Sinful Rewards 8

by Cynthia Sax

  “You taste delicious.” I smack my lips.

  “Stop teasing me, love.” Hawke cups my head, drawing me toward his rigid shaft, unwilling to wait. “And suck me dry.”

  I push my lips over his cock head and he groans, his eyes rolling back in his head.

  “So damn good, you and I.” His voice is a low rumble traveling over my body, like thunder during a summer storm, the energy flowing between us lifting the small hairs on the back of my neck. “There’s nothing as perfect as your mouth.”

  Sensing his need to be in charge of something, someone, I allow him to control his invasion, taking him until his tip taps the back of my throat. Our gazes meet and his eyes widen, my man reading me as he always does. I slowly tilt my head back, he nudges forward, and I triumphantly take the rest of him, my sexual trick pulling a whimper from his throat.

  “Just when I thought we couldn’t get any better . . . ” Hawke’s words choke with emotion, his hands trembling, tangling in my hair. I did this, made my rough, tough former marine speechless.

  As I retreat from his base, I maintain my snug seal around Hawke’s girth, giving him the pressure he craves, determined to drive him crazy. His veins pulse against my lips. His musk scents the air I breathe. He’s around me, in me, part of me.

  I bob, working him unhurriedly, cradling him on my tongue, savoring every delectable inch. Hawke rocks, his balls swaying against my chin, his abdominal muscles firm and ripped as though honed from rock.

  I kneel before him, submitting to his natural dominance, not needing more than him, his cock in my mouth, his fingers in my hair. This is enough, more than enough.

  Hawke gradually increases the pace, fucking my mouth faster, harder. I wiggle my ass, yearning for his thickness in my empty pussy, filling me. My release will wait. This encounter is all about him, my goal to zap the stress from his tautly strung muscles, melt the worry from his bones.

  “You’re killing me, love.” Hawke drives into me, his eyes blazing with desire, the cords on his neck lifting. “Killing me.”

  I smile around his cock, unable to speak, not hiding my need, my adoration, my open appreciation. He’s fit, all golden skin and silver scars, bulging strength and black ink, undeniably male and uncaring of his appearance or fashion, his ugly military boots bracketing my knees.

  His defiant stance turns me on, arousing me to a fever pitch. I grip Hawke’s hips, holding on to him as he ravishes me, thrusting savagely between my pursed lips.

  “Close,” he barks. His balls lift and his rhythm grows wild and erratic.

  Instead of dousing my passions, his lack of restraint strokes my erotic flames. I suck with all of my might, my cheeks indenting around his shaft, and he shakes, his jaw jutting, sweat trickling down his stubble-covered cheeks.

  “Belinda, please,” Hawke begs, well past the point of shame, his fingers twisting in my hair, pain shooting across my scalp, thrilling me.

  I will please him, bind him to me as he’s binding me to him. He drives into me with a mind-numbing force. My lips hum. My mouth aches. Neither of us can take much more. I palm his balls, meet his gaze, and squeeze.

  Hawke bellows my name, telling the entire floor who has him, and he thrusts forward. Hot cum spurts down my throat, coating my abused flesh, easing my torment. I swallow and swallow and swallow as he bucks and shakes, until there’s no more. I’ve savored all of him, taking him within me permanently.

  “Fuck.” Hawke falls, his knees smacking against the tiled floor. I wince. That has to hurt. He doesn’t appear to notice, wrapping his arms around me and drawing me against him, into his warmth.

  “I need you.” He tilts into my smaller form, relying on me to keep him upright, his trust humbling me.

  “I’m here.” I hold my massive man as he trembles. This is more than sexual release. This is a purging of his earlier fears, his worry that I’d been harmed.

  “I can’t lose you, love.” He covers my lips with his, undaunted that I taste of him, his kiss tender, relaying his gratitude and a deeper level of caring I hesitate to label.

  “You won’t lose me.” I cling to his shoulders, clasping him until he becomes still, his breathing leveling, his muscles softening. We’re kneeling on the kitchen floor, the door to the condo open.

  I pull away from him, my body, heart, soul protesting my withdrawal. “Are you hungry?” I ask.

  “I’m always hungry for anything you’re making, sweetheart.” Hawke grins his lopsided grin, his appreciation of my cooking warming my chest.

  Chapter Five

  I BAKE THE casserole, the tantalizing smell teasing my nostrils. Hawke lounges in the only chair in the condo and barks instructions into the phone, sounding like a drill sergeant.

  I have to order him more furniture. The Organization will pay for my purchases, and Hawke can’t continue to live like this. He deserves a real home.

  I wait for a break between his calls and ask, “Other than sourcing from companies employing veterans, do you have any other style preferences for the condo—colors, materials, shapes you’d like?”

  Hawke looks around his sparsely furnished place as though seeing it for the first time. “I’m a big guy.” His gaze returns to my face, and a sense of satisfaction fills me. “The chairs should be sturdy.” He pats the armrest of his current seat.

  “Nothing delicate.” I nod, agreeing with him. “Got it.”

  He glances at the bedroom Cyndi will be occupying. “I’d like both your friend and your mom to feel comfortable staying in the spare room.”

  Fierce emotion grips my heart. “My mom?” I croak. He’d consider the feelings of the wild woman of Happydale? I swallow hard. “You’d allow her to stay with us?” I then realize what I’ve said. “With you?” I hastily correct. This is his place, not mine.

  “With us.” Lines etch between Hawke’s thick eyebrows. “Your mom is always welcome here. I take care of my girls.”

  “There’s no always. We’re living here temporarily.” I set up my laptop on the kitchen island, wishing he owned the condo, not the Organization. “My business with Cyndi will be successful.” I position the bar stool so I can see Hawke. “Then you can have your condo back.” Or he could move in with us.

  Hawke claims the bar stool beside me, his assortment of electronics clattering on the countertop. “Yes, your business will be a success.” His faith in us boosts my confidence. “But I don’t ever want my condo back.” He pushes his denim-covered thigh against my leg, reinforcing the connection between us. “This is your home.”

  I ruthlessly squash the hope and longing his words invoke. His employer could take the condo away from him tomorrow.

  “How do you know our business will work?” I access the website of my favorite online furniture store, a proud supporter of returning military personnel, and I search through the listings, concentrating on finding additional seating for us first. “Cyndi doesn’t stick with projects for very long.” I share my fears. “Her dad thinks she’s useless.”

  “Cyndi’s dad doesn’t allow her to be useful.” Hawke taps on his tablet’s screen. “She switched projects because she had no choice. He’d take them away from her, not granting her any responsibility. He still views her as the four-year-old child he couldn’t protect.”

  I glance at him. “You investigated her.”

  “I investigate everyone who has the ability to hurt you,” he replies as though this snooping is to be expected, and the sick thing is . . . I don’t mind. I realize he does this to keep me safe, to prevent the horrific situations he deals with every day.

  If he believes Cyndi will make a good business partner, I trust his judgment. A knot low in my stomach unravels. I scan through couches, find one that matches Hawke’s chair. It looks good, the construction is solid, and the price is reasonable.

  “What about this?” I show him the image.

  He peers at it and shrugs. “Whatever you like, love.”

  Whatever I like. A warm glow settles over me. I’ve never
furnished a home, have never had the ability to buy anything I desired. The Organization’s money won’t be wasted. I’ll purchase quality pieces, items that can be resold close to their original prices.

  We work side by side. Cyndi sends me a text, freaking out because her family’s lawyer refuses to handle our business start-up. Hawke refers her to the Organization’s legal team, vouching for the two of us.

  We take a break at four o’clock to eat. Hawke demolishes half of the casserole, his compliments infusing me with joy. Cyndi then texts mock-ups of possible business cards. I relay my thoughts and allow her to make the final choice, giving her the responsibility her dad had always denied her.

  I place the last order for furnishings, playful apple-shaped cushions for the couch, a nod to the apple orchard owned by Hawke’s family. By next Friday, his condo should be fully furnished. It will feel more like a permanent home.

  “Fuck,” Hawke cusses under his breath, shifting against me.

  I glance at him, reading the aggravation on his rugged countenance. His day isn’t progressing as smoothly as mine is. I nudge my bar stool closer to his, silently conveying my support.

  He fidgets more and more, until unable to remain still, he launches himself off the bar stool and paces the main room, growling instructions into several devices. I chew on the inside of my cheek, dreading what I know will happen next. One of the Organization’s wealthy clients is in danger and my former marine will put himself at risk, attempting to save him or her.

  “Hell.” Hawke gathers his electronics. “I have to go, love.”

  “You’ll be careful?” I help him retrieve his things, my hands trembling. “You’ll watch out for hostiles?” I use one of the military words Hawke’s friend Dawg taught me.

  Hawke cups my chin, raising my gaze to his. “I’ll be safe. The hostiles are long gone.” Sincerity shines in his pale blue eyes and I relax. He won’t be in danger. “I have to deal with the shit storm they left in their wake.”

  Shit storm. I add this colorful expression to my vocabulary. “Cyndi and I are going to R tonight.” I walk with him to the door.

  “I know.” Hawke’s big chest heaves and I peer up at him, wondering how he knows. “I’m assigning two men to you, and I’ll try to join you.” He gazes down at me. “Whether I’m physically there or not, I’ll be watching you.” His eyes glimmer.

  He’ll be watching me. I catch my breath, excitement swirling within me. “Is R a client?”

  “You know I can’t discuss clients with you, sweetheart.” Hawke taps my nose with his finger and I blink. “But all responsible nightclubs have security monitoring each and every room.”

  He’s security. He’ll be monitoring me. “I see.” I tilt my face upward, silently asking for a kiss.

  “No, I’ll see.” My military man brushes his lips over mine, his touch frustratingly brief. “Give me a show.”

  He can’t mean a sexual show. R is Nicolas’s nightclub. Hawke wouldn’t want his rival to see me naked . . . would he? “You don’t mind if other men watch me?”

  “Nicolas can look all he wants, love.” Hawke knows exactly whom I’m referring to, the damn man reading me as he always does. “As long as he doesn’t touch you. I won’t share you sexually with anyone.”

  This warning is unnecessary. “I don’t want to be shared sexually,” I admit.

  “But you do want to be watched.” Hawke exits, chuckling.

  The door closes behind him, severing the heart-thumping sound, and I sag against the wood, my legs unsteady. He’s right. I do want to be watched, but I won’t get naked, not tonight, not at Nicolas’s club. I’ll dance, fully clothed, suppressing my inner pervert in public as I always do, acting like the good girl I should be, someone deserving of love, of forever.

  My phone buzzes against my hip and I glance at the small screen. The number belongs to Francois, the former army man who, in a burst of anger, called me a whore at the French restaurant. Since that humiliating incident, I’ve avoided talking to him.

  I can’t delay this confrontation forever. “Bee Carter,” I answer.

  “You have finally forgiven me, ma petite.” The man’s accent is thick and irritatingly appealing.

  “I’m not little. I’m average-sized.” I walk toward the window. “And this isn’t about forgiveness, Francois. I have someone.” I gaze down at the park, the sliver of green between the condo complex’s three buildings. When I last met with the Frenchman, I had two men—Nicolas and Hawke

  There’s silence. Did I hurt him, cause this tormented veteran even more anguish?

  “All I want is to talk to you, ma belle,” he murmurs. “I don’t wish to be alone. Tell me about your wonderful place where everyone understands about the rage inside me, the fury eating my heart.”

  Oh God. I stare at the newly laid turf where Nicolas’s tree once stood. How can I resist a plea like that? I press my fingertips against the cool glass, my resolve evaporating. Did Hawke have someone to talk to when he left active service, or had he suffered alone, tormented by the memories of war?

  “I went to the Road Gator yesterday.” I tell Francois about the men I met there, sharing Prick’s challenges with his ex-wife, Mack’s love of ketchup, repeating the arguments about veterans’ rights, relaying the information I learned about bikers’ patches and military terms.

  Francois talks about his grapes, his wine, his connection with the earth. And he talks about the war, describing disturbing scenes I’m certain to dream about, recounting every death, every kill in graphic detail, revealing his tortured soul.

  Hawke’s experience must have been similar. By hearing Francois’s stories, I feel closer to my former marine, better understanding why he’s hell-bent on protecting everyone, determined to save his loved ones from the same pain, death, memories.

  When Francois has finally exorcised today’s demons, he promises to call me again and I promise to answer, feeling like a selfish beyotch because I ignored his previous requests for help.

  He ends the call. I sit in Hawke’s chair, wrapped in his reassuring scent, and I stare at kitchen nook’s plain black appliances, emotionally drained.

  The horrors of war have ended for the West Coast military man. Hawke, because of his job, continues to live this nightmare every day. He deliberately puts himself in danger, throws himself in life-threatening situations.

  One day he won’t survive a high-risk assignment. He’ll die, leave permanently. It would be foolish to care for a man like that.

  Knowing this doesn’t change the way I feel.

  Hawke sends me an attachment, asking me to look for anything unusual. I’m exhausted and I dread what I might see, but he needs my help and I can’t refuse. I load the video footage onto my laptop, utilizing the larger screen.

  Men in expensive suits and women in designer sundresses and cute sandals drink champagne in a greenhouse. The branches of tropical trees stretch skyward, their broad leaves almost touching the glass ceiling of the pavilion. Sunlight dances on the tiled floor. Brightly colored butterflies flit from flower to flower. A string quartet plays in one corner, the strains of classical music floating on the air.

  It’s beautiful and romantic, yet I am unable to relax and enjoy the scene. Hawke never sends me the gory bits but, thanks to Francois, I now have a clearer vision of how this party ends. There’s bloodshed, pain, perhaps death, someone harming one or more of the guests.

  My bet is on the closed-toe shoe woman. I spot her immediately, Hawke’s number one suspect overaccessorizing, wearing a clunky necklace and bracelet with a sundress requiring neither. I send this information to my former marine and then examine the other attendees.

  One of the violinist’s bows doesn’t touch the strings, the musician merely pretending to play. A waiter serves a guest a cheese-stuffed mushroom with his bare hands. A woman wearing six-inch heels steps onto a patch of grass she could have easily avoided, a mistake no socialite would ever make. I give this list of suspicious people to Hawke also.
>
  One or more of these people deliberately hurt someone else. They could strike again, putting Hawke’s life at risk. A similar type of person snatched my best friend from her bed when she was a child. In the future, if I gain wealth, they could threaten my children.

  The door opens. “I’m here,” Cyndi sings out. “Put on clothes.” She enters the condo, swinging a pink tote.

  “I’m dressed, you idiot.” I fly toward her, wrap my arms around her curvy form, grateful that she’s safe, that she survived her childhood trauma.

  My best friend drops her tote, spilling papers over the hardwood floor, and she hugs me back. “I thought you might be paying our rent.” She laughs, unaware that I know, that I’ve uncovered her painful past. “Does the birdman realize you’re a dirty whore?”

  “I believe he suspects.” I smile, my cheeks heating. “Are you hungry? I could warm up some casserole.” I want to feed her, do something for her, somehow ease her horrific memories.

  “Oh, man.” Cyndi flicks her gaze toward the kitchen. “I told Cole we should have eaten here, but no, he wanted deep-dish. He’s such a tourist.” She shakes her blonde head as she gathers her papers.

  “I like deep dish.” I defend her movie star, the man whom Cyndi says makes her feel safe. “Is he going to R with us tonight?”

  “He’ll meet us there.” Cyndi’s dreamy smile says it all. She’s head over heels in love with Cole. I ignore the envy jabbing my stomach. She deserves to have wealth, love, safety, a forever commitment.

  “Look.” She hands me a pale green business card. Covert Couture is scripted across the fine card stock. There’s a phone number, an e-mail address, and our tagline—Every Woman Deserves a Stylist.

  “Nice.” I force a grin, not looking forward to what I have to say next. “Are we still doing this? Because your dad dropped by.”