, arousal obliterating my thoughts. “I’m not sacrificing my vision for fashion.” His pale blue eyes sparkle with humor. The damn man knows what he’s doing to
me.
“I plan to look at your beautiful face for decades.” He runs one coarse fingertip along my nose, my lips, my chin, setting off tiny fires within me. When he handles me like this, gently, slowly, carefully, I truly believe I’m beautiful.
“You know I can’t think when you touch me.” I scowl, rubbing against him, my need making a mockery of my harsh words. “People will see us.”
“And you’re not ready for that yet.”
Yet? I stare at him, intrigued and scared by the possibility that some day, I might find pleasure in public, in full view of everyone.
“No one will see anything.” Hawke leans toward me. “We’re fully dressed.” He drapes my hair over my shoulders, concealing me. “You’re small.” He curves his torso around mine, surrounding me with muscle.
“I’m average-sized,” I retort.
His lips twitch. “Trust me to keep you safe.”
“I trust you.” I know he’d never hurt me, not intentionally. “I—”
Hawke brackets my face with his calloused palms and covers my lips with his, stopping my protest, his embrace as forceful, as dominant as he is. I tilt my head back, eagerly embracing his passionate assault, opening my mouth, welcoming him inside me.
My tongue engages with his, tangling, twining, mating, the two of us becoming one, and I rock, cautiously holding myself back, aware of our potential audience.
This isn’t good enough for Hawke. His eyes blaze. “Trust me,” he growls, nipping my bottom lip, the pain snapping some of my restraint.
“Hawke—”
He captures my lips once more, demanding my surrender, erasing all of my thoughts, leaving only need, only him. I move faster and faster, brazenly seeking his approval and my satisfaction, uncaring that we’re in public, that anyone might see us. I’m the wicked woman of Chicago, my reputation already in tatters. Being ravished by a tattooed biker won’t cause any additional harm.
And he’s not any tattooed biker. I curve my palms over his skull, his hair short and soft under my fingertips. This is my man. His stubble burns my skin, branding me, marking me as his. I belong to him and he belongs to me.
Hawke fucks my mouth with his tongue, thrusting into me with a mind-numbing vigor, chasing all thoughts of my uncertain future, of judgmental people, of choices I suspect I’ve already made.
A band of emotion wraps around my chest, tighter and tighter, restricting my breathing, the tension growing unbearable. I frantically rub against him, sucking on his tongue as I yearn to suck on his cock, seeking relief. Hawke, my tattooed biker, can give this to me. I know he can.
He lowers his hands, his palms traveling over my shoulders, down my back, his progress exciting me, speeding my rocking. I cling to his broad shoulders, digging my fingernails into his jacket, marking the leather, this reckless disregard for the finely crafted garment signaling how far I’m gone.
Hawke cups my ass, pushing me into him, increasing the delectable friction, and I moan into his mouth, unable to remain silent, the pressure too damn good. He rumbles a reply, his words muffled, his message understood. He has me. He’ll take care of me. I’m safe in his arms.
Trusting him, trusting this, I release the last remnants of my control, humping his leg with abandonment. Hawke presses downward, using a fraction of his considerable strength, and the two of us work together, in sync, connected, our shared focus being my pleasure.
My lips quiver against his, my form shakes, and my clothing grows damp, my musk scenting the summer air. I can’t last, the strain of delaying my orgasm taxing all of my energy, yet I need more, a little bit more, and I stare beseechingly into Hawke’s eyes, silently begging him for help.
He smiles, this action pulling my lips upward with his. He knows what he’s doing to me, how he’s tormenting me, holding my satisfaction hostage, cradling my fulfillment in the palms of his calloused hands.
I growl my discontentment and tug hard on his tongue, wishing to torture him as he’s torturing me. His eyes flash, lightning bolts shooting across a royal blue sky. I snap at him again, pushing for the response I need.
Hawke gives it to me. He slaps my ass and bounces his knee upward, smacking his denim-clad thigh against my fabric-covered clit. I break, screaming down his throat, my release muted by the deep cavern of his hot mouth.
Hawke holds me to him as I wiggle and writhe, fighting to be free, knowing he’ll never release me. Waves of bliss sweep over me, my world flashing light and dark, hot and cold, and I grip my unbending former marine, my only constant in a storm of battering change. He’s here. He won’t leave me, won’t betray me.
The cascades of ecstasy gradually lessen, my breathing leveling and my body becoming still. I slump against Hawke, drained of all passion, all anger, all frustration, and he folds me into his big form, gently stroking his rough fingers over my hair, soothing me, comforting me. I needed this, needed him.
“Thank you.” I nuzzle into his cotton-covered chest, breathing deeply, inhaling the scent of engine grease, leather, and man, Hawke’s natural cologne. His heat engulfs me, a reassuring warmth confirming his presence.
“No one saw me?” I ask, needing this confirmation.
“No one saw you.” He rests his chin on the top of my head. His body remains hard under mine, the ridge in his ragged blue jeans pronounced, his long, thick cock hard under the denim.
“You didn’t come,” I whisper, guilt tempering my contentment.
“I can wait until tonight.” Hawke’s fit physique is curved protectively around me. “I want to come inside you, with your hot wet pussy snug around my hard cock, your naked body under me, soft and supple and mine.”
He assumes we’ll have sex, and I should protest this high-handed declaration, push him away from me, end our relationship now before it progresses any further. I certainly shouldn’t encourage him.
“We need condoms.” My cheeks heat. Where the hell did that statement come from?
Hawke chuckles, his big form shaking, his muscles rubbing against my sensitive breasts. “Don’t worry about the condoms, love. I’ll take care of you.”
“I know you will,” I assure him. My concern is he’ll take care of me too well, making leaving him even more difficult.
Chapter Four
HAWKE REACHES BEHIND him, unhooks the gorgeous helmet he designed especially for me, and places it on my head.
“Are we going somewhere?” I lift my chin, allowing him to adjust the straps, his rough fingers grazing my skin, leaving a trail of excitement. I haven’t been outside since the fiasco at the French restaurant, my confinement to the condo complex making me a bit stir-crazy.
My anticipation is tempered by fear and dread. Mrs. Schroeder’s snub will be the norm, not the exception.
“I can’t handle any more harsh judgments today, Hawke,” I confess. I’m now one of the most infamous women in Chicago, and people will talk wherever I go.
Hawke taps the tip of my nose, capturing my full attention, his expression stern and unyielding. “You said you trusted me,” he rumbles, his voice deeper than a Black Friday checkout line. “Would I ever allow anyone to judge you harshly?”
“No.” I chew on the inside of my cheek. “But you can’t fight the world for me.”
“There will be no fighting the world. I prefer not to enter battles I can’t win,” Hawke drawls. “Get on the bike, Belinda.” He pats the seat behind him, the smack of skin against leather loud and arousing. “You need this ride.”
“Okay.” I obey him, swinging my leg over the huge machine. The only alternative is to return to the condo, and I don’t want to face Cyndi. Not yet.
“Trust me,” Hawke repeats. He pulls on my legs, sliding me closer to him, his body wedged between my thighs. I slip my hands under his leather jacket and wrap my arms around him, linking my fingers over his flat stomach.
As Hawke dons his sunglasses, his muscles ripple under his black cotton T-shirt. He’s bluntness and brute strength, a primitive beast, savage and unrepentant.
And today, this wild man is mine. I grip him tighter, thrilled by this thought.
Hawke revs the throttle, and the bike vibrates under my ass, all of me rubbing against all of him. I shudder with joy, resting my helmeted head against his back.
The damn man laughs as the machine shoots forward, its tires eating pavement. Hawke weaves in and out of Chicago traffic, avoiding bike couriers and tourists rubbernecking in rental cars, upgrade options dangling from their rearview mirrors. The wind plucks at my pants, whipping the fabric around my legs, and I cuddle closer to my big biker.
Hawke leans backward, silently communicating that he’s here, he has me. Heads turn as we ride, pedestrians gawking at us with open curiosity. My military man doesn’t need bright colors or designer fashions to garner attention. His mere presence attracts gazes. I splay my fingers over his stomach, and our speed accelerates.
Hawke turns the bike off Michigan Avenue, navigating the side streets. The neighborhoods deteriorate and the pavement becomes rougher. He navigates around deep potholes, man and machine moving as one.
The sun warms my shoulders and cool air brushes over my bare arms, the contrast thrilling me. I feel alive, free, happy. Laughter bubbles in my throat.
Hawke was right. This ride is exactly what I need, our speed blowing the worries from my mind. I hug my tattooed biker, trying to convey my joy, and he squeezes my right knee, the warmth of his palm permeating the fabric of my pants.
We slow, the bike rolling to a stop in front of a familiar building, and I relax, tension easing from my shoulders. No one will judge me at the Road Gator, the patrons consisting of rough, tough men who don’t give a shit about the happenings in fancy French restaurants.
The bar looks very different in the daytime, the area around the building surprisingly clean and well maintained, not one piece of litter floating on the summer breeze. The neon sign continues to glow, welcoming patrons. Leather-clad men lounge around bikes, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes, their faces weathered and hard.
Hawke pulls his machine into the space closest to the door and the men straighten, grinding their cigarettes under boot heels, showing him respect. My biker kills the engine, flips the kickstand, and plants his big boots on the pavement, stabilizing the bike.