Sinful Rewards 10 (6 page)

“Spread those white thighs, Belinda,” Hawke commands. “Show me your pretty pink pussy.”

I shamelessly comply, beckoning him closer, secure in my womanly wiles, in my sexual prowess, knowing he'll never reject me, never consider me unworthy. “It's
your
pretty pink pussy.” I drift my fingertips over my feminine folds, my confidence making me bold. “All of this is for you.”

Hawke tracks my fingers, his gaze intense. “You're so fuckin' perfect for me.” The mattress dips as he claims the space between my legs.

“This perfection is yours, Hawke.” I lift my hips, presenting my body to him. “Take me. Make me scream your name so there is no doubt about who I belong to.”

“You belong to me.” Hawke lowers, caging me between his muscular arms, capturing me completely. “Touch me.”

I obey him, knowing the reason for his order. His hands are occupied, used to brace his body upward. He can't guide my fingers to his cock, can't reassure me that he's wearing the condom he believes I require, and my responsible man won't fuck me without this confirmation.

I sweep my fingertips along Hawke's length, squeeze his base, and he jerks. I grin, relishing my control over him. “Enough touching.” I place my hands on his shoulders. “I want you inside me.”

“I'll give you everything you want, everything you need.” Hawke bumps his cock head against my private lips as he seeks my entrance. I shift under him until he's aligned.

Our gazes meet and he thrusts, burying himself to the base. I scream, overcome by the fullness, by the exquisiteness of hard shaft in yielding pussy, the bliss of our joining.

“Priceless,” he murmurs, his deep voice rolling over me. He pulls out to his tip, pauses for a heartbeat, and thrusts again. I arch, sweet sensation zinging through me.

He increases his tempo, eliminating the pause, deepening his advances, and I cling to him, overcome with yearning, swept up in the moment. The bed rocks under us. Our wet skin sticks together, the tinges of pain exciting me, making me feel gloriously alive.

Hawke sucks on my chin, riding me hard and fast, and I pant, struggling for breath, my legs wrapped around his hips, my fingers splayed over his shoulders. As our bodies heat, a slick coating of sweat eases the slide, binding us, making us one.

With Hawke, I belong. I'm accepted, needed, essential for his happiness. This feeling is addictive, each encounter intensifying my need.

Tremors of wanting shake my body. My inner walls close around his shaft. My fingernails dig into his skin. Hawke grunts with effort, his rhythm becoming wild and erratic, the headboard banging against the wall. Strain makes his rugged countenance even harsher, his square jaw jutting, veins lifting on his forehead.

“Come for me, love,” Hawke demands, his endearment making my heart swell. It's a foolish reaction. He's always called me
love
, since the day we met, yet today, I yearn for that word to have more meaning. “Come now.” He drives into me with everything he has, shattering my control.

“Hawke,” I cry, flinging myself upward. My breasts smack against his hard male chest. Hawke bellows, pushing me into the mattress, capturing my writhing body. A rainbow of colors fills my vision, light refracting through a million drops of water. The wonder is too much, and I struggle to be free.

Hawke doesn't allow this, thrusting twice more, and then toppling on top of me, a warm, reassuring blanket of muscle and skin keeping me safe. The aftershocks subside and I become still, lying docilely under him.

“Fuck.” He rolls onto his back, taking me with him. His softening cock remains inside me, our forms linked. “You're mine, Belinda.” He presses his lips against my forehead. “Don't ever doubt your choice.”

I rest my cheek against his heaving chest, too dazed by his loving to worry about choices or the future or the dangers he faces on the job. For now, he's safe and we're together. This is what I concentrate on.

H
AWKE TAKES CARE
of me—applying ointment to my ass cheeks and brushing my hair. He ignores his constantly ringing phone until the doorbell buzzes.

While he begrudgingly answers it, muttering dire retribution for the person disturbing us, I don a happy yellow sundress and my now-polished ballerina flats, forgoing panties and a bra as he instructed.

He doesn't have to say anything when he returns. I know he has to leave, his face dark, his lips grimly set. There's another dangerous situation he has to venture into, risking his life.

I suck up my concern and prepare lunch for my big man. This is a surprisingly erotic experience. My sundress has a built-in bra, the hem of the full skirt skims my calves, and the fabric is thick enough to conceal my panty-less state. Yet standing in the kitchen, bare under my dress, feels delightfully naughty.

Hawke knew this would thrill my inner pervert, the dreadful man. I hum a bit off-key, dancing in place.

My military man wanders out of the bedroom, dressed in one of his hideous black T-shirts, ragged blue jeans, and big army boots. “We have to talk.”

“Do we?” I stop moving, my mind spinning. That sounds ominous. “Is it my mom? Cyndi? Gisele?” I rattle off names.

“They're all fine.” Hawke eases my concerns. “Or as fine as they can be.”

“What does that mean?” I squeak.

“Mack took Gisele to the vet.” He stands in front of me. “They want to keep her overnight.”

“What's wrong with her?” My stomach churns. “Is she sick?” I gave Gisele my love, opened my heart to her. If she's sick, really sick, and dies, leaving me forever, I'll be devastated.

My gaze slides to Hawke's beloved face. This is why not taking that next step with my military man, not loving him, is prudent, safer. He could die also.

“She isn't sick.” Hawke rubs my arms. “Keeping her overnight is a precaution. The vet has already run the tests. Gisele is severely underweight, but that's it. He'll vaccinate her and give her the medical attention every cat needs.”

“Are you sure?” I look up at him, seeking reassurance.

“I'm sure.” Hawke presses his lips against my forehead. “She'll come home tomorrow.”

Tomorrow is a long time from now. I worry the inside of my cheek with my teeth. Gisele will be alone, think I abandoned her. “Can I see her?”

“The paparazzi will track you there.” He shakes his head, and my shoulders slump. “I'll drop in and check that she's okay.”

Hawke knows cats, having grown up on a farm. He'll take care of her, and I'll take care of him. I turn my attention back to his lunch, needing to do something, anything.

“Can you stop at Target and buy her a collar?” I cover his sandwiches with plastic wrap and pack them neatly in a brown paper bag. “It doesn't have to be an expensive collar, just something so she realizes she's ours.”

“I'll do that.” Hawke watches me. “I'll ensure she's well fed and she's aware that we're coming back for her.” He understands.

He grabs the lunch I prepared for him and links his fingers with mine. “Gisele wasn't the topic I wanted to talk to you about.”

“I know you have to work.” I walk with him to the door. “You'll be careful? You won't get distracted or—”

“This isn't an assignment,” Hawke says brusquely. “This is fallout from this morning's overseas shitstorm.” He squeezes my fingers. “I won't be endangering my team. I'll be facing an irate client.”

I don't know why he has to face the client. What does the management team at the Organization do? “At least no one will be shooting at you.”

“True.” Hawke's expression brightens. “You worry about me.”

“Of course, I worry about you.” I have nightmares every damn night about him.

“Because you love me,” he adds.

“I don't love you,” I retort, the words flying out of my mouth before I can temper them. I slap my hands over my lips. “Oh shit.” I must have hurt his feelings. “I mean—”

“I know exactly what you mean, sweetheart.” Hawke's pale blue eyes light up with happiness. “You love me.” He rubs his right thumb between my eyebrows, smoothing the crease there. “You chose me over Nicolas. Everyone knows he's a billionaire, he cares about the clothes he wears, can buy you pretty things. I understand some women find him handsome.”

All
women find Nicolas handsome. He has a face kissed by the gods. I study my tattooed biker. Hawke's countenance, however, is much more interesting.

“I like you,” I confess. This seems inadequate. “A lot,” I amend.

Hawke chuckles, not believing a word I said. “Trust this man you like
a lot
to take care of himself and of you.” He brushes his lips over mine. “When I return, we'll talk. Until then, no leaving the building, no selling your things online, and no fretting about money.” He taps my nose and I blink. “Can you do that for me?”

“Okay,” I grumble. “But I don't love you.” Love takes time to grow. It is steady and lasting, a slow-burning flame, not a raging wildfire. “I like you and maybe there's a bit of lust, but that's it.”

He lifts his eyebrows. “Maybe there's a bit of lust?”

Before I can respond, Hawke hooks his arms around my waist, pulls me into his unrelenting body, and covers my lips with his, the force of his embrace driving my head backward. I gasp, surprised, and he surges inside me, stroking his tongue along mine.

I grip his shoulders, swaying into his big form, swept away by passion. He ravishes my mouth for three heartbeats, our tongues tangling, twining, and then he pulls away. I look up at him, dazed and unsteady.

“That's not a bit of lust, love.” His lips curl with aggravatingly adorable male smugness. “And that's certainly not like.” Hawke opens the door. “Think about that while I'm gone.” He strides along the hallway, his tread soundless, his shoulders broad.

I watch him until he disappears from view because that's the nice thing to do. It's certainly not because I love him. I close the door. Love doesn't happen this quickly.

I find my cleaning supplies and sweep the main room. Cyndi might believe she's in love with Cole, and maybe she's right. But what Hawke and I have is lust paired with liking, which might or might not deepen into more.

I tidy the condo, this task restoring some of my calm, allowing me to think rationally. Loving a man with a dangerous job would be foolish, and I'm not a foolish woman. I'm careful, cautious, and clearly not in love. At all.

To prove this to myself, I call Nicolas, my friend and Hawke's perceived rival. The phone rings twice.

“This is Nicolas Rainer,” he answers, his tone businesslike.

“This is Bee Carter.” I mimic his curtness. “Are you busy or can you talk?” I walk toward the window. He's not sitting in his park. His bench is unoccupied.

“I'm always busy,” the billionaire admits. “But I can talk.” There's a long pause. “I miss you, Bee.”

I hear the loneliness in Nicolas's voice, and my heart twists. “I miss you too.” I've grown accustomed to seeing his gorgeous face every day. “You can call or come over anytime,” I impulsively offer, wishing to see him. “Bring ice cream if you do. Hawke's men finished the last tub yesterday.”

There's a clicking sound as though Nicolas is typing on a keyboard. “I have half an hour to spare this evening.” He must have been checking his schedule.

And he's blocked a precious half hour for me. I smile. “We can bake chocolate chip cookies.” My phone buzzes. I ignore it, concentrating on Nicolas.

“I enjoy eating chocolate chip cookies,” my sweet-loving billionaire admits. “But baking isn't a skill this asshole has.”

“I'll teach you that skill.” I grin. True assholes don't make self-deprecating jokes. “I learned how to bake from the best,” I boast, thinking of Karl.

“I'd like that.” Nicolas's voice lilts, my billionaire sounding enchantingly animated. “I'll call before I come over.” There's a click and silence. One of these days, I have to train him to say good-bye.

I could send him an article on phone etiquette. He could practice tonight, when he calls about our date. I lift my chin. And I
am
treating this as a date. He's a man. I'm a woman. We're spending time together. That's not the action of a woman in love with someone else.

My feelings for Hawke are manageable, nothing to be concerned about. I ignore my guilt. I'm
not
in love with him.

If I say this enough times, I'll convince myself.

My phone hums again. I glance at the small screen and I suck in my breath. There's a message from Friendly, my mysterious texter.

Friendly:
Enter Room 501 North, lie facedown on the massage table, and don't move. Good girls earn rewards.

Friendly isn't Nicolas. I uncovered that shocking truth this morning.

He isn't Hawke. I look around my military man's bare condo, his living space supplied by the Organization, his employer. As much as I wish Hawke was Friendly, the finances simply don't add up. He can't afford the rewards Friendly sends me.

Friendly could be Lona. I nibble on the inside of my cheek. The high-class escort has the money to buy beautiful things. She knows my sizes, having supplied a dress for the ill-fated dinner with Francois and his dad. The suit Friendly sent was Chanel, Lona's favorite designer.

The only alternative is a stranger, and a stranger wouldn't send expensive gifts, not wanting anything in return. He or she would have approached me by now, perhaps taking advantage of my newfound fame, using the footage of my exploits to blackmail me into more deviant acts. My mysterious texter hasn't done this.

No. I shake my head. Friendly has to be Lona.

Lona is my friend and she respects Hawke. She might have even designed the challenges with him in mind or involved him somehow. This possibility titillates me. Lona certainly wouldn't hurt me, wouldn't knowingly create trouble for us. I slip out the door, the electronic locks buzz behind me, and I trek along the hallway.

The retiring escort could be seeking to expand my horizons, give me a little bit of sexual sophistication. Hawke is a man of the world, literally, having traveled during his tours of duty with the Marines. The woman he loves will be adventurous.

Not that I want him to love me. I press the up button for the elevator. The doors open. I select the fifth floor and lean against the back wall. We have lust and a mutual respect for each other. That's enough.

My pale face reflects in the mirrored walls. I'm acutely aware of my panty-less state, cool air whooshing up my skirt, caressing my ass and mons. The pervert in me wants to lift the fabric, to look at myself, uncaring of the security cameras or who might be watching them.

I press my palms against my skirt, forcing myself to remain still. My acts of exhibitionism belong to Hawke and to Friendly. They control the situations, ensuring only people they trust see my sexual exploits. With them, I'm safe. I can indulge in my fantasies without worrying.

I don't know what today's fantasy is. This challenge is different from the others, requiring me to do nothing except lie on a table, fully clothed. Remembering my lack of panties, I wiggle. I'll be partially, not fully clothed. The massage table could be modified. I've seen pictures of chairs with built-in vibrators. This would place Friendly in control, this possibility both scaring and exciting me.

The elevator doors open and I walk toward five oh one north. The hallway is empty. There's no one to see me meet with Friendly. I glance up at the security cameras. Only Hawke's team will know I'm here. I wave my passcard over the sensor, the light turns green, and I enter the condo.

The setup is the same as yesterday, with chairs arranged around a raised stage. The only differences are the red leather massage table replacing the chair and the red feather set beside the silk-covered box on the glass table.

My audience, including Friendly, hasn't yet arrived, the chairs empty, the space silent. I venture closer to the stage. The massage table appears unmodified except for the red bolster pillow in the middle. I relax. There aren't any restraints or cuffs, restricting movement. I can leave at any time.

The feather also puts me at ease. No one ever harmed anyone with a feather. I open the box and peer inside. This glass dildo has green spirals of ridges around its thick shaft. I squirm, imagining how this would feel inside me.

The message didn't say to use the feather or the sex toy. I'm to lie facedown and not move. I nibble on the inside of my cheek. Does this mean someone else will be wielding these objects, a stranger, not of my choosing, will be tickling me with the feather, plunging the dildo into my pussy?

Should I do this? The stranger wouldn't be touching me, not directly. It wouldn't be much different from if I used the dildo on myself. But she or he will be close enough to smell, taste, touch my pussy.

God. That excites me.

I can stop this encounter at any time. There's nothing keeping me here. I lie on the massage table. The pillow, positioned at my mons, tilts my ass in the air. I'm covered by my long skirt yet I feel exposed, vulnerable.

Which is silly because, according to Cyndi, a frequent spa visitor, massage clients wear much less clothing. My sexually free best friend has gleefully shared stories about male masseurs rubbing down their clients' naked bodies, how some of the women secretly get off on the contact. That's socially acceptable. This experience isn't much different.

Except masseurs don't fuck their clients with glass dildos. I push away my concerns and place my face in the cradle. The leather is in mint condition, reassuringly smelling of disinfectant. My view is of black wooden stage floor.

A click echoes in the space, a spotlight shines down on me, and I tense. The show has started and I'm the sole attraction. I wait and wait and wait, my fears compounding. Shit. I can't do this. I can't allow a stranger to touch me.