Caught (Prequel to Hawk) (Sex and Bullets)

by Jo Raven

  CAUGHT

  (Prequel to HAWK)

  By Jo Raven

  The moment I met HAWK, I was CAUGHT.

  That was the night my boyfriend called me frigid in front of everyone at my favorite restaurant, and Jamie Hawk Fleming came to the rescue. Casually as you please, he proposed an arrangement: no attachments, no feelings. Only hot, awesome sex.

  That’s fine with me. I want to get over the humiliation my ex-boyfriend caused me, prove to myself I’m not frigid, and—let’s be serious, who can say no to a mouthwateringly handsome young millionaire? It’s surely an experience, right? Even if he doesn’t want to be my boyfriend, just my fuckbuddy.

  I’m perfectly fine with that.

  If only my head—and my heart—didn’t have other ideas…

  *** This is a prequel to HAWK (Sex and Bullets 2) - a Novella ***

  Mature Content – for 18+ public

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  CAUGHT (Prequel to HAWK)

  Jo Raven

  Copyright Jo Raven 2016

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, events, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover art: Jo Raven

  Chapter One

  Chance Connor is the greatest asshole alive.

  Also, as of now, he’s my very EX-boyfriend.

  And good riddance. He cheated on me, has been cheating on me for a while, in fact, and I have only just found out—tonight, at our two year first date anniversary, in my favorite Italian restaurant.

  Did he sit down and quietly tell me what was bothering me? Did he explain to me that our relationship wasn’t working for him anymore?

  No. But his other girlfriend showed up and so he decided that it was a good time to break up with me. A good time to explain how he can’t be with me because I am such a lousy lay.

  In front of everyone.

  “Sorry, Layla,” he says, without a single hint of contrition on his suddenly loathsome face, “but I can’t waste my time teaching you how to act in bed. You’re frigid. Good sex is important to me. I’m done.”

  I’m in too much shock to cry, or scream, let alone string words together and reply with anything resembling coherence. Hands curled into aching fists in my lap, I’m still sitting right where I was when the skank he has been dating arrived and grabbed Chance’s arm, then told me how he’s been with her for a year now, and that it’s for real.

  That I should give him up because his heart belongs to her.

  A year. The thought he left my arms to slip into hers day after day for all this time makes me want to puke.

  Finally, Chance stops talking, and there’s a ringing silence in the restaurant. I feel the eyes of the customers on me, burning small question marks and pity holes through my flesh.

  God, I don’t think I’ve ever hated a guy so much in my life.

  My knees are knocking together, but I brace my hands on the table and stand up. “Go,” I say, not sure what I should be saying, what smartass reply I could have given. “Go away. Now. Leave.”

  He gives me a pitying look, like he just realized how much worse I am than he originally thought. “Come on, Layla, don’t take it so hard.”

  “Hard?” I laugh, and it sounds crazed, so I stop. “You freaking two-timing bastard. Get out!”

  I start toward him around the table, not sure if I want to scratch my nails down his face or beat him up with my fists, or maybe start on the skank beside him—when a shadow falls over us.

  Quite literally. Because the guy who has just approached our table has to be six foot five, give or take an inch. I have no idea what he thinks he’s doing, so I glance toward him and open my mouth to tell him to get lost, too.

  And I go completely still.

  I can’t help it. He’s easily the most handsome man I’ve ever seen, in real life or in magazines, with his short, blond hair, those sharp cheekbones and steely eyes, and the body of a line-backer, tall and broad-chested.

  He’s dressed in a sleek, expensive gray suit that shimmers where the light catches it, like silver. His pale stubble glints like gold dust. He narrows his eyes at me, then his full mouth lifts in a smirk and he turns to Chance.

  “Man, I wanna thank you,” he drawls, shoving his big hands in the pockets of his dress pants. “This was awesome.”

  Chance stares at him.

  I gape. His words are like a dash of cold water.

  Oh my God. He approves of what Chance did? Of how he broke up with me, and of the things he said… holy crap, did he hear what Chance said about me being frigid?

  I want the earth to open up and swallow me.

  I want to put Chance and this guy together and kick them in the nuts.

  I want to run away.

  “Who the hell are you?” Chance mutters, glancing at the skank and back at the guy.

  “Oh, did I forget to introduce myself? My name is Hawk. Jamie Hawk Fleming.” The guy lifts a pale brow, and God, that name is familiar, but I can’t place it right now, with my heart racing and the scorching burn of humiliation traveling up my neck. “And like I said, I wanna thank you for breaking up with this girl tonight, in this restaurant, because I’ve been watching her since she arrived and wishing she’d be free to have dinner with me.”

  “What the fuck?” Chance’s face has gone red. A thick vein is pulsing at his neck, like it does whenever he gets mad.

  The noise of the restaurant fades away. The room recedes, leaving only the beautiful, tall stranger and his unexpected words.

  He turns to me and leans over the table, offering me his hand. “Shall we, then?”

  “Are you serious?”

  He hums and nods, those blue-gray eyes twinkling. I put my hand in his, mesmerized by the way his fingers engulf mine, and let him pull me to his side.

  “Hey man, you can’t do this,” Chance is saying, taking two steps toward us, dragging the still unnamed girl behind him. “Layla? You can’t just let a fucking stranger take you—”

  “It’s just dinner,” the man says, his hand still wrapped around mine, his palm rough and hot. “And you broke up with her.” He pauses, gives Chance a condescending look. “Not that she ever belonged to you, or with you. Not a girl like her.”

  My jaw has officially hit the floor. Who is this guy?

  His arrogant confidence stops Chance like a physical barrier, like a punch to the chest. I can see how Chance struggles with indecision, with anger, and I wonder what his issue is. Like this man just said—this Hawk Fleming or whatever—Chance broke up with me. Why isn’t he just walking away?

  It’s as if he’s suddenly jealous at any man showing any token interest in me. Or maybe at this man, who’s so obviously rich and better-looking.

  It’s disgusting, and I make a sound of distress before I can help it. I feel sick. Sick that Chance would throw me away, slander me publicly, and then think he has any claim on me.

  “You look beautiful,” Hawk tells me, lifting my hand to his lips, and even if it’s just for show, I shiver at the brush of his soft lips
over my fingers.

  And I’m also glad, because Chance’s face darkens so much he may well stroke out, and then he turns on his heel and leaves, the woman whose name I’ve yet to catch giving me a baleful glare before stalking after him.

  Leaving me alone with this guy, and with the eyes of everyone in the restaurant still on us—curious, judging, pondering.

  I hope it was fun for them, because honestly, I’m pretty shaken right now as the pieces of the evening fall around me like raindrops, revealing holes—in my life, in my plans for the future.

  Because I’d somehow thought Chance and I would move in together soon. That I’d finally meet his parents. Build a life together.

  I don’t know for him, but for me two years is a big deal.

  Was. Was a big deal.

  Oh my God, we’re done, and he was freaking awful, and that woman…

  The air is stuck in my throat, and my vision is all blurry, so when Hawk grips my chin and turns my face toward him, I barely see him. He’s a hazy, beautiful outline of a man, until I blink and his bright gaze becomes clear once more.

  “Okay?” he says. Only that, and waits for my reply.

  I nod. I mean, what else can I do? He salvaged as much of my pride as possible, salvaged my night, and no matter how scattered and hollow I’m feeling, the thought of sitting close to this guy is making my face warm.

  “Then this way, please,” he murmurs and leads me away to a table by one of the bay windows overlooking the harbor. His steps are heavy, his gait powerful, his grip on my hand just shy of painful. “I was about to order.”

  And I was about to die of shame and anger and the shards of my life falling around me, and he saved me.

  My heart trips over as he takes a seat across from me.

  A waiter comes to bring me a leather-bound menu, and bows to Hawk with a murmured, “Mr. Fleming.”

  That’s when it hits me and I know who he is, turning the evening from weird to surreal.

  My head spinning, I open the menu blindly. “No way,” I whisper.

  Jamie Hawk Fleming. Heir to the Fleming Empire.

  Is this for real? Is he playing a prank? Am I dreaming? Oh my God, nobody pinch me, okay? If it’s a dream, I want it to last.

  ***

  “So… you like artichokes?”

  “What?” I’ve been staring at this hands. They’re resting on the table. Big, strong, with blunt fingernails.

  “Artichokes.” He tilts his head to the side and one side of his mouth tips up. “That what you ordered, right? Spaghetti alla chitarra con carciofi e bottarga.” At my clearly confused look, his smile goes up a notch. “Pasta with artichokes and fish roe.”

  Oh God. Of course he’d know Italian. I wonder how many languages he speaks. How many sports he excels at.

  So I just nod frantically. “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “That what you wanted?”

  Crap, no. But I paste a smile on my face. “Oh yes.”

  I can’t even remember ordering, let alone what I picked out.

  He chuckles, and rolls his eyes a little, and it’s… sexy. How on earth is that possible? He scratches at his stubbled chin and I want to beg for the job.

  Please, let me help you scratch that golden stubble… Let me stroke down that long, corded neck to the powerful shoulders that look out of place encased in that tailored suit, the narrow waist and those long legs…

  “I was just making sure.” God, that chuckle, that grin is setting my panties on fire. Isn’t that wrong, five minutes after my boyfriend broke up with me?

  Then Hawk shrugs off his jacket, draping it over the back of his chair, and holy crap, Hawk in a tailored shirt is so much better.

  Not as good as he has to be without any clothes on, but it’s an improvement. And God, I’m staring.

  At the Fleming Empire heir, who did me a kindness and brought me to his table so that I didn’t walk out of here with my face on fire and my pride in shambles.

  “I, um. I wanted to thank you.” I fiddle with the coaster of my water glass. “For this. You didn’t have to step in and rescue me, but I do appreciate it.”

  His gaze slides over me, hot, stopping at my mouth. “I’ll admit, I’m selfish. I really wanted to have dinner with you. I was fucking glad when I realized he was out of the picture.”

  And now I am half outraged and half pleased.

  Because he didn’t do it to save me, or so he claims.

  But he wanted to have dinner with me, and I can’t help the rush of heat at the thought he was really observing me from afar, wishing I sat down with him.

  “Well, I’m here now.”

  “You sure are.” He holds my gaze as the waiter approaches us with an ice bucket. He places it beside us, takes out a chilled bottle of wine and presents it to Hawk who nods. “Right here.”

  His voice is warm, and strangely it makes me shiver.

  He is offered a drop of wine to taste it and he just waves at the waiter who hurries to pour us two full glasses, replaces the bottle in the ice bucket, and walks away.

  I barely notice him go.

  “To tonight?” Hawk suggests, lifting his glass, and I raise mine, on autopilot. “To meeting you.”

  “To tonight,” I whisper and swallow down my wine like water.

  And whoa, it tastes good.

  “Thirsty?” He raises a brow and reaches for the bottle. “I’m kinda thirsty myself.”

  My face flames. He pours more wine for both of us, and I order myself not to take another sip, even if I’m so frigging nervous my fingers are tap-dancing on the table.

  What am I doing? What are we doing? Is he flirting with me? Seriously flirting, or just passing his time? Maybe he does that with any girl who crosses paths with him.

  Maybe his date stood him up?

  “You eat here alone?” I blurt out, before I decide I shouldn’t ask. “I mean, you came here alone? I—”

  “It was supposed to be a business dinner,” he says, glancing down at his shirt and pants with what looks like distaste. “My partner canceled.”

  “Partner?”

  “Business partner.” He winks at me over the rim of his glass. “Business meeting.”

  Why does the way he says all this make me hot?

  Okay, scratch that. Anything he says makes me hot. The guy’s a god. What the hell am I doing, sitting here with him?

  “You work?” He puts his glass down, reaches up and undoes the top button of his shirt. Yeah… is it too warm in here? “Or study?”

  “Study.” I drag my tongue over my lips, desperate for moisture, and tear my gaze away. “Publishing.”

  “Sounds interesting,” he says, but when I turn back toward him, I find that his gaze is fixed on me. “Publishing novels or nonfiction?”

  “Both.”

  In fact, his gaze is fixed on my cleavage, I discovered when I follow it. I’ve dressed in a dress I bought a few months ago in New York, when I was visiting my mom. It’s a vintage cut, knee-length, with a deep cleavage showing off my boobs. I don’t have a great ass, like my friend Dorothy, but my boobs are good-sized. I used to like them, before Chance said one day that they were too big.

  I wonder what Hawk is thinking, and crap, my nipples are tightening under his scrutiny. I like that he’s looking at me like that, especially when he glances up, meeting my eyes for a fleeting second, and gives me a wolfish grin.

  “God, you’re sexy,” Hawk rasps, and hey, can I have him for dessert, please? No need to wrap him, I’ll take him to go.

  “So are you,” I admit, though it costs. I swear the skin on my cheeks is blistering.

  His gaze dips to my boobs again, then does a slow slide up my neck to my flaming face and he licks his lips.

  Holy crap.

  Never felt this way with a guy before. This insta-lust, this heat between my legs just from staring at this bulging biceps in that fine shirt, the small dimple in his chin, the long, pale lashes and thick brows over those ice-blue eyes.

&nbs
p; “How badly do you want those artichokes?” he asks, and I blink at him, lost. “Is it like, a craving you need to fulfill no matter the cost, or…?”

  What?

  “I don’t like artichokes,” I blurt, and clap a hand over my mouth, because holy crap, Lay, exerting some control over your mouth might be a good thing. “I mean, I can go without.”