Sinful Rewards 10 (7 page)

I grip the edge of the table, preparing to brace myself upward, to leave, and an energy fills the room, an electric charge I've felt only with one other person. Hawke has arrived. He must have.

I was right. My lips curl upward. Lona is Friendly and she's incorporated my military man into these challenges.. He saved her from a stalker. She's doing this for him, in return, I reason, lowering my hands to my sides. Neither of them would allow me to be hurt.

Wood creaks. Unfamiliar cologne teases my nostrils and I blink, confused. Hawke is present. Why is this stranger approaching me? My always vigilant former marine is possessive, branding my body with his love bites, interrupting Nicolas's attempts to kiss me, growling when Francois talks dirty to me in French. Why would he allow another man to touch me now?

He wouldn't.

Hawke would never trust my sexual satisfaction to anyone else. I know this as I know the scar on his chin, the wings tattooed across his collarbone, the way he walks, laughs, smells.

I draw a deep breath, analyzing the scent. It's late in the day, yet the cologne is abnormally strong, as though it has been freshly applied.

I relax. The man approaching me is Hawke. He must have splashed the cologne on his skin to camouflage his natural aroma, a scent I'd recognize.

For some unknown reason, he wants to create the illusion that a stranger is touching me, looking at me, perhaps fucking me. I hope he's not doing this for me. Having another man's hands on my body is no fantasy of mine, my loyalty belonging to my military man.

Softness brushes against my left palm. I close my eyes, concentrating on the sense of touch. He sweeps the length of the feather over my fingers, allowing me to identify its shape and feel, offering reassurance that this is the object he's using to caress me. Only Hawke would be this careful with me, soothing my fears, allowing me to fully enjoy this decadent experience.

He swirls the tip over my palm, tracing my life, heart, head lines, exploring every inch of my hand, and I slip fully into the moment. The feather flits over my hand, up my left arm, across the hair draped over my shoulders, and down my right arm, ending its journey at my fingertips.

The feather lifts and there's nothing, only his scent and body heat. How many people are watching us? Are the seats filled with horny men? Hawke's beloved face fills my mind and the feather returns, dancing around my ankles, distracting me. He glides the vane up one leg and down the other, turning at the hem of my skirt, repeating the motion again and again, up and down, up and down.

My inner freak wants more. I spread my legs wider. The feather drifts to the inside of my legs, skimming along that sensitive skin. This isn't enough. I wave my ass. He swats my calf with the feather and I smile. This punishment is laughable, a butterfly's wings having more force than his reprimand.

My skirt lifts, the hot spotlight shining down on my upper thighs, ass, pussy lips. The fabric is gathered over my lower back. I'm on display. My body is bare from the waist down and propped in the air by the pillow, allowing everyone in the audience to see my nudity. This excites me, wetting my pussy.

The feather flutters over my thighs, my ass, veering close to my pussy yet never touching my sensitive flesh. The man at my side follows the scratch on my skin, the curve of my hips, the slope of my legs. He tickles the top of the crevice between my ass cheeks, his teasing making me tense, but he doesn't venture near this forbidden hole, doesn't push against my boundaries. His care of my body makes me heat even more. Moisture drips down my thighs, my arousal shamefully visible.

He must see the beads of liquid glistening on my pussy lips, smell my musk. Is he hard, his cock pressing against his faded blue jeans? Or is he naked? I shift on the table, unable to stay still, stimulated by this possibility. Are there no layers of clothing dividing us? How far will he go and how much will I allow, not knowing for certain he's Hawke?

The tip of his feather brushes over my feminine folds and I tremble. He wets the vane once, twice, three times, and then draws designs on my skin with my own juices.

A good girl might get off on these gentle caresses. I'm Hawke's kinky little pervert. This teasing won't plunge me over the edge. I open my eyes, needing to be filled, to have a hard cock inside me, requiring a tinge of pain to edge my pleasure.

Hawke knows this. The feather flutters to the floor and lands in my field of vision. The crimson vane is a pop of color against the black stage, as vivid as my red Salvatore Ferragamo purse paired with my black Chanel suit, the combination pleasing me.

Cool glass bumps against my left palm. He drags the dildo slowly over my skin, ensuring I feel every smooth spiralled ridge. I squirm, eager to have its length inside me, and he slaps my fingers with the sex toy, silently reprimanding me for my impatience.

I scowl at the floor. “I'm ready.” My voice is obscenely loud in the silent room. “Fuck me with it.”

The dildo vibrates against my palm. Is the damn man laughing at me? I shift on the massage table, tempted to take my release into my own hands.

The dildo vanishes from my skin. I jerk as it's pressed against my hot pussy, the weight on my clit exquisite, awakening the bundle of nerves. He slides the sex toy along my feminine folds, wetting the surface. Each raised coil stimulates me and I moan. This is what I want, what I need.

I arch my back, giving him more access to me, and he strokes me up and down, up and down, his rhythm growing faster, harder. My body hums, my nipples taut against the table, my pussy clenching and unclenching around nothing, seeking the toy's flared tip.

How many men are watching me, witnessing my reaction, wishing they could replace the dildo with their cocks? In my fantasy, they're as naked, as exposed as I am, stroking their shafts as Hawke strokes me, their gazes fixed on my pussy.

“That feels good.” I undulate against the massage table, rubbing my breasts over the surface, rolling my hips, giving our audience a show. “But it could feel so much better.”

My tormentor, the man my heart says is Hawke, pushes the tip inside me, stretching me open, and I moan my approval, the girth divine. The dildo invades me, one delicious coil at a time, sending tremors of delight over my form. I feel each bump, the unique experience curling my fingers and toes.

“I want all of it,” I demand, my voice husky. “Every glorious inch.”

He gives me what I need, thrusting the dildo into my pussy up to its hilt, and I cry out, gripping the edge of the massage table with my fingers, not wishing to fly into the precipice of fulfillment this quickly, yearning to savor this experience.

Hawke has other plans. Before my body can adjust to the novelty of the coils, he pulls the toy out of me, leaving my pussy agonizingly empty.

“No,” I growl, frustrated as hell. He must be leaning against the table because it shakes. I try to kick him and my right foot connects with air. The table shakes harder.

“Give me the fuckin' dildo.” I sway backward. He slaps my ass with the toy, pain radiating across my skin, exciting me.

“That's not where I want it,” I mutter, secretly enchanted by his playfulness. He's strong and clever and he cares for me. He orchestrated this experience seeking to bring my fantasies to life.

Hawke drives the dildo into my pussy and I call his name. Shit. I forgot I wasn't supposed to know who my mysterious assistant was. I press my lips together. Did I ruin everything?

Hawke doesn't acknowledge my mistake. He pumps me, his focus on my sexual satisfaction, his tempo mindblowingly intense. I move with him, my juices slicking the toy, my private lips clinging to the glass.

Our audience no longer exists for me. There's only the dildo, Hawke, and my building need. I pant, my lungs burning, my legs trembling. His body heat surrounds me. His natural scent permeates the fog of cologne. Leather-clad fingertips brush against me.

My lips curl upward. Hawke wore gloves, thinking I wouldn't recognize him. He doesn't know that no one touches me the way he does, that no other man handles me with this mixture of dominance and care.

No other man ever will. I'm his and he's mine. It isn't love. It's too early for that, but it's something special, something lasting.

This something meshes with my lust, heightening our passion. Hawke pistons the dildo in and out, in and out of my pussy, and I rock backward, impaling myself on the toy, imagining it's his thick cock. Each thrust sweeps me closer to the sexual vortex until I'm dangling over a swirling tornado of emotion.

“I need,” I huff, each breath difficult. “I need—” Fuck, I don't know what I need.

Hawke does. He plunges the dildo into my pussy and slaps the heel of his gloved hand over my clit. I scream his name and buck upward, trying to dislodge the dildo, the pleasure too exquisite to bear.

He strokes my clit, drawing more ecstasy-laden tremors from my body, draining all of my fight, all of my energy. I slump against the table, closing my eyes, unable to move, to speak, to think. Hawke is here. He'll protect me.

My rest-deprived night and multiorgasmic, action-filled day catch up to me. Blackness envelops me and a restorative sleep claims my exhausted soul. There are no nightmares, no thoughts at all, only the ebony abyss.

When I open my eyes, the spotlight is dark and the rest of the room is illuminated. The dildo and feather are missing. My skirt once again covers my ass, my assistant having taken care of me.

I push myself upward. The chairs are empty, the room silent. I'm alone. There's no one else in the space. I stand and smooth down my skirt, my legs shaky.

My mysterious assistant was Hawke. I stumble out the door and wander along the hallway, dazed by sleep. I'm 98 percent certain of this. I press the button for the elevator and chew on the inside of my cheek, the 2 percent worrying me.

I
RETURN TO
the condo and clean the space thoroughly, polishing every inch. Some of Francois's flowers have dropped petals on the floor, creating a rodent-attracting mess.

As I'm cursing his gift, the dashing Frenchman calls me. I shut down his flirting immediately, not wishing to encourage him.

Francois is in a fragile emotional state. This is why I dissuade him, not because I love Hawke. I have a cookie-baking date tonight with a handsome billionaire. That's not an act of a woman enamored with a six-foot-forever former marine.

Francois and I chat about the vineyard, my new cat, and his army-related nightmares. I listen, concealing my horror as he describes these violent scenes in grotesque detail, the Frenchman sharing all of his fears and worries, unburdening himself to me.

I allow this relay, even though it will cause another sleepless night. My friend needs to talk to someone, and I'm eager to understand everything Hawke, my military man, experienced.

Because I care for him . . . greatly.

I tap my fingernails against the phone case. This weak-ass phrase doesn't reflect how I feel, doesn't express the warmth in my heart when I think of Hawke or say his name, how he steals into my thoughts at the most unlikely times, the way his face becomes more intriguing with each passing day.

It doesn't explain why I remain here, in Chicago, risking everything for him, for an additional moment of togetherness. My brain tells me to run, to protect myself from possible loss, the pain of losing him. One of the grisly deaths my West Coast friend is outlining could be Hawke's fate.

But there's no walking away from him. I'm too far gone, too committed to the two of us. All I can do is reduce the agony by limiting my caring, by holding back part of me.

Francois's words slow, his emotions purged. He promises to call me again and I promise to answer. After we say good-bye, I sit in Hawke's chair. My former marine's scent clings to the leather seat, reassuring me. I stare unseeingly at our empty kitchen. He'll return to the condo tonight, touch me, hold me.

I don't know how long I sit there, thinking about Hawke, about us, about the feelings swirling inside me that aren't, can't be love.

My phone hums. I glance down at the screen and don't recognize the number.

“Bee Carter,” I answer. It must be someone I know. Hawke's team continues to monitor my calls.

“Honeybee,” my mom sings, joy wrapped around her pet name for me. “I'm talking on another throwaway phone. Long Haul brought me a different one today.”

“Long Haul did, huh?” I lean back in the chair, my happiness for her tempered by worry. Long Haul, being one of Hawke's men, takes high-risk assignments, and the women in our family don't have a great track record with men. “I thought he was calling you today, not visiting.”

“I didn't think he'd come back, Bee,” she whispers, sounding more like a teenager than my mom. “But he did.” There's wonder in her voice as though she can't believe anyone would ever return for her.

My dad never did. When he abandoned us, I focused on the pain he inflicted on me. I didn't think of my mom, how he hurt and disappointed her.

“Hawke says he trusts Long Haul,” I share, wanting to restore some of her faith in men. “He's a good man.”

“Yes, he is,” she agrees.

“But he could die, leave you forever,” I warn. “Long Haul has a dangerous job.”

“That's the risk we take with loving anyone,” my mom replies. “It's a good thing we don't have a choice or no sensible person would ever fall in love.”

“We always have a choice.” I quote Hawke. “We could reject that love, ignore our feelings, safeguard ourselves.” Arrange a date with a handsome billionaire, a man we know we'll never care for as much as the former marine we're terrified of losing.

“I don't think we have a choice about whom we love,” my mom argues. “I knew, without any doubt, that you would leave me, yet I couldn't stop myself from caring for you. Once I held you in my arms, saw your cute little face, that was it. I was smitten. Ignoring my feelings wouldn't have changed them.”

This is true. Ignoring my feelings for Hawke won't change them, and I'm tired of fighting them, of rejecting the truth. I don't merely like Hawke. I love the damn man, today, tomorrow, perhaps forever.

This scares the shit out of me. He could hurt me, more than anyone ever has.

“I'd never leave you permanently, Mom.” I can't soothe my fears but I can ease hers. “I'll always come back to you.”

“I know.” There's a lengthy pause. “Long Haul has a bike. Did I tell you that?” My mom changes the subject.

“No.” I smile. “Don't call it pretty, even if it is. Guys don't like that for some reason.”

My mom laughs. She tells me about Long Haul's bike, his love of apple pie, his interest in her. I make encouraging noises, trying to absorb this new view of my mom.

She must have been lonely, raising me on her own, unable to date because the entire town was watching her, the wild woman of Happydale, waiting for her to prove them right. My mom is a strong lady, worthy of happiness, of a forever love.

I can be just as strong. For her, for Hawke, for all of the people depending on me. I'll figure out a way to earn the cash we need, find a coping strategy to live with my former marine's high-risk profession, be satisfied with less luxurious things.

“Look at me yapping away.” I can't remember the last time my mom sounded this relaxed. “Do you have some big news to share?”

I blink, not knowing what news she's hinting at. “Hawke and I adopted a cat.”

Silence stretches. “And?” my mom asks.

“And . . . ” I frown, searching for news. “And she's a great mouser.” I'm assuming Gisele would have starved if she couldn't catch her meals. “She's black with big yellow eyes and she's very intelligent, the smartest cat I've ever met.” Which isn't saying much as I haven't met many cats. “She has a few scars and—”

“I'm coming,” my mom yells, interrupting my description of Gisele. “I'm talking to my daughter.” A male voice rumbles in the background. “I'll tell her. Long Haul says hi.” She giggles. I look at the screen. Yes, it's the same number. This is my mom giggling. “I have to go. We're attending a pit party, whatever that is.”

“It sounds exciting,” I murmur.

“Not as exciting as your news.” My mom's voice bubbles over with bliss. “I'll call you tomorrow, honeybee. Love you.”

“I love you too, Mom.” I end the call, puzzled by her exuberance. In the past, my mom has actively discouraged me from adopting a cat, reminding me that not all landlords rent to tenants with pets.

This Long Haul character must have changed her view. I search for pit parties on the Internet. They're exactly what they sound like—parties held in gravel pits. I can't picture my mom attending one of these bashes.

I can't picture my mom dating. I frown. If Long Haul hurts her, I'll kick his blue-jean-wearing ass back to Miami.

Ten minutes after I end the call with my mom, I receive an urgent message from Cyndi. She wants to know if I have to see a client in person to dress her. Could consultations be offered remotely, using webcams and other technology? This would expand our business's reach. We could offer advice to women living on both coasts, in small towns, Alaska.

I skype with my best friend and business partner. She shows me Cole's man cave, which has almost as many screens as Hawke's . . . our living room. We struggle through some trial runs, become best friends with one of Skype's customer service representatives, figure out a workable solution.

Cyndi chatters about the Hollywood party she's attending tonight with Cole, her primary purpose to find clients and keep hussies away from her man. I talk about Gisele. I don't tell my best buddy that I love Hawke. I'm not ready to say the words out loud.

I
am
able to show it, one of the only ways I know how, by cooking. While Cyndi and I chat, I make Hawke dinner. A small smile plays on my lips. My big man pays attention. He'll see this shepherd's pie and know I love him, know I can't live without him. I won't have to say anything.

Cyndi hurriedly promises to tell me all about the party tomorrow. Cole is home. She has to go.

My man isn't yet home. He does send me seven photos of Gisele, however, showing our new cat eating, walking across a clean tile floor, sitting on her haunches. She wears her new navy blue vinyl collar in all of the images. I laugh. Only my fashion-impaired man would buy a navy blue collar for a black cat.

The cute little dog tags he located for Gisele are adorable. The oval pieces of metal are embossed with her name and our phone numbers, Hawke's and mine. I close my fingers around my matching dog tags. Everyone will know we're her pet parents.

Being a proud new mommy, I forward the photos to everyone I know.

My phone hums seconds later, Nicolas's number appearing on the small screen. “Bee Carter,” I answer.

“This is Nicolas Rainer,” the billionaire announces. “Are we exchanging cat photos now? Should I send you an image of a fluffy kitten followed by a horribly mispelled caption like ‘I iz cute' or ‘Hugz plz'?”

I grin. “Only if that kitten belongs to you and you truly want a hug.”

“I'll be there in forty-two minutes.” I hear the smile in his voice.

“Okay.” I'm speaking to no one. Nicolas has already ended the call.

I have a cookie-baking appointment with a billionaire. There's no longer any reason to tell myself it's a date. I'm wholeheartedly in love with Hawke.

There's also no need to call my military man, to inform him that Nicolas is coming over. I tap against the edge of my phone case. The workaholic real estate mogul is a mutual friend. Hawke won't care if a friend visits me.

Even if this friend once wanted me, might still want me.

Shit. I have to call my thrillingly territorial former marine. I press his number. It rings twice.

“Are you missing me, sweetheart?” Hawke's deep voice curls my fingers and my toes.

“Yes.” I miss him, desperately. “When are you coming home?”

“I'll be there soon,” he promises. “I have some paperwork to complete.”

He has paperwork to complete? I raise my eyebrows. He isn't dealing with irate clients or managing his team. He's filling out forms. “You could complete your paperwork here.”

“I'm almost done.”

His reply worries me. In the past, he would have jumped at the chance to see me, rushing up the stairs, claiming the elevators were too slow. Now, he chooses to work somewhere else.

“Nicolas is dropping by the condo,” I blurt. “We're baking cookies.” I hold my breath, waiting for my possessive man's explosive reaction.

“I know,” Hawke says calmly, sounding not at all concerned about my pseudodate with his rival. “He told me.”

Nicolas told him about our plans and Hawke didn't try to change them, didn't threaten to kill his billionaire rival, isn't rushing home to supervise the visit. I exhale raggedly, my mind spinning. What does that mean? “You don't care that we're spending time together?”

“Do you want me to care?” he counters.

“No,” I lie. Of course, I want him to care. But I want his response to be voluntary, not be assigned to him like a duty to perform, an order to be followed. My former marine is so damn honorable. Once he takes on a task or makes a vow, he sees it through.

I freeze in place. He made a vow never to leave me. “If you no longer wanted me, would you walk away from our relationship?”

“I'll never walk away from you, Belinda.”

I wait for the words I want to hear. Hawke says nothing more. He doesn't say he still wants me, doesn't assure me that his desire for me is as fierce as it ever was, that he's thinking about me, loves me.

Because he doesn't. My body temperature drops. Hawke doesn't want me, doesn't care, doesn't love me. Is this why he isn't concerned that Nicolas, a handsome, impeccably dressed billionaire, is visiting me?

And if Hawke isn't concerned about that, he might not mind that another man touches me. Had a stranger pleasured me in five oh one north? Had my former marine sat back and watched while a rival fucked me with a dildo?

“Your friendship with Nicolas doesn't affect our relationship,” Hawke adds, his tone too damn casual for my liking.

My friendship with Nicolas doesn't affect our relationship because Hawke doesn't care what I do with other men. He doesn't care. Period. I'm an obligation for him, a duty.

“I see.” I lift my chin, hurting more than I ever thought possible.

“You don't see, love.” Hawke sighs.

“What don't I see?” I retort, irritated by his casual use of the word
love
. “A young, handsome billionaire is visiting your girl, a woman you instructed not to wear a bra or panties, and you don't care. There's not much room for misinterpretation.”

“Belinda—”

“We'll have your talk tonight.” I end the call, unable to say or hear more, my voice and heart cracking.

My phone hums. Boyfriend is displayed on the screen.

Fuck him. Fuck them all. I ignore Hawke's attempts to reach me and search the kitchen for ingredients, bowls, pans, preparing for Nicolas's visit. My military man has a huge collection of bakeware, every item brand-new, waiting to be used.

I peel the wrap off a cookie sheet. Had Hawke purchased these for me? I run warm water over the nonstick surface. He said he'd take care of me, emotionally, physically, financially, in all of the ways a man can take care of a woman.

Had he felt obligated to make that vow? I dry the cookie sheet. Does he view taking care of me as a burden, as another responsibility to be added to his broad shoulders?