Unbeloved

by Madeline Sheehan

  Panting, air shuddering from my lungs, I squeezed my legs, closing them tightly around my hand, putting pressure where I needed it most.

  And then, as I often did when I was alone and turned on, I envisioned Hawk. Dressed in head-to-toe riding leather, covered in road dust, his Mohawk matted and messy from his helmet. But it wasn’t his appearance that was appealing to me, it was the look on his face after a run, refreshed and rejuvenated. His dark eyes would lighten, his thunderous walk would slow and relax; at those times he always looked as happy as a man who never smiled could look.

  And then his eyes would find mine and in his gaze, I knew instinctively what he wanted from me. Then later, when we could be alone and I was in his arms once again, I would wrap myself around him, breathing him in, the sweat and soap on his skin, the scents of leather and smoke that always clung to him.

  They were my favorite smells, ones I could conjure even now, despite the strong-smelling scents of my shampoo and body wash. All I had to do was close my eyes and inhale . . .

  Suddenly my eyes flew open and my hands fell still.

  What was I doing?

  What in God’s name was I doing?

  I sat up quickly in the bathtub, my jerky movements causing water to slosh over the side and onto my clothes.

  “Dammit,” I whispered, slapping at the water. Forget my clothing, I was upset with myself. For doing what I did best and, once again, hiding. Here I was, about to pleasure myself while thinking of a man who was right outside the damn door! A man lying in a bed with hardly any clothing on, no less!

  I didn’t have to hide anymore—not my feelings, not myself, nothing. Everything was finally, blessedly all out in the big wide open. I’d said good-bye to Jase, and I’d admitted my true feelings to both myself and Hawk.

  I finally had everything I wanted.

  And what was I doing? I was hiding.

  I shot up out of the tub and snatched the towel from the rack. Wrapping it around my body, I began internally chastising myself. I wasn’t that weak-willed woman anymore, afraid of everyone, but most of all afraid of herself.

  I was stronger, maybe not as sure of myself as I wished I were, but definitely stronger. I’d walked away from my demons, learned how live on my own, living my life how I saw fit, and all without any help from anyone else.

  A handful of days back in Miles City, and I was once again acting the part of a woman afraid.

  Grabbing a hair tie off the bathroom sink, I pulled up my partially damp hair into a messy top bun and continued drying myself off. My thoughts were spinning, my nerve endings flaring to life as my stomach tingled with nervous excitement.

  I was going to leave this bathroom a strong woman, a woman sure of herself, one who knew exactly what she wanted. For the first time in my life, I was going to take what I wanted without having to worry about the repercussions, without having to worry about hurting anyone in the process.

  Until I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

  For a moment I simply stood there, gazing into the reflective glass, feeling a strong sense of detachment. Unlike when I’d lost my memories, I wasn’t greeted with a sense of unfamiliarity, but I was still left wondering where the time had gone. Where I had gone.

  The image in the mirror didn’t mesh with the one in my dreams and fantasies: a younger woman, her days and nights filled with hot, sweaty lust and love. And men, their big tall bodies hard and thick, their skin inked, their hands strong and calloused from years of hard work, covered in dirt that had coated them so long, it would never wash away.

  This woman was getting older, had lost her youthful cuteness, and although I’d never classify myself as ugly, I still felt inadequate.

  Letting my towel fall to the floor, I cupped my breasts, pushing them up as high as they would go. Turning sideways, I studied my self-imposed lift. Yes, my face wasn’t the only thing that had changed.

  “Saggy boobs,” I said softly with a sigh.

  This wasn’t the body of a woman who should be standing beside a man like Hawk. This was the body of a woman who . . .

  I thought of Richard, a local butcher back in San Francisco I’d gone on a few awkward dates with. He was a kind man but as far as his looks went, he had been balding and rather rotund. The longer I stared at myself, the more I thought of myself as Richard’s physical equal, a woman you would expect to see with a man like him.

  Not with a man like the tall and astoundingly muscular one lying just outside this room. Covered in tattoos, oozing strength, Hawk had never looked his age. Visually, he was such a strong presence, giving the appearance of both an outer and inner strength, both qualities making him appear somewhat ageless.

  And I was . . . me.

  “Screw it,” I said under my breath, turning away from the mirror. If I continued to stare at myself, beating myself up over every little imperfection, I would talk myself right out of what I wanted.

  I could be like Eva or Christina, I could be wild . . . pussy. Couldn’t I?

  I could, or at least, dammit, I could try.

  Even as I was wrinkling my nose up at the thought of referring to my anatomy as “wild pussy,” I grabbed hold of the doorknob and pulled open the door. As if he’d been watching the door the entire time I’d been inside the bathroom, Hawk’s eyes were on me. Or rather, they were on my breasts.

  Be brave, I silently told myself.

  Fighting the urge to cover myself, I proceeded quickly, marching forward like a woman on a mission, until I’d reached the end of the bed. It took him a moment, but eventually Hawk pried his eyes away from my body and looked up into my eyes.

  “I’ve always loved you,” I said, sounding as breathless as I felt. “And I’m sorry I waited so long to tell you. I’m sorry for my outburst. I was being silly and selfish, wanting to just spend a few days alone together before I had to share you again.”

  Hawk stared at me, looking confused. “You’re . . . naked?” he said, sounding as perplexed as he looked.

  “Yes, I’m naked,” I snapped. Annoyed by his response to my nudity, or rather, his lack of response, I put my hands on my hips and narrowed my eyes. “I’m naked because I want to be with you, you big, dumb man.”

  The slow smile that lit his face, painting creases around his eyes and highlighting his hard features with a sexy sort of softness, was breathtaking. Hawk hardly smiled; his expression was normally as stoic as he usually was. But on those precious occasions when he had smiled in the past, it had always taken my breath away. How incredible that such a small, simple gesture could transform a rather frightening-looking man with hardened features into a softer, more beautiful one.

  But his smile, as it always had been, was short lived, and as it slipped away from his face, replaced by his usual indifference, my heart sank and anxiety filling me. I wasn’t a sexually confident woman, no matter how much I pretended to be. I couldn’t be like Eva or Christina, not really. And now I was left standing here, completely nude, wondering what I’d been thinking, walking out here like this and putting myself on display, ripe for rejection.

  “I’m kinda broken,” he said, nodding down at his leg.

  And just like that my anxiety slipped away. It was rare for Hawk to show any sort of vulnerability, and in the face of his admission it became instantly clear to me that I wasn’t the only one feeling a little unsure. Just knowing that this formidable man had fears too was what encouraged me to move forward with my original plan.

  “We’re all a little broken,” I whispered, reaching up into my hair and brushing my fingers over my scar. “And you don’t have to do anything, just lie there and I’ll do it all.”

  I nearly clapped my hand over my mouth, disbelieving the words that had just come out of me. Those weren’t my words, they were the words of a confident woman, a worldly woman who could make her own decisions, one who saw what she wanted and went for it, no outside persuasion necessary.

  I wasn’t that woman.

  But just maybe . . . I could pr
etend to be.

  “Woman,” Hawk said, his voice growing significantly deeper, more lyrical than before, something I’d learned long ago was attributed to his arousal. “You can’t say somethin’ like that then just keep standin’ there. Get your damn ass over here.”

  Burning with a sudden blossoming embarrassment, I slowly began rounding the bed. I was overly aware of Hawk’s gaze on me, traveling up and down my body, and desperately trying not to blush because of it. As it was, my stomach was once again fluttering, and worse, I was starting to sweat.

  Reaching his side of the bed, I paused, searching out a way to climb atop him without hurting him, but Hawk’s hand stayed me. Reaching out, his palm grazed my side and ran down the length of me before settling on my hip.

  My breath hitched and my eyes fluttered closed. His touch on my naked skin, so familiar yet so foreign, was both comforting and disconcerting. I had to remind myself that this was Hawk, and that my love for him superseded the years we’d spent in limbo.

  “I missed you,” he said hoarsely. “I fucking missed you, D.”

  My eyes flew open to find him staring up at me, at my body, with an almost reverent look on his face. It was moving in a way that left me unable to find the right words to describe it, and crushed to dust any lasting reservations I’d been feeling.

  Tears burned behind my eyes. To hell with being a strong and sure woman. This was the man I loved. I didn’t need to be strong or sure; I just needed to be with him.

  “I missed you too,” I whispered. It was a seemingly silly thing to say to a man I saw on a regular basis, but it was the truth. I’d missed him terribly, in the way of a person who has loved and lost someone who’d remained a part of their life—close, yet never close enough.

  Death would have been a much easier loss than to have to live every day with the guilt of a mistake, a misstep that you couldn’t fathom how to ever again make right.

  But none of that mattered anymore.

  And maybe there was really was something to what Eva was saying about fate.

  Maybe there was . . .

  Hawk squeezed my hip lightly, abruptly ending my train of thought. Slowly, as if I were made of glass, he began to slide his hand across my stomach. His touch was so unbelievably light, a barely there fluttering sensation that caused my eyelids to grow heavy. The sensation only grew as he traveled higher, his fingertips drawing invisible lines on their upward journey between my breasts. Dancing over the top of them, he paused, hovering over one breast, his calloused palm causing the nipple to tighten beneath it, and a shiver to slither down my spine.

  “Hawk . . .” I breathed his name, nothing more than a puff of air slipping from my lips. At my sides my fingers began to twitch restlessly, my body aching for more.

  And he gave me more.

  His hand closed around my breast, squeezing and kneading the soft flesh, leaving me breathing harder.

  It was a beautifully tortuous game he was playing with me, and one I wouldn’t have any other way. I might have walked into this room with the silly notion that I would take control of the situation, when in reality I needed him to go as slow as he was, to be as careful as he was being, working me up to the point where he knew I’d be comfortable and ready for more.

  His hand dropped from my breast, traveling slowly down the same path back to my stomach and then lower, running his fingertips between my legs, but just barely touching the sensitive skin. I swallowed back a threatening whimper. It had been so long since I’d been touched like this and my body was a veritable volcano, threatening to erupt from the simplest of touches.

  He saw this, my response to him, and his pupils began to dilate; his breaths grew louder, and more pronounced. All his reactions told me I wasn’t the only one so affected, and that knowledge—knowing he was feeling every bit of what I was—was so incredibly intoxicating,

  My moans came out in staccato breaths as his fingers began to play, his touch still so astoundingly gentle that I was beginning to have trouble concentrating on anything other than the feel of him and the deeply buried sensations he brought to life, to light, within my body.

  My name was a low rumble past his lips and then he slid a finger up inside me. I cried out, biting down on my bottom lip as heat roared through my trembling body, filling it with the sort of heart-pounding adrenaline that made me weak in the knees, leaving my body a mass of quivering muscle and skin. I didn’t know where I was, who I was, and didn’t care to ever know. All I wanted, all I needed, was this.

  Him.

  “Come here,” he said, his voice a throaty growl as he removed his hand from my body.

  It took me a moment to regain my bearings, but only a moment as I was more than desperate to touch him now, desperate to have him inside me again.

  Quaking knees aside, I managed to climb up over him without hurting him. It helped that I was so much smaller than him, so as I settled myself over his hips, he didn’t as much as flinch.

  “Is this okay?” I whispered.

  “This is more than okay,” he said, and through his boxers, I felt him jerk beneath me, hard and ready. The movement caused my body to clench, to fill with a rush of eager need.

  Leaning forward, I placed both my hands on his chest and pressed my mouth to his lips, and just celebrated in the act of touching him again.

  His body, like his mouth, was warm, and as I stroked his chest, his tattooed skin twitched beneath my palms. I took my time with him, kissing him slowly while tracing every line on his body—his thickly defined pectorals, the indented muscles over his abdomen, the dipping grooves of his hips . . . Until finally, I couldn’t take another second of waiting, and lifted off him just enough to slip my hand inside his boxers.

  My shaking hands fumbled a bit as I tried to align our bodies.

  Unused to the act of sex, unused to having a man inside me, I could only slowly move up and down, easing him gently inside me with unsteady and unsure maneuvers until finally, I felt my body give way and allow him full entry.

  “Dorothy . . .” Hawk more groaned than spoke my name.

  Breathing hard, I raised my head to look at him.

  “You’re so crazy tight,” he whispered, his eyes unusually wide, surprise tingeing his tone.

  I blushed, partly because Hawk was inside me and instead of making love we were having a conversation, but mostly because I was so incredibly tight. I could feel everything—every ridge, every pulse, the way my body was throbbing around his, absolutely everything. And although it was slightly uncomfortable, it was beautifully filling.

  “It’s . . . been a while,” I whispered.

  “How long?” he whispered back.

  I looked down at his chest, feeling silly, and even more embarrassed that all our foreplay had led to this. Talking about how tight I was. Good God.

  Then I felt Hawk’s fingertips touch beneath my chin, lifting my head.

  “How long?” he repeated. But he already knew the answer. The look on his face was one I’d only seen once before, the one and only time we’d ever been able to spend an entire night together. It was years ago; the club had been empty, everyone had gone to a bike rally across state lines. I’d woken up curled beside him to find him already awake and watching me sleep.

  “Good morning,” I’d said sleepily that morning, stretching as I’d yawned.

  He’d never answered me, just given me that look, a look that spoke more than words ever could. A look that told me I was his world.

  “Was it me?” he asked, and I could tell, not by his tone but by his eyes, the way they darkened when he asked, that he wanted it to have been him.

  And, oh God, I wished it had been him, more than anything I wished that now. But it wasn’t true and I refused to ever lie to him again.

  I opened my mouth, an apology already forming on my lips, but he cut me off by pulling me forward and into a kiss.

  “Never mind,” he mumbled against my lips. “That shit don’t matter anymore.”

  And then,
when I couldn’t take much more and had to break the kiss in order to start moving my hips, needing to relieve the building pressure inside me, I pushed myself upright and, gripping his pectorals, began to rock my body over his.

  “Hawk . . .” His name fell from my lips, over and over again, each time more and more breathless, while I grew more and more senseless.

  His eyes, firmly fixed on me, were black liquid fire, searing every inch of me, his body a hot and throbbing volcano below me, within me. Me, I was mere kindle, alit with his every attention. And together . . . together we burned.

  Gasping, whimpering, crying out his name, clawing at his skin . . . I fucking burned.

  We burned the way I’d remembered us, young and full of lust, and then it was more than that, more than it had ever been. It wasn’t just sex or lust, it wasn’t just love, it was something else entirely, a feeling I couldn’t explain, a word without a sound.

  But it was everything I’d been searching for.

  He was everything I’d been searching for.

  What filled the unfillable hole inside me.

  And when it was over, when I was lying on my back half atop him, half on the bed, and Hawk was running his hands over my body, he paused over the scar on my abdomen, softly tracing the result of my C-section.

  I couldn’t help but think of Christopher in that moment. And Hawk’s eyes, when we turned to face each other, softened exponentially. His son did that to him. To us. Made him a different man. A better man. And me a better woman.

  However brief the moment was, the warmth it left me feeling as Hawk’s hands resumed their traveling was unparalleled and left me reeling. To love someone was one thing, but to share a child with someone you love, to share the love you both had for that child . . . together . . .

  It was a heartbreakingly beautiful revelation that gave me the insight I’d been missing.

  And suddenly I knew. In that very moment, I just knew. It all made sense.

  It had always been meant to be.