Falling for the Forbidden: 10 Full-Length Novels

by Jessica Hawkins

  Gathering my courage, I run my tongue over my lips and watch the hunger in his eyes intensify.

  “Do it,” I whisper, flexing my inner muscles. I can feel him throbbing inside me, hard and thick and dangerous. “Just fucking do it.”

  He stares down at me, and I sense his struggle, feel the monster doing battle with the man. I’m not the only one with mixed emotions here. There is a part of Peter that hates me too, that sees in me a reminder of his tragedy. He wants me, but he also wants to hurt me, to make me pay for what happened to his wife and son. He might not realize this himself, but I know it. I feel it. Our connection was forged in loss and pain, our intimacy born in torture. There’s nothing normal about his attraction to me; it’s as twisted as my response to him.

  His vengeance is what binds us, and no amount of gentleness can change that fact.

  I see the exact moment the monster starts to win the battle. Peter’s jaw tightens as he withdraws partway, then plunges back in with a hard thrust. “Is this what you want from me?” His voice is low and rough, his gray eyes filled with growing darkness. He flexes his hips, and I gasp as he spears deeper into me, his hand tightening around my wrists. “Tell me, Sara. Is this what you want?”

  I can still say no, let the man restrain the beast, but I’ve chosen my path and I’m not backing down. Maybe this final act of vengeance is what we both need, the punishment required for my absolution.

  Maybe if he unleashes his darkness on me, we might both finally be free.

  “Yes,” I whisper and brace myself. “That’s precisely what I want.”

  Chapter 32

  Peter

  I don’t know what I expected, but as I gaze into Sara’s hazel eyes and see the hatred there, I feel my fantasies dissolving, the lies I fed myself evaporating in the harsh light of truth. Her body might respond to me, but I’m still her enemy—and she is mine. Even with her silky pussy clasping my throbbing cock, the desire thrumming in my blood is tinged with violence, my need for her darker than anything I’ve known.

  I don’t just want to fuck her; I want to break her open, to wreak my vengeance on her delicate flesh.

  “Sara…” I claw for remnants of my sanity, for something to hold on to as a mindless red tide descends on me, the vicious lash of hunger undermining my control. “You don’t know what you’re—”

  “Just fucking do it,” she whispers again, holding my gaze defiantly, and the last thread of my restraint snaps.

  With a low, harsh groan, I pull back and surge into her, scarcely registering the way her pussy clenches in panicked resistance, the tender inner tissues giving way under my assault. She’s wet, but she’s tight, almost as small as a virgin, and even in a haze of lust, I realize what it means.

  She hasn’t had sex in a while—likely not since her husband.

  The man whose arrogance killed my son.

  My desire turns even darker, fueled by a surge of agony-born rage, and I lower my head, capturing Sara’s mouth again. Only this time, I can’t hold back, and the kiss is hard and savage, as violent as the emotions tearing me apart. The delicious feel of her, the sweet scent, the wet, silky texture of her mouth—it all drives me insane, and I taste the copper of her blood as my teeth sink into her lower lip, breaking the tender skin. It should stop me, or at least make me pause, but instead, it just whets my appetite. I need this from her: her pain, her suffering. It’s as if a stranger has taken over my body, twisting my craving for her into a need to punish, to make her pay for her husband’s sins. Possessing Sara this way is both heaven and hell, the violent pleasure of fucking her mixing with the bitter knowledge that I failed to keep my promise.

  I’m hurting the woman I wanted to heal, the one who makes me feel so alive.

  I don’t know if it’s that realization, or the tears I see on her face when I lift my head, but the surge of rage starts to fade, the red haze dissipating even as my desire reaches a new peak. My balls draw up, the pre-orgasmic tension curling at the base of my spine, yet I find myself painfully aware of the bird-like slenderness of her wrists in my grasp—and the terrified stiffness of her body as I violate her silky flesh.

  Her eyes lock on mine, and I see pain in the hazel depths, mixed with perverse satisfaction. I’m making it easy for her, adding fuel to the fire of her hatred. This is what she expected from me all along, what she feared and wanted at the same time.

  After tonight, I’ll never be anything more than the man who hurt her, who abused her in the cruelest way.

  No. Fuck, no. I clench my teeth and force myself to stop, fighting the rising swell of orgasm. Releasing her wrists, I withdraw from her and move down her body, ignoring the agonizing hardness of my cock. Settling between her parted thighs, I grip her knees and lower my head.

  “What are you—” she begins dazedly, but I’m already licking her soft pussy, running my tongue between her pink, swollen folds. She’s wet, but not as wet as I’d like, so I set out to remedy that, using every skill I’ve learned over my thirty-five years.

  “Wait, Peter, don’t…” She reaches down, trying to push me away as I tongue her clit, and when that fails, she attempts to close her legs. “This is not—”

  “Hush.” I use my grip on her knees to keep her thighs open. “Just lie back and relax.”

  “No, I—” She gasps, clutching fistfuls of my hair as I pull her clit into my mouth. I begin sucking on it with strong, rhythmic motions, and the tension in her leg muscles slackens, her breath catching audibly in her throat. I can feel her growing slick under my tongue, and I take advantage of her distraction by moving my right hand up to her pussy.

  “That’s it, ptichka, just relax…” I blow cool air across her clit and am rewarded with a soft moan before her thighs tense again. She’s trying to resist, to reject the pleasure, but I already have my elbow in place, preventing her from crushing my head between her legs. She’s breathing hard now, her hands tightening in my hair as I resume sucking on her clit, and I push two fingers into her tight, wet opening, curving them inside her until I feel the soft, spongy wall of her G-spot. Her pussy clamps tight, quivering around my fingers, and her hips arch off the bed as I intensify my sucking. She’s close, I can sense it. My heart is thumping heavily in my chest, my breathing coming fast as the ache in my balls grows unbearable, but I restrain myself until I’m certain she’s on the verge. Then, and only then, I give in to my own need.

  Pulling my fingers out, I move up, covering her with my body, and line my cock against her swollen entrance.

  “Come with me,” I say hoarsely, meeting her gaze as I penetrate her in one hard stroke, and her body obeys me, her tight, wet flesh clenching around me, milking my cock just as the orgasm hits me. Her beautiful eyes go soft and unfocused, her face twisting with ecstasy as her fingers dig into my sides, and I hear her choked cry as my seed spurts out. It feels like every muscle in my body is vibrating at the same time, my lungs working like bellows as the pleasure blasts through me in scorching waves, and as I collapse on top of her, I know that this is it.

  I’ll never want another woman again.

  I don’t know how long it takes until the aftershocks die down, but by the time I find the strength to push myself up on my elbows, Sara has recovered enough to realize what happened, and horror creeps across her face. Like me, she’s breathing hard, her cheeks flushed with post-coital glow, but there’s no joy in her gaze, only the sharp glitter of tears.

  She’s regretting this, beating herself up again, and I won’t stand for it.

  “Don’t.” I dip my head to kiss her cheeks as the tears spill out, streaking down her temples. “Don’t, ptichka. Don’t feel bad. You did nothing wrong. It was all me. I hurt you, remember? I gave you no choice.”

  Her breath trembles on her lips as I rain kisses across her face, and I feel her shaking underneath me, her hands twisting in the sheets as the tears keep coming. I’m still inside her, my softening cock buried in her body, yet she’s trying not to touch me, to curl in on herself and r
eject the connection between us.

  I wanted her pain and I got it—and it’s tearing me up inside.

  I don’t know what to do, how to calm her, so I just keep kissing her, stroking her as gently as I can. The thirst for vengeance is gone, and all that’s left is regret. Once again, I’m the cause of Sara’s suffering, and this time, it’s infinitely worse. This time, I know her.

  I know her, and I care.

  She’s still crying when I withdraw from her and get up to dispose of the condom in the bathroom. When I return with a wet towel, I find her curled on her side, with the blanket drawn up to her neck.

  “Here, let me clean you up,” I murmur, pulling the blanket off her naked body, and when she doesn’t object, I run the towel over her soft folds, soothing the sore, swollen flesh and wiping away the evidence of her desire. She’s no longer crying, but her eyes are still wet, and the moment I’m done, she huddles back under the blanket, pulling it over her head.

  I’m about to climb into bed with her when I hear the vibration of my phone on the nightstand, where I left it in case of emergencies.

  Frowning, I pick it up and glance at the screen.

  Change of plans, the message from Anton reads. Velazquez is moving to the Guadalajara compound in 2 days. It’s tomorrow or never.

  I bite back a curse, fighting an urge to throw the phone across the room. Of all the shitty timing… We just finished working out all the logistics of the plan and were going to strike in six days. But if our target is changing locations, we’re back to square one in terms of planning. It might take several weeks to scope out Velazquez’s Guadalajara compound, and our client, a rival drug lord, is already getting antsy. He wants Velazquez gone as of yesterday, and he won’t look kindly upon a delay.

  Anton is right. We have to act now.

  Get the plane and the supplies ready, I text back. We’re flying out early morning.

  Got it, Anton responds. I assume you want the Americans on her?

  Yes, I text. Tell them to stay close near the clinic.

  The last time my team and I had to go out of the country on a job, I hired a few locals to watch over Sara in our absence and report to me on her movements. They’re highly vetted, and though I don’t trust them nearly as much as my guys, so far I’ve been pleased with their services.

  They should be able to protect her while I’m gone.

  Setting my phone alarm to go off in four hours, I climb under the blanket with Sara and pull her into my embrace, curving my body around hers from the back. She stiffens but doesn’t pull away, and as I close my eyes, breathing in her scent, a feeling of peace settles over me.

  Nothing is resolved between us, but for some reason, I’m certain that it will be, confident that we’ll make this work, whatever “this” turns out to be. It’s the only way, because I can’t picture my life without her.

  Sara is mine, and I’d die before I set her free.

  Chapter 33

  Sara

  A persistent buzzing drags me out of sound sleep. For a second, I’m so disoriented I think it’s the middle of the night.

  Rolling over onto my side, I blindly grope for the vibrating phone. “Hello,” I croak, grabbing it from the nightstand without opening my eyes. My lashes feel glued together, my head so heavy I can barely lift it off the pillow.

  “Dr. Cobakis, we have a patient going into premature labor, and Dr. Tomlinson was called away on a family matter. You’re next in line to be on call. Can you be here soon?”

  I sit up, a spike of adrenaline chasing away the worst of my drowsiness. “Um…” I blink the sleep out of my eyes and realize sunlight is seeping in through the cracks in the drapes. The alarm clock by the bed reads 6:45—less than an hour before I need to get up for work anyway. “Yes. I can be there in about an hour.”

  “Thank you. We’ll see you soon.”

  The second the scheduling coordinator hangs up, I jump off the bed to rush to the shower—and stop dead, feeling the soreness deep inside. Memories of last night rush in, scorching hot and toxic, and all remnants of grogginess fade.

  I had sex with Peter Sokolov last night.

  He hurt me, and I came in his arms.

  For a moment, those two facts seem irreconcilable, like an ice storm in July. I’ve never been into pain—just the opposite. The couple of times George and I explored kink, the light spanking he gave me distracted me from my orgasm instead of turning me on. I don’t understand how I could’ve come after such rough sex, how I could’ve found pleasure when my body felt torn and battered.

  And that orgasm wasn’t the only one. My tormentor woke me up in the middle of the night by sliding into me, his fingers skillfully teasing my clit, and despite being sore, I came within minutes, my body responding to him even as my mind screamed in protest. Afterward, I cried myself back to sleep while he held me, stroking my back as though he cared.

  No wonder I felt so groggy; with all the sex and crying, I only got a few hours of sleep.

  Swallowing the ball of shame in my throat, I force myself to keep moving. I have to get dressed and go to the hospital. No matter how it feels right now, my life didn’t end last night. I have no idea if I did the right thing by encouraging Peter to bed me, but what’s done is done, and I have to move on.

  The good news is that I don’t have to see him again until tonight.

  Maybe by then, the idea of facing him won’t make me want to die.

  * * *

  The day flies by in a blur of work, and by the time I come home, I’m both exhausted and starved. I was so busy I skipped lunch, and though I’m dreading another night with my stalker, I have to admit that I’m looking forward to his cooking.

  Peter Sokolov might be a psychopath, but he’s an excellent chef.

  To my surprise—and a small measure of disappointment—no delicious smells greet me as I walk in from the garage. The house is dark and empty, and I know without going from room to room that he’s not there. I can feel it. My home seems colder, less vibrant, as if whatever dark energy Peter Sokolov emits was giving it a vitality of sorts.

  Still, I call out, “Hello? Peter?”

  Nothing.

  “Are you there?”

  No response.

  Could my plan have worked so quickly? Is it possible that one taste satisfied whatever sick craving my stalker had for me?

  Puzzled, I walk over to the refrigerator and take out a frozen dinner to pop into the microwave. It’s the healthy, organic kind, Thai noodles and vegetables in some kind of not overly sugary sauce, but it’s still dinner in a box. Too bad it’s the only thing I have energy for tonight. I should’ve grabbed something from the hospital cafeteria, but I think I was subconsciously counting on being fed at home.

  Shaking my head at the ridiculousness of it all, I turn on the microwave and go wash my hands.

  My tormentor is gone, and that’s a good thing.

  I just need to convince my stomach of that.

  * * *

  He’s still not there when I wake up, and though I have the vague sensation of being watched as I drive to work, I can’t detect anyone following me. Same thing when I get to the hospital and go about my day. I’m paranoid enough to feel eyes on me all the time, but the sensation is not nearly as intense as it used to be.

  If I didn’t know I have a real stalker, I’d chalk it up to my imagination.

  My parents call when I’m on my lunch hour and invite me over for dinner on Friday. I give them a noncommittal response—I don’t want to expose them to any danger either—and then I call the clinic.

  “Hey, Lydia, how’s it going?” I ask, trying not to sound nervous. “How’s everything been?”

  “Hi, Dr. Cobakis.” The receptionist’s voice turns extra warm. “Glad to hear from you. Everything’s going well. Not too busy for now, but it’s probably going to pick up in the afternoon. Will you be able to come in again this week?”

  “Yes, I think so. Um, Lydia…” I hesitate, unsure how to ask her what I
want to know. I haven’t seen anything on the news about the murders, but that doesn’t mean the bodies haven’t been found. “You haven’t seen or heard anything… unusual, have you?”

  “Unusual?” Lydia sounds confused. “Like what?”

  “Oh, nothing in particular.” To allay any suspicion, I add, “I was just thinking about that one patient, Monica Jackson… You haven’t heard from her, right? The young dark-haired girl I saw yesterday?”

  To my surprise, Lydia says, “Oh, that. Yes, actually. She dropped by a couple of hours ago and left a message for you. Something along the lines of ‘thank you and he’s now behind bars.’ She didn’t explain, just said that you’d understand. Any of that make sense to you?”

  “Yes.” Despite my tension, a big grin cuts across my face. “Yes, it makes perfect sense. Thanks for letting me know. I’ll see you later this week.”

  I hang up, still grinning, and go scrub up for my afternoon C-section.

  I have no idea how Peter made the evidence of his crime disappear, but he did, and now it seems like some good came out of that awful evening.

  There might be no escape for me, but Monica is free.

  * * *

  My house is again dark and empty when I get home that evening, and as I get ready for bed, I’m aware of a peculiar melancholy. Having Peter in my house was terrifying, but he was still a human presence. Now I’m alone again, as I’ve been for the past two years, and the feeling of loneliness is sharper than ever, my bed colder and emptier than I recall it being.

  Maybe I should get a dog. A big one that I would spoil by letting it sleep with me. That way, I’d have someone to greet me when I came home, and I wouldn’t miss something as perverse as my husband’s killer holding me at night.

  Yes, I’ll get a dog, I decide, climbing into bed and pulling the blanket over myself. Once I sell the house, I’ll rent a place closer to the hospital and make sure it’s dog-friendly—maybe near a park of some kind.