by Cynthia Sax
Dedication
To my dear, wonderful hubby for cheering both #TeamNicolas and #TeamHawke; to A Reader Lives A Thousand Lives, Monique Daoust, and Lisa Matheson Sylva for being so super supportive of Sinful Rewards; and to the makers of Nutella for keeping me semi-sane.
Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
About the Author
Also by Cynthia Sax
An Excerpt from Beauty and the Brit by Lizbeth Selvig
An Excerpt from The Governess Club: Sara by Ellie Macdonald
An Excerpt from Caught in the Act by Sara Jane Stone
An Excerpt from Sinful Rewards 1 by Cynthia Sax
An Excerpt from When the Rancher Came to Town by Emma Cane
An Excerpt from Learning the Ropes by T. J. Kline
Copyright
About the Publisher
Chapter One
TODAY, I REVISIT my past.
I scoop the envelope off the hardwood floor as I dash toward the door, my backpack slung over one shoulder. The bus to Happydale, my tiny hometown, doesn’t wait for anyone. The door closes behind me, the electronic lock buzzing. I have to hustle.
My sneakers make no sound on the thick red hallway carpet. Gold light fixtures illuminate the beige walls, and the scent of vanilla hangs in the air.
The common area is luxurious yet empty. I’ve seen the neighbors once or twice during the four months I’ve lived here. They must have multiple homes, a concept I don’t understand. Home should be one permanent place, a refuge from an ever-changing world.
I press the elevator button and the doors open as though the elevator has been waiting for me. This small space is vacant also. I’ve never seen Lona on the weekends, and today, I miss her. When did the high-class escort become part of my daily routine?
I step inside the car and punch the button for the lobby. The doors close, my pale face reflecting in the mirrored walls. Fine paper slides over my skin as I rotate the envelope in my hands. It was delivered this morning, the sender unknown. I watch the red digital numbers change, wishing Lona was here to talk with, wishing Cyndi, my roommate, had returned home last night.
Wishing Hawke, my tattooed biker, hadn’t left.
This is a foolish wish. I knew he would leave. We had our one night of passion. He’s not a forever type of man. He’d touched me, tasted me, seen all of me, and there’s no reason for him to stay.
It’s better this way. If I repeat this statement a million times, I might believe it.
I fan myself with the envelope, and the scent of expensive perfume wafts upward. I recognize the distinctive fragrance.
Lona has sent me a message. Why would the escort contact me? I open the envelope. Black script flows across ivory card stock. The paper is exquisite, as classy as she is.
Please see me today. I have a proposal for you.
Lona
501 South
I know what she’ll propose. Lona is searching for a protégée, someone to take care of her high-net-worth clients. She has expressed an interest in me, sharing that I remind her of herself. I flutter the paper against my lips. She recognizes a fellow pervert.
Logically, I should consider her offer. I no longer have a job and need money desperately. If I don’t find temporary work soon, my mom will be evicted from her apartment. I can’t allow that to happen.
But my heart and my soul aren’t ready to explore this option. Becoming an escort would permanently scuttle my dreams of a forever love.
That forever love won’t be Hawke. He’s gone. I stifle a sigh, pain coiling low in my body. Nicolas, my handsome billionaire, remains. He’d never trust an escort. He doesn’t trust actresses, calling them professional liars.
He might tolerate my exhibitionism. He won’t tolerate another man touching me. As Cyndi pointed out, he’s possessive. I brush my fingers over my lips. He can’t ever know about Hawke. Last night will be another one of my secrets.
The elevator doors open and I stride into the lobby, my sneakers squeaking on the marble floor. Jacob, the security guard, sits behind the desk, his arms folded in front of him, his round belly straining the confines of his gray uniform.
“Morning, Jacob.” I wave Lona’s card, her perfume scenting the cool air. “If you see our mutual friend, please tell her I’m spending the day with my mom and I’ll drop by her condo this evening.” I have to, at the very least, listen to my new friend’s spiel.
“I sure will, Miss Bee.” Jacob nods, his expression drowsy, his eyelids already lowering. He’ll be napping in his chair by ten o’clock. “Have a nice day.”
“Thank you.” I push through the front doors and stop, my breath catching. It can’t be. I stare, unable to believe my eyes. It is.
Hawke waits outside the building. Sunglasses are clipped to the collar of his black T-shirt. He’s wearing his usual blue jeans and military-style boots and straddles his huge bike. A blue helmet is perched on the sliver of a seat behind him. His head is bare, his brown hair styled short and straight, an adorable lopsided smile on his rugged face.
All thoughts of Happydale, of the bus, of anything other than Hawke disappear. My body hums to life, his mere presence resuscitating my desire, tightening my nipples, moistening my pussy. I want to run to him, to throw myself into his arms, to kiss the tiny scar on his square chin, brush my fingertips against his stubble.
Instead, I stand, frozen in place, my mind spinning. “You’re here.” My voice lilts with wonder. “You didn’t leave me.”
Hawke’s smile fades. “I’m not leaving you, love.”
This lie returns me to the cold, harsh reality. Nothing has changed. He remains a tattooed biker, a drifter unable to commit, and I’m a woman seeking forever.
“You told me you wouldn’t leave me last night.” I twist my lips, calling him on his bullshit. “Then I woke up and you were gone.”
Hawke’s thick eyebrows lower. “I had to run some errands this morning, but I’ll always return to you. You’re my girl.”
“You’ll always return to me?” I scoff, unable to believe in him, the cost of being wrong too painfully high.
“Always,” he repeats, his tone grave, as though he means what he says.
He’s not sincere. I release a ragged breath. This is another one of his flippant comments, such as calling me love or his girl. My military man doesn’t even know what forever means.
Hawke sighs, his big chest rising and falling. “You don’t believe me.”
“Of course I don’t believe you.” I roll my eyes. “People need a reason to return.”
His forehead furrows with thought lines. “You’re my reason.”
I can’t be the reason. I’m not enough for him, for anyone. Especially since he’s seen only the perverted, imperfect version of me. He’s heard me cuss, seen me stained with black ink, my nose and cheeks reddened from crying, watched me dance half-naked in the window. That’s not a woman worthy of returning for.
So why did Hawke return? I tap my lips with my right index finger, pondering the possibilities. He should have been long gone by now.
Unless he wasn’t satisfied with the things we did.
What did we do?
I shouldn’t ask. I know I shouldn’t. Oh, hell. I have to ask. “Last night.” I shift my weight from one foot to the other, nervous, not knowing if I want to hear the answer. “Did I see your junk?”
Hawke’s lips twitch. “You didn’t see anything, sweetheart. You fell asleep with a dazed smile on your beautiful face and my fingers deep inside you.”
I warm all over, his blunt wor
ds arousing me.
“I sucked your cream off my skin, savoring your taste, your scent.” His eyes gleam. The damn man knows what he’s doing to me. “Then I dressed you in those soft, see-through things you wear every night, tidied the place, and let myself out. That was it.”
“That was it,” I repeat. He gave me the best orgasm of my life and I didn’t please him at all. “You want to finish our evening.” I nod, this explanation making sense to me. “That’s the reason you returned.”
Hawke frowns fiercely, his expression breathtakingly intense. “That’s not the reason I returned. I returned for you.”
I lift my chin, not hiding any of my disbelief, certain I know the truth. Sex was the reason he returned. He wants me and I want him, desperately. I lower my gaze to his lips, remembering how he sucked on my skin, marked my nipple with his teeth. Waves of awareness, of need swirl around us, pulling at me, stripping my control.
Silence stretches. I look upward. A tic of emotion pulses high on Hawke’s cheek, his eyes stormy and his body hard. He wants me to accept his lie, but I can’t believe in a man who has no reason to stay.
“Every time we part, you’ll think I’ve left you, won’t you?” he asks, his voice sinfully deep.
My fingers curl. “Why would you stay?” I counter. Why would anyone stay who had a choice?
Hawke grits his teeth. There’s another long pause. I brace myself for the pain that I know is coming. He’ll tell me I’m too much hassle for a one-night stand. Then he’ll ride out of the city and never return. I shouldn’t care. He’ll leave me eventually, and the timing shouldn’t make a difference. I cross my arms in front of my stomach, hugging my body, trying to protect my foolish heart.
“You’re gloriously stubborn, love.” Hawke sucks air through his teeth, holds the breath for four heart-pounding moments, and exhales. “Come here.” He slides his right hand into the front pocket of his faded blue jeans.
I step closer to him, curious.
“I want you to keep these for me.” Hawke holds out his fist. A silver ball chain is wrapped around his scarred fingers.
I extend my palm. His massive hand hovers above mine.
I wait and wait and wait. Hawke doesn’t release the chain. I survey his savage countenance. His lips are flat. His jaw juts. He doesn’t want to do this.
“This isn’t necessary,” I tell him.
“It is. You need this.” He opens his fist, dropping the ball chain and two dog tags into the palm of my hand, the metal warmed by his skin. Information—a Social Security number, the words “no preference,” USMC, and other letters—is embossed on the oval forms. I don’t recognize the first or last name.
“Are these yours?” I ask. He shared that Hawke wasn’t his first name. Is Masters, the last name he gave me, not real either?
“No, they’re not mine.” Hawke rubs the barbed wire tattoo encircling his right bicep, the vigorous motion reddening his arm.
I tilt my head, studying him. Why would he give me someone else’s dog tags? Our gazes meet and lock and I inhale sharply, reading the answer in his pain-ravaged eyes. “They belonged to Rock, didn’t they?”
“Yeah.” Hawke turns his head and stares unseeingly into the distance, his fingers clenching and unclenching, as though he’s trying to contain his grief using pure force. He kept his best friend’s dog tags, carrying them with him everywhere, and now he wants me to hold them for him.
Because he thinks I need them. I don’t know why.
“I’m honored. Truly honored.” I acknowledge Hawke’s offer, an offer I don’t understand. “But I can’t take these.” I flatten my palm, offering Rock’s dog tags back to him. “They mean too much to you.”
“They do mean a lot to me,” Hawke agrees. “That’s why I want you to hold them.” He folds my fingers over the pieces of metal, covers my fist with his hand. A surge of energy flows from his skin to mine, a dizzying sense of connection I experience only when we touch.
“I’d never leave without them.” He holds my gaze, his pale blue eyes filled with meaning, his expression solemn.
I swallow hard, a ball of emotion forming in my throat. “Never?”
“Never,” he assures me, squeezing my hand. “I’ll always return for them.”
He’ll return for Rock’s dog tags. My chest tightens. As long as I have them, I’ll know Hawke hasn’t left me. My eyes sting with unshed tears. He’s giving me the promise of a tomorrow, guaranteeing our future with these irreplaceable items.
“I’ll take care of them for you,” I mumble, my voice husky. “Thank you.” No one has ever offered me an assurance like this, an assurance the abandoned little girl inside me needs.
Hope kindles within me, a dangerous hope that could cause me pain and grief, followed by years of waiting, yearning for a drifter’s return. I slip the chain around my neck, hiding the dog tags under my brown peasant blouse, the metal dangling between my silk-clad breasts.
“You’re my girl.” Hawke hooks one of his arms around my waist and draws me into his side, his heat and scent engulfing me. He feels right, like home, like forever, and I breathe in, breathe out, absorbing his strength, his confidence.
He rests his chin on the top of my head, pets my long ponytail, touching me with a mind-melting reverence. I’m tempted to close my eyes and forget my problems, to trust in him, permit him to care for me.
But I’m not his girl. I have the date with Nicolas. I’ve made a commitment to my billionaire, an unspoken pledge to give our relationship another try, and to allow another man to hold me is wrong, disloyal, a betrayal neither Hawke nor Nicolas would understand.
I shouldn’t say anything. I should step backward, end the embrace without an explanation. There’s no need to tell him why I can’t do this. Oh, shit. I have to tell him. “I’m having dinner with Nicolas tonight,” I blurt.
Hawke stiffens, his spine straightening and his muscles flexing. My stomach twists. He’ll ask for Rock’s dog tags back now, leave me, hurt me. I squirm in his arms, trying to pull away from him, to flee before he can reject me. His grip on me is unbreakable. I’m not going anywhere, not until he chooses to release me.
Hawke pushes me backward, holding me at arm’s length, his gaze meeting mine. “Will there be alcohol at this dinner?”
My cheeks heat. “I’m not a lush or an idiot,” I retort. “I know I’m a lightweight. I would never drink while I was on a date.”
“You would never drink while you were on a date with Nicolas,” Hawke amends, his eyes glinting. I can’t say anything. We both know I was drunk last night. “Because you don’t want to lose control.”
“And because good girls don’t get drunk,” I mutter. Nicolas wants a good girl, someone worthy of a commitment.
“My good girl gets drunk.” Hawke draws me into his seductive heat once more. “But only with me.” He wraps his arms around me, pulling me against him. “Nicolas can have his dinner, sweetheart,” he says as though I need his permission, his possessiveness thrilling me. “The rest of today is mine.” He lowers his head and nuzzles my neck, his stubble-covered chin rasping over my skin.
God. That feels good. My eyelashes flutter. “I have to go home, to Happydale.”
“I know,” Hawke mouths against me, his words felt down to my sneaker-clad toes. I tilt my head, giving my tattooed biker, my unrepentant bad boy, more access to me. His lips soothe the burn, the heat of his mouth searing my thoughts, my worries. I clutch Hawke’s nape, holding him to me, wishing his embrace could last for a lifetime.
He nibbles, licks, sucks, ravishing my sensitive neck, and I press against him, relishing his strength and his size, his distinctive scent filling my nostrils. My nipples ache for his touch. My pussy remembers the feel of his fingers, wanting more. I swivel my hips.
“Not here, love.” Hawke clamps his hands over my curves, stopping my movements.
My bottom lip curls. “But—”
“No.” He raises his head and meets my gaze. His eyes are a brilliant bl
ue, the irises darkened with desire. Hawke struts around his balcony naked. He has no problems with public displays. He’s stopping for me.
“Okay, not here.” I trace his jawline with my fingertips, relishing the combination of soft skin and coarse hair. Hawke’s eyelids partially lower, a purr vibrating his chest, the sound capturing me completely.
I explore his face, his blunt flattened nose, his broad cheekbones, his square chin. He stands silent and still, reveling in my caresses, a small smile curling his lips. Hawke isn’t as pretty as Nicolas is. He’d never grace the cover of a fashion magazine. But there’s something compelling about his features.
“I like touching you,” I confess.
“I like it when you touch me.” Hawke’s smile spreads across his countenance, one corner of his lips reaching higher than the other. “When does your mom expect you to arrive home?”
“My mom.” I blink, my brain befuddled by passion. “Oh, shit. The bus.” I squirm, trying to break his grasp on me, unable to overpower him. “Hawke, I have to go or I’ll miss my ride.”
“You won’t miss your ride. I’m taking you to Happydale.” Hawke reaches behind him and clasps the helmet. “This is for you.” He hands it to me.
His helmet is a work of art, the painting over the outer shell exquisite. Hawks soar in a blue sky, the wind ruffling their reddish-brown feathers, their eyes gleaming with intelligence, sunlight reflecting off their hooked beaks. Silver edges the image, the colors and design matching Hawke’s beautiful bike.
“Can helmets be pretty?” I look up at my badass biker, not wishing to offend him.
Hawke’s eyes glitter with amusement. “Your helmet can be pretty.” He sweeps a loose strand of hair away from my face, his rough fingertips grazing my cheek, and I shiver with delight. “It should fit. It’s child-sized,” he teases.
“Then it’ll be too small.” I force a frown, unable to be upset with him. He bought this helmet for me, spending some of his limited cash on me. “Because I’m an average-sized woman.” I set the open-face helmet on my head. The damn thing fits perfectly.
Hawke chuckles. “You’re tiny, sweetheart.” He fastens the straps under my chin. “There’s nothing average about you.”