Hawk (Sex and Bullets Book 2)

by Jo Raven

  HAWK

  (Sex and Bullets #2)

  By Jo Raven

  HAWK (Sex and Bullets, #2)

  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 model: Caspar Petéus (http://www.casparpeteus.com)

  Photographer: Pat Battellini (www.battellini.com)

  Cover art: Jo Raven

  Bad-boy heir to the Fleming Group empire, Jamie “Hawk” Fleming, at your service.

  Here’s the breakdown: my father has been thrown behind bars on murder charges, and my mother as an accessory. That was three months ago, and since then, everything has been a downhill ride.

  The only thing keeping me sane right now is Hot Body. Her name is Layla, and all that matters is that she’s gorgeous, sexy, and great in bed.

  Until I wake up tied up and gagged, Layla standing over me. Sounds promising, huh? A pretty girl, maybe handcuffs and a whip?

  But that’s not our scene, and the pissed-off men who kidnapped me are lurking in the shadows, ensuring that this won’t be a fun time at all…

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  Table of Contents

  Front Page

  Part I

  BULLETS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Part II

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About Jo Raven

  Part I

  BULLETS

  It’s raining outside, a relentless drizzle beating against the windows of the limo. We’re rolling through the streets of Baltimore at a leisurely pace, and I can’t for the life of me tell you where we’re going.

  Maybe it doesn’t matter, though I have a feeling it does.

  As we come to a stop at a traffic light, the driver looks at me through the rear-view mirror. His face is blurred, indistinct. Weirdly twisted.

  Frowning, I press the button to make the partition between us opaque, then lean back against the white leather seat and tug on my short beard.

  Weird.

  Then the door opens and, along with a gust of cold, in climbs Hot Body, long legs and black stilettos, long dark hair and red lipstick.

  Oh yeah, much better.

  I grin and reach for her, my body tightening with desire. “Come here, Gorgeous.”

  “We weren’t supposed to meet today.”

  Ah fuck, okay. Maybe that’s what felt off. “But we are.”

  Her skin is warm and soft, her eyes wide and dark when I slip her coat off her shoulders and run my hands over her curves, barely covered by a mini skirt and a tiny top. Her long auburn hair is soft, her skin like satin.

  Familiar need zips down my nerves. Blood rushes into my dick as I push her back against the seat and shove a leg between hers.

  “Here?” she whispers, her voice husky, her eyes darting to the opaque partition.

  “Right here.” Her hands are on my shoulders, and I let her hold on to me—for now—while I suck on her neck and run my hand under her skirt, into her lacy panties. I push a finger into her tight pussy and stroke her, looking for her G-spot. “Fuck, you’re so wet, Hot Body.”

  “Layla.” She moans when I twist my finger, angling it deeper. “My name’s Layla.”

  “So hot.” I’m panting, burning with need. It’s been a stressful couple of months, and this girl’s sexy as hell. My dick’s drilling a hole through my pants, and I shift, uncomfortable. “Need to be inside you, babe.”

  Her gaze darts again to the partition, and damn, it makes me so horny that she’s angsting about that, about my chauffeur ogling us.

  “I’m gonna fuck you until you scream,” I inform her, because that’s really my intention, and I don’t give a shit if my chauffeur listens in. I pull down her panties and draw in her scent of arousal. “Until you’re flushed all over and writhing on the leather.”

  “Promises, promises,” she whispers in that sexy as fuck raspy voice she gets when she’s excited and reaches for my zipper, dragging it down, palming my dick through the thin cotton of my boxer briefs.

  It feels so damn good I grab her hand and stop her, or we’ll never make it to the fucking and screaming part. “Easy.”

  “Want you.” She licks her lips and I groan. “Want your dick inside me.”

  Biting the inside of my cheek to control myself, when she’s spread out all silky skin and wet pussy beneath me, I push down on my dick, telling it to take it easy, too.

  My dick informs me in no uncertain terms that we’re doing this right the fuck now. Then Hot Body reaches down to rub her clit, and I lose the battle.

  “Ready, Gorgeous?” I do my best to get her ready every time, as I’m not small and I don’t wanna hurt her, but she only moans and writhes, and fuck it. Drawing my dick out of my briefs, I give it a good squeeze and a stroke, and I settle between her legs.

  I push inside her. She wraps her legs around my hips and her arms around my neck, dragging me down for a kiss as I push deeper, but I turn my head. I don’t want to swallow the sounds escaping her. I wanna hear them.

  “Bastard,” she hisses, then shudders and pants. Her nails rake the skin at the back of my neck. “Oh God.”

  We’re good at this, Hot Body and me. We’ve been fucking for almost a year now, on and off. We have chemistry. We’re good together when it comes to fucking—all that I’ll ever allow between us.

  And I’m fucking her now, long, deep thrusts that make her cry out and lift her hips to meet me halfway. It feels amazing. It feels perfect, so then why…?

  Why is it suddenly so damn cold, and why is everything fading to black?

  Chapter One

  Hawk

  Fuck, something’s wrong.

  The thought fills my head, expanding like a bubble, growing and growing until the top of my skull is about to blow off.

  Something’s fucking wrong, and I’m smack in the middle of it.

  Okay, recap. Layla isn’t here, and we’re not in my limo. That wasn’t real. I haven’t seen her in weeks, kept my distance. And I’m fucking cold.

  Where the hell am I?

  If I could open my eyes… That might help, right? It’s a damn struggle, though, and I frown. My hair is a tangled mess over my face. My mouth feels filled with cotton, my tongue too big.

  Jeez, I must’ve been on a hell of a bender last night. Funny that I don’t remember a thing. Such a waste of alcohol.

  But when my lashes finally lift, I wish they hadn’t, because, son of a bitch. Ow. The light cuts into my eyeballs like a knife. Quickly I bow my head and press my eyes shut.

  Okay, what the hell h
appened? And why don’t I recognize this place?

  My head is pounding, my pulse kicking against the inside of my skull, and my stomach is trying to climb up my throat. Tequila? Jack? Absinthe? A mixture of the above?

  Wouldn’t be the first time—but unknown surroundings aside, something feels definitely wrong, and I still can’t put my finger on it.

  Speaking of fingers… Why can’t I feel them? Or my hands? I concentrate, roll my shoulders, get a sense of my arms.

  Why in the fuck are my arms stretched over my head? I lift my face, try the lash-lifting, eye-opening thing again, and bile rises in my throat as pain ricochets inside my head. My vision blurs. I’m panting.

  But it’s getting worse. I’m sitting on the dirty floor of a warehouse, and… my legs are tied together at the ankles with a thin rope wrapped around my ankles. I’m wearing black pants, but my shoes are gone.

  When I move my feet, testing the give of the rope, I find another length wrapped around my middle, tying me to something. Not a wall, because edges dig into my shoulders. A pillar?

  A goddamn pillar.

  All right. Okay. Gotcha. So this is how it is. Gotta say, though, it sucks ass.

  And this is when it finally hits me, in the freezing warehouse, with my wrists and ankles and middle bound to a concrete pillar and my thoughts scattered, that I’m well and truly fucked.

  ***

  Water trickles somewhere behind me, intensifying my thirst. My shoulders burn. Time ticks by. I prod my memory for clues, trying to figure out how I ended up here and where this is.

  I remember sitting at my desk, in my office, at the Fleming Enterprises HQ, listening as the company lawyer explained to me facets of the bureaucratic chaos left behind by my father’s arrest and his shady dealings with the Organization—the secretive criminal faction Storm, Rook and I discovered. A group in which our parents played a leading role, killing whoever got in their way, be it friend of foe.

  Friend, as in Storm’s parents. Foe, as in everyone else. Made no difference in the end.

  And then refused to help the police end this, refused to give up any vital information, and got themselves the best lawyer out there to help them maintain that silence.

  Still can’t fucking believe my parents were involved in this, can’t fucking digest the fact that—

  Focus, Hawk. You’re in a hot mess right now. Focus on that.

  Right.

  So, I was at my office, hitting my head against the bureaucratic wall, and after I was done with that, I decided to go out for a drink. I remember grabbing my helmet, my jacket and my phone and thinking about calling Storm and Rook, or maybe just Hot Body for some dinner and a quick, satisfying fuck, not necessarily in that order.

  But I decided against it, as I often do lately, not wanting to put her in danger. So I thought I’d rather ride my bike through the city instead, clear my head and my thoughts.

  I remember nodding at my secretary, entering the steel-and-glass elevator, and pressing the P for the underground parking lot.

  I remember the doors dinging as they opened, and my steps echoing as I stepped into the dimly lit space, heading for my custom-made Deus Grievous Angel bike.

  And then… a blank. A fucking big black hole.

  Why was I out for so long? How many hours has it been? I shouldn’t be out so long from a hit to the head. Unless I was drugged.

  Awesome.

  Either could explain the fact my head is ready to explode and my mouth tastes like blood and dirt.

  Okay, back up. What do we have so far?

  Someone grabbed me from the parking lot of my building and tied me up like a sausage in what looks like a warehouse. Where?

  The light is coming from a bare lightbulb high above my head. Although it felt like a knife to my eyes, the light is actually faint, barely illuminating the high-ceilinged interior with its steel beams crisscrossing high up like a spider web. No windows.

  A basement? I make out a few crates, but it’s otherwise empty. No graffiti, no trash. Not abandoned, then. There’s that.

  Lots of warehouses out there to choose from, though, and that’s assuming we’re still in Baltimore.

  Hell, even then, it could be any goddamn place inside the city and the suburbs, on the seafront, or inland.

  If this were a movie, there would be the sound of surf and seagulls, or a busy street outside giving the protagonist clues. Even maybe the captors standing behind a door and talking about their plans, accidentally mentioning their location.

  I strain to listen for any sound. Apart from water dripping and an engine whirring away somewhere in the distance, nothing.

  Looks like this is a different kind of movie.

  One in which I’m fucked.

  More time passes. A rat scuttles along a wall, and I watch its approach with gritted teeth. If the creature decides to start gnawing on my leg, there’s not much I can do. The feeling of helplessness grates on my every nerve ending. I’ve never gotten off on the submissive role. That’s more Rook’s kink, from what I hear.

  And Hot Body’s, from experience.

  Of course, on the heels of that thought come the images of her bound to a four-post king-size bed, wrists crossed over her head—much like mine are right now—her legs spread, her tits shiny with a sheen of sweat, her mouth slack as I pleasure her with my hand and jack off with the other.

  Or on all fours, with her pretty ass in the air as I smack her and then thrust into her.

  Or holding on to one of the posts as I prepare my flogger and—

  Shit, was that a sound? A door slamming?

  I strain in my bonds, futilely pulling, trying to get my hands free. I can’t even see what they tied them with. Rope, I’d guess, like my legs and waist.

  No other sound echoes in the emptiness, and I let my head fall back. Dammit, I’m so damn thirsty, and I ache everywhere, except for the parts that are numb, like my hands and arms, and that’s even less reassuring.

  Not reassuring at all. Because the kidnapping manual says if you don’t feed and give water to your hostages, then you’re planning to kill them. Or intend to let them die. You feed them and make sure their hands don’t fall off if you plan to ask for ransom.

  Guess in which category I seem to fall?

  Fuck. I wasn’t supposed to die this weekend. So damn inconvenient. I’ve got stuff to do that just can’t wait, not to mention the Organization to bring down.

  ***

  A bang jerks me awake.

  What? Where?

  I jolt forward, brought short by the ropes around my limbs, and a shout dies strangled in my throat as the pain hits my shoulders and chest, the inside of my skull.

  Fucking ow.

  And fuck, I can’t turn and see what’s going on. Another bang—the door closing?—and force myself to wait and stop struggling.

  They come into view, two guys dressed in black wife-beaters and jeans, and nope, I’ve never seen them before in my life. Shit, no clue there. They’re built like tanks, taller than my six-foot-four, arms bulging with muscles and covered in tattoos, their faces sporting bristly dark beards.

  Oh joy. Clichéd-looking thugs have come to beat me up. Can my day get any fucking better? I want to ask, but I bite my lip and wait to see how things unfold.

  Clichéd is good. It means I know the script.

  One of them, with a golden earring glinting on one ear, folds his arms over his chest and grins at me. Some of his teeth are missing. “Comfortable?”

  I just stare back at him. He’s one ugly motherfucker. There’s a scar on his cheek, partly hidden by the beard, and another on his arm. Looks like a slash from a knife.

  Thug to the bone, huh?

  “Rest while you can,” the other one says. “You won’t be comfortable for long.”

  Well, this has just become interesting. Somewhat off script. And promising.

  Because uncomfortable is better than dead. And it probably means someone does want to talk to me. Looks like I’m not goin
g to die today after all.

  I slump in my bonds.

  “Hey, asshole, are you paying attention?” The ugly one grabs me by the hair—dammit, why did I let it grow?—and snaps my head back against the concrete pillar. “Answer.”

  “You told me to rest while I can,” I rasp, and fuck, my throat hurts, it’s so damn dry. “Can I have some water?”

  “Can I have some water?” he repeats in a high-pitched voice, waggling his brows. “Hear that, Elliott?”

  “Why, is he deaf?” I watch him from under my lashes, wincing when he pulls harder on my hair. “Or maybe your Daffy Duck impersonation is beyond him. To be honest, it’s beyond me, too.”

  “You goddamn son of a bitch.” He slams my head back on the pillar, then again, until the pain causes black dots to swim in my vision and my ears to ring. “Fucking smartass. You’ll regret this.”

  Yeah, it happens a lot. I regret lots of things, on a daily basis.

  But not this.

  I open my mouth to say something that will probably earn me a proper beating, because ugly face is right, I’m a smartass, and I own it, when the other guy hauls him off me, cursing.

  “Enough, Big Johnny. Get off him, or the Boss will have your ass.”

  “Yeah.” Fuck, I’m dizzy, and I’m trying to swallow bile as much as my laughter. “Boss wants me alive.”

  I mean, come on. Big Johnny? Are these guys for real?

  Aaaand we’re back to the script. I’m tied up in an abandoned warehouse with Elliott and Big Johnny who wants to bash my head in, and we’re waiting for the boss. Could this get any cornier?

  But at least I’m starting to get a feel of how things are. Study your opponent, the kidnapping manual says. Find out what they want. Figure out their weaknesses. Try not to get yourself killed by giving smartass answers.

  Yeah, about that last one…

  Follow the manual, Hawk. Be patient. Shut your fucking mouth and wait.

  ***

  Wait for the boss. That was my resolution. Don’t rise to the bait when the two morons guarding you prod and poke you and kick at your legs out of boredom and lack of imagination.