Caught (Prequel to Hawk) (Sex and Bullets) (7 page)

“Say things like that to me.”

“Why not?” His hands still on the zipper of my dress.

“Because of your promise. Because there can never be anything real between us.”

He gives a dry laugh. “What’s more real than sex?”

“You know what I mean.”

He says nothing after that, his grin frozen in place, kind of manic. His hands are moving, though, taking off my dress, cupping my boobs, stroking down my flanks. His mouth finds my mouth, and he pushes me back against the tiled wall of the bathroom, kissing me hard.

He lifts my hand with the bracelet on, drags the metal against his cheek. His lashes are lowered, hiding his eyes. “You make me feel good. Like everything’s fine in the world.”

“Then why can’t you be with me?” I ask, before I can stop the words. “Is it because of what you said? Danger?”

Stop, stupid mouth! I barely know him—except for his awesome body, that is. I don’t really want to be his girlfriend.

Do I?

“Forget about that,” he mutters.

“But I—”

“I needed to see you.” A crease forms between his brows as he releases my hand and takes a step back. He pushes his hair out of his eyes. Such a boyish gesture. He looks so young like this.

I keep forgetting he’s barely older than myself. And tonight he looks oddly lost in thought. Lost inside his own head.

Drawing a deep breath, inhaling his scent, I put my hands on his jacket and push it off his shoulders. He blinks, as if caught off guard, and lets me peel the jacket off him, then his T-shirt. His chest rises and falls sharply when I skim his pecs and broad ribcage, then undo his jeans and push them down, too.

Then groans when I go to my knees to take off his biker boots, socks and pants, leaving him naked.

When I stand back up, he puts his hands possessively on my ass and mashes my body to his, grinding his stirring hard-on between us. He’s kissing me again, and doesn’t stop as he tugs me toward the tub.

I toe off my shoes and he breaks the kiss to help me inside the warm water. The tub is half-full by now and when he climbs inside and pulls me down, on top of him, that’s more than enough.

“I want you,” he whispers and squeezes my boobs in his big hands, then bends forward to lick my nipples. “Couldn’t think of much less during my trip. Fuck…”

He leans back when I put my hand between us and tug on the piercing, then curl my fingers around his thick cock, eyes closing. He’s so hard, it feels like he’s close to coming.

I know his body. I can feel his approaching orgasm in the way his legs shake underneath me, the way his balls are drawn up tight.

Lifting up, I guide him inside me—because I missed him, too, and I want him desperately.

He arches up when I sink on top of him, grabbing the rims of the tub in a white-knuckled grip, his jaw tight. He slips deep inside me, the feeling overwhelming, his cock stroking every pleasurable spot until I can’t keep quiet anymore and moan out loud.

The pleasure is making me light-headed. I grip his shoulders to steady myself, bending over him, and he thrusts up.

I cry out at the fullness. It’s perfect. I’m panting with it, unable to think past the fact he’s sheathed inside me again, fitting me, stretching me, making me…

Making me his.

I falter, and he stops moving, watching me from heavy-lidded eyes. His body is still arched backward, his hands still gripping the rims of the tub, the tendons in his neck corded. His cock pulses inside me, a steady tickle that tells me he’s on the cusp of shooting his load.

But he’s struggling to wait and see if I’m okay.

I lift up, sink back down on him—and that’s obviously the signal he’s been waiting for, because he rocks his hips up and starts pounding into me in fast, rhythmic thrusts that begin to unravel me.

No roses. No flogger. Just him and his cock, his beautiful body and that vulnerable, oddly naked expression on his face.

“Hawk!” I try for more, but my belly is clenched so tight I can’t speak, and then my core spasms around him, hurtling me into pleasure.

His thrusts stutter, and faintly I hear him cry out as heat floods my pussy, making me clench again.

“Hell, babe.” He lets his head thunk back, on the edge of the tub, eyes closed, pale lashes fanning on his cheekbones. “It’s like… it gets better every goddamn time.”

I shake my head, because it feels that way to me, too, but I can’t. Can’t let myself think, or ask any more stupid, embarrassing questions.

We’ve covered that topic already.

Then he reaches for my hands, eyes fluttering open.

“Hold me,” he says, and I suck in a sharp breath.

This isn’t part of sex. Of sex-buddying. Neither was the bracelet. What’s going on?

“Hawk… I can’t,” I whisper, vaguely aware I’m repeating to him what he said to me earlier tonight.

“Damn.” He gives me a rueful smile. “Of course not.” He rubs both hands over his face. “It’s just… it’s the fucking anniversary of my grandpa’s death. I shouldn’t have called you tonight.” He starts to get up, sloshing water as his words sink in. “I’d better go find something to drink.”

Sounds like his grandfather was important to him. I have so many questions—when did he die? Who was he? It’s the first time Hawk lets a glimpse of his real self peek through, and I don’t know what to do about it.

Except…

“Wait.” I slide my arms around his neck and rest my cheek on his shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

He doesn’t move a muscle, perfectly still in my hold, his heart hammering wildly against my boobs. “Me too, Gorgeous. For everything.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t ask. I just hug him, and gradually he lifts his arms and hugs me back.

Chapter Six

“So when are you going to tell me about your boyfriend?” Mom asks, sitting at my kitchen table and sipping black coffee.

“Boyfriend?” I frown, cradling my own mug of milk-with-coffee and leaning against the counter. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Well then, no idea how you call it these days.” She waves a manicured hand and smiles at me. It’s kind of creepy how much she looks like me. And kind of nice, too. “That young man who’s holding your hand in the picture.”

“The” picture is the only photo of me and Hawk the tabloids have managed to score so far. It made quite the splash last month. We’re walking into a restaurant, and he’s holding my hand, glancing over his shoulders as the paparazzi flashes went off.

Needless to say we fled the restaurant and had dessert in bed instead.

“Don’t you know who that guy is, Mom?”

“Some rich guy or other. The Fleming heir.” She sighs. “Don’t tell me you’re just friends.”

Trust Mom not to know who Hawk really is. It’s a miracle she saw the picture. I bet one of her friends showed it to her.

“Yeah, he’s rich. And we’re not really together. We only went out for a while.”

That’s not a lie.

I mean, he’s vanished again. No phone calls, no texts.

I can’t take this anymore. This constant vanishing act that has me wondering if something happened to him, or if he just decided he got bored with me.

It’s easier to put things into perspective when I haven’t seen his face in a while. When I haven’t heard his sexy voice.

This has to stop.

“Honey…” Mom beckons for me to approach and I do, because curiosity killed the cat and I’m ten times worse. “Come here.”

“What is it, Mom?”

I sit beside her, and she takes my hands. It reminds me eerily of Hawk in the bathtub, taking my hands to ask me to hold him.

“You’re beautiful, honey. You’re intelligent, and educated, and amazing. I hope what happened between me and your dad, this divorce, didn’t affect you negatively. Because it didn’t work out between us, it doesn’t mean you can’t have a fabulous relationship, get married, have a happy life with your partner.” She wrinkles her nose. “That what you call it nowadays, is it? Partner.”

“Mom.” I try in vain to disentangle my hands from hers. She’s strong. “It’s not that. Hawk and I were never meant to be together.”

“How do you know that if you don’t give him a chance?”

“I gave him lots of chances, Mom,” I mumble, finally wrenching my hands free. “He doesn’t want a relationship. And I don’t really know him well enough to know if I want one, either. With him, I mean.”

Her eyes, so eerily similar to mine, fill up. “You have feelings for him. I can tell from the way you talk about him, from the way you say his name.”

Damn.
And here I thought I felt nothing anymore.

“Everything will be okay, love,” she says and claps her hands, putting on a bright smile. “I know. Let’s go get a mani-pedi together. And shop. It will make us both feel so much better.”

So I let her take me along and pretend to have fun, because otherwise I’d have to admit to myself that my heart is aching.

***

It’s late next week, long after Mom has left back to New York and I’ve returned to the grind of classes and assignments, when I receive a call from an unknown number.

I’m in the process of getting a coffee from the cafeteria at school, so I let the call go to voicemail and pay for my drink, then grab the Styrofoam cup and head toward my parked car.

My phone rings again.

Crap.

Rooting around in my purse where you can find anything from expired candy to usb sticks and a broken flashlight, I finally locate my phone and connect the damn call.

“Yeah?”

“Layla Green?” The voice is deep, deeper than Hawk’s, and definitely masculine.

“Who is this?”

“Layla, Hawk needs you. Why aren’t you with him?”

What the hell?
“What are you talking about?” I mutter. “Hawk doesn’t need me. And again, who are you?”

“Rook. A friend.”

“Funny. He never talked about you.”

“Maybe you weren’t paying attention.”

Jesus.
“Look, Hawk and I aren’t together. We just fuck.”

“You mean you’re fucking around with him.”

I shrug. I’m in a funk. Might as well let this guy think that. “How the hell did you get my number?”

“I borrowed Hawk’s cell. Look…” He sighs. “If he means anything to you at all, come see him. He’s at the James Hollister. By Patterson Park.”

“What’s that?”

“A high-end private clinic. He and his damn bike got into some sort of accident a few days ago. He’s okay, but he hit his head pretty hard and they’re keeping him in for observation.”

Oh God.
I’m standing there frozen, the cell clutched in my hand.

Accident?
“I didn’t know—”

“I’ll leave your name at the reception desk,” he says briskly and disconnects.

Just when I thought I had Hawk and my feelings for him figured out, he twists my heart all over again.

***

The grounds of the clinic are spotless. Bright green lawns and perfectly trimmed hedges, and a white building with huge glass windows and a massive entrance, the five broad steps leading to it sparkling in the watery sunlight.

A man is sitting behind the immaculate white desk, and in his pale blue suit, with his brown hair swept over his forehead and dark-rimmed glasses, he wouldn’t be out of place in a period drama movie.

“May I help you?” he asks, glancing at me over those damn glasses. His brow creases. “Ms…?”

“Green. Layla Green. I’m here to see Hawk.” I blink when he gives me a blank look. “Mr. Jamie Fleming.”

“Oh right, Mr. Fleming. Mr. Carter said you’d drop by.” He waves at an orderly who’s coming down the hall. “Sarah, please escort Ms. Green to Mr. Fleming’s room.”

Nodding at him, I follow the orderly down a long corridor, then we ride up two floors in the elevator and come out in another spotless passage.

“This way, please,” the orderly says, and I follow her quiet steps past numbered doors, my mind numb.

We stop at number 2, and she knocks on the door. “Mr. Fleming.” She pokes her head inside, although I haven’t heard an answer. “Ms. Green here to see you.”

She steps back and I enter the room. It’s big, as expected, with glass doors opening to a balcony. There’s a table and leather-padded chairs, and a double bed.

Hawk is sitting on it, his back propped on a mountain of pillows, hands resting on his legs. He’s dressed in pale gray pajamas and a white sweater. His scruff has grown into a beard, and his hair is so long he’s peering through it at me.

His gray eyes look a bit too wide at finding me there.

“Hot Body?” he asks, and that breaks me out of my trance.

I close the door behind me and walk toward him. “Hi.”

He looks strangely small and fragile slumped on the bed, his face pale, dark smudges under his eyes. Of course, the moment I sit beside him, making the mattress dip, I find that’s not true. He’s not small at all.

His mouth pulls into a tight smile. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you.”

“And how did you know where I was?”

“Rook called me.” I lift his hand from where it’s resting on his leg, turn it over. It’s bruised and scratched, the gashes taped. “Said he’s your friend?”

Hawk nods. Swallows hard. “He is.”

“Said he borrowed your phone.”

The ghost of another smile touches his lips. “Rook’s just cross I didn’t call immediately to tell him about the accident.”

Okay. Right.
“But your parents have been here, I bet, as you recovered?”

He stares down at his hand in my hand. “They dropped by once.”

“Once?” I’m horrified, and I try to regain control. “Why?”

“They’re busy people.”

Are all millionaires’ lives like that? I want to ask him, but his face is blank, and it looks like a façade of sadness.

“Well, you could have told me. I’d have come.”

The corners of his full mouth lift. “Thanks.”

“What happened?”

“Took a tight corner. Lost control of the bike.”

God.
“And you hit your head?”

“Rook said that?” He chuckles, although I fail to see what’s so funny about that. “It wasn’t so bad.” He turns so that I can now see a small shaved patch on the side of his head and a neat line of dark stitches. “I’ve taken quite a few hits to the head in my life. I’m fine.”

“Crap. I’m sorry.” I lift my other hand to touch, and he leans just out of reach. “Sorry you’re hurt. What do the docs say?”

“That I’m good to go. Tomorrow.”

I let my hand drop. “Were you going to tell me?”

He shakes his head.

And why am I asking? Haven’t we established already that he’s not my boyfriend and feels no obligation whatsoever to keep me in the loop of his activities?

“I shouldn’t have come,” I whisper, and stand up. I turn away and tug on my coat. “I’ll leave you to rest.”

“No, wait.” He comes after me, throwing his legs off the bed and staggering across the floor to reach me by the time I turn back around. “Just fucking wait.”

He pulls me into his arms, and I’m shocked by how thin he feels under the loose sweater. How long has he been here? When was the accident?

But he doesn’t give me time to ask. The moment I look up, his mouth comes down on mine, and he kisses me like he’s breathing me in.

Hungrily. Then softly. Then he backs me up against the bed and I don’t stop him.

I don’t want him to stop.

Sifting my fingers through his longish, silken hair, I draw him down with me, on the bed. He could have died in the accident. I might not have known until it was over.

But he’s alive, and he’s here, and he’s beautiful.

He pulls down my leggings, and I push up his sweater. He lifts my blouse, and I tug down his pajama pants. He’s already barefoot. I slip off my ankle-high boots and we roll on the bed together.

He comes on top.

He likes that.

Pressing my hands to the covers, he licks and strokes and makes love to me with his tongue, then he enters me, and we rock together, our panting breaths echoing in the room.

“Missed you,” he rasps as he thrusts deep inside me, each stroke stoking the fire in my belly. “So much.”

“Need you,” I whisper back, lost in the haze of desire. “Don’t leave.”

Then there’s pleasure, and a plunge into space, and more, crazy pleasure that has me writhing and moaning and shouting his name.

And less than a week later… he’s again gone.