Sinful Rewards 12 (2 page)

“Come for me. Now.” Hawke thrusts hard and pinches the bundle of nerve endings. The combination shatters me into a million sparkling pieces, brilliant diamonds mined from my soul.

I scream his name, my pussy clenches his shaft, and he roars, his hips jerking. A toe-curling warmth fills me, flushing my skin. He drives forward once, twice more, his savagery throwing me off balance.

I topple toward the glass, and Hawke catches me, holding me as I come apart. I writhe against him, wild and wanton and his, all his, my body, mind, heart belonging to him. He murmurs words I can't decipher into my hair, his low deep voice comforting me.

My tremors dissipate and I slump against him, my arms and limbs limp and useless. His chest heaves against my spine. His scent surrounds me.

“I waited.” I hear the desire for reassurance in my voice and inwardly cringe.

“You did.” Hawke brushes his lips across my right shoulder. “You were perfect.” He cradles me against him, the two of us joined. “You're my girl.”

I'm his girl. A small smile curls my lips. Soon, I'll be his everything, his present, his future. He'll fall in love with me, and my life will be even more wonderful than it currently is.

Hawke nuzzles against my cheek, his stubble razing my skin, reviving a passion I thought he'd sated. “Now everyone knows you're mine.”

Everyone knows. I dart a glance at the park, scan the balconies of the building facing us. They're empty, but that doesn't mean no one was watching. “Hawke.” I shift restlessly against him.

He chuckles, lowering me to the floor. “My suddenly shy exhibitionist.” He kisses my neck.

“They'll know I'm a pervert,” I whisper, trusting only him with my secret.

“They'll know I'm a very lucky man,” he whispers back. “Tomorrow morning, we'll fuck on the balcony.”

“No.” This possibility both shocks and titillates me.

“Yes.” He steps backward, his cock slips from my pussy, and his breath hitches. “Oh, shit.”

I tense. Hawke uses that tone only when a situation has gone FUBAR, fucked up beyond all repair. I turn, follow his gaze, look down, and my body temperature drops. Oh, shit. FUBAR is the right description for our situation.

L
ATEX CLINGS TO
Hawke's cock, the reservoir empty. Oh my God. I stare down at him, stunned, shocked, my mind spinning. The condom broke. Every muscle in my body constricts. The fuckin' condom
broke
. He came inside me. I could be pregnant.

No, no, no. My fingers fold into tight fists. This is a one-time mistake. I'm on the pill. We had sex standing up. It'll be okay. I inhale, count to five, exhale, inhale, count to five, exhale, trying not to freak the hell out.

“Belinda, talk to me.” Hawke removes the faulty condom and tosses it in the trash, his face grim. He's as upset as I am, stress lines etched around his eyes and lips.

Because he doesn't want a child, our child. He doesn't crave a forever link with me. I curve my fingers over my stomach protectively. He feels obligated to be with me, but doesn't yet care for me enough, not nearly enough.

“Belinda?”

“What is there to talk about?” I attempt casual and light, achieve high and squeaky. “I'm on birth control. It's one of the most effective methods.”

But no contraceptive is perfect. There's always a chance of pregnancy, and knowing my luck, I'll be this exception. Ending a pregnancy isn't an option. Neither is adoption. I won't abandon a baby at any stage of his or her development.

Instead, I'll end up like my mom, raising a child on my own, forced to take a job as a waitress, working long shifts, rarely seeing my child, the two of us sharing shitty apartments with rodents.

Christ. I can't do this, can't live my mom's life. She's strong. I'm not. My panic ratchets higher and higher, increasingly dismal scenarios swirling through my brain.

My lungs burn, my breathing is strained. I have to get out of here, run away from this prospect, flee the condo as I fled my hometown of Happydale, leaving my troubles behind me. “I should dress.” I rush forward.

“No.” Hawke grasps my left wrist, curtailing my escape. “We should discuss this.”

I yank on my arm, trying to free myself. He doesn't release me. Instead, he draws me closer to his naked body. I glare up at him. “There's . . . nothing . . . to . . . discuss,” I pant, every word a struggle, a band of emotion strapped tightly around my chest.

“There is.” Hawke holds me against his hard physique, his size and strength stopping my impending meltdown. “Breathe, sweetheart.” These instructions are whispered into my hair. “We'll get through this.” He rubs my back, his hands coarse and big and reassuring.

“There's nothing to get through.” If I repeat this enough times, I might believe it. “I can handle this.” I'm a Carter woman. We might not flourish against adversity, but we always survive.

“
We
can handle this,” Hawke corrects. “I'm here.” He strokes my hair, his touch gentle and soothing. Up, down, up, down. I concentrate on the motion, on his presence, losing myself in his touch. “I'm not going anywhere.”

Hawke won't leave me. The dog tags press against my chest, trapped between our bodies, a reminder of who he is. He isn't an ethically challenged drifter picked up in some small-town bar. My honorable former marine would never walk away from a woman in peril, would never abandon his child.

“There won't be a child.” I shake my head, pushing away that possibility. “It's you and me and Gisele.” Our cat is perched on one of the storage boxes, watching us. I suspect I know who caused the condom malfunction. “The three of us.”

“We don't know that.” Hawke steps back from me, his pale blue eyes solemn, his hands shaking around mine.

He's nervous, and this scares the shit out of me. He's normally my rock, my immovable mountain. If he's worried about this situation, we're fucked.

“This isn't how I planned this.” He squeezes my fingers. “But plans change.”

“They never change for the better,” I mutter, having learned that from my childhood. My mom would make wonderful plans, raising her hopes and my expectations, and then these plans would change, our precarious situation worsening even more.

I don't want my relationship with Hawke to shift. I like where we are.

“This time, our plans will change for the better.” Hawke's smile doesn't reach his eyes. He doesn't believe the message he's conveying. “We'll get married.”

We'll get married.
Married
. A savage joy fills me. When I was a child, I prayed every night that a nice, kind man would say these words to my mom, would choose us, rescue us from poverty and give us a permanent home. I'd no longer be the unwanted child of Happydale's wild woman. I'd be like everyone else. I'd belong.

When I became older, I was the bride-to-be in the scenarios I imagined. I'd fantasize about the wedding, about my dress. I'd wear a strapless, white Vera Wang mermaid gown with organza and lace details, crystal and pearl embroidery accents, the bodice fitted, and the skirt hemmed to fit me perfectly.

My mom would walk me down the aisle. All of the people who ever told me I'd end up discarded and unwanted would ooh and aah over my appearance. Even Tara, my high school nemesis, wouldn't find anything wrong with me. I'd be perfect, admired and respected, have the security I crave, both emotionally and financially. I wouldn't be alone and I'd never relive my mom's life.

And, most important of all, I'd be loved.

This fantasy isn't my reality. Hawke doesn't love me, not enough for a lifetime commitment, not yet, and he didn't choose me to be his wife. The condom broke. I might be pregnant. His personal code of honor dictates he must marry me.

He'd be a good dad and an attentive lover, say the expected words and act the part. But Hawke can't force himself to feel emotions he doesn't.

I know this from my personal experience. I tried to make myself love Nicolas, my handsome billionaire, the perfect man, and I failed spectacularly. My heart chose Hawke. I gaze up at his rugged face. He'll fail also, and he'll grow to resent me, hate me. I couldn't bear that, can't stomach the possibility of causing him pain.

I'd rather relive my mom's life than hurt the man I love.

“We're not getting married.” My voice is surprisingly firm.

“Why not? You want to marry me.” Hawke's too-perceptive gaze locks with mine. “You love me.”

“Yes, I love you.” I don't refute his first statement either, knowing my former marine will detect the lie. “But there's no need to get married.” I fix a fake smile on my face. “I'm not pregnant.”

Hawke glances down at my flat stomach. “You could be pregnant.” He places his palms on my skin, his fingers trembling. “You could be carrying our child inside you right now, a tiny brown-eyed brunette baby girl with her mom's stubbornness and her dad's rebellious nature.” My military man sounds almost wistful, as though he yearns for this possibility.

I shake this improbable thought away. Having seen the tabloid talk shows and lived the reality, I know no man wants an oops baby.

“I'm not carrying our child.”
Our child
, I silently repeat. This sounds good, right. “I'll take a test in a month to reassure you.” I'll pee on a stick daily to reassure myself.

“You'll spend the entire month worrying.” There's no doubt in Hawke's voice. This is how well he knows me. “I won't allow that.”

And I won't allow him to make this sacrifice, to forfeit his happiness and his freedom to appease his damn honor. “I'm not marrying you.” My voice rises.

“Yes, you are,” Hawke insists, his tone calm and controlled. “It's the perfect solution. You know this.”

“It isn't the perfect solution.” I slam my fists against my hips and glare at him. “It's a mistake.”

Hawke's eyes flash. “You think marrying me is a mistake?”

No
, my foolish heart cries.

“Yes, and I know all about mistakes.” I cross my arms defensively before me, bracing for the pain that will come. “I've been one my entire life.” I slide my gaze away from his. “But I refuse to be yours, Hawke. I won't trap you, as I trapped my mom.”

I tilt my head back and study the ceiling, unable to look at him, my emotions dangerously close to the surface. “I saw what that did to her.” Her financial confinement nibbled at her soul, eroding her fight, her fire, until there was nothing left. It took the paparazzi-prompted eviction from Happydale to revive her inner flame. “I won't allow the same thing to happen to you.” It would destroy both of us.

“You're protecting me.” Hawke's voice is barely audible. “Sweetheart, you could never be my mistake. You're my girl.” He pulls me against his hard body.

I yearn to sag against him, to lose myself in his touch, but I can't. This is too important to me, to our future.

“We'll keep our relationship as it is, casual and light.” I'm willing to wait for the forever commitment I need. In time, he'll fall in love with me. He has to. “There's no need to alter anything.”

“You're not a casual-and-light type of woman, Belinda.” Hawke cradles the back of my head with his big palms, holding me to him. “You don't do temporary anything.”

“I could—” I stop. Telling him I could do light and casual would be a lie, and I'm tired of lying to him, to myself. Because he's right. I'm not comfortable with temporary arrangements. Even my beloved fashions are timeless. “For you, I'd try,” I compromise.

“You don't have to try for me.” Hawke gazes down at me. “I want our relationship to be permanent. I want to marry you. I want this.”

I should say yes, should take what little I can grab, and months ago, I might have. This security is everything I thought I wanted, more than my mom has ever been offered. Hawke is a wonderful person, kind and rich and smart. I love him and suspect I always will. He might be the only man for me, my one shot at a happy relationship, and he might, in time, grow to love me. Accepting his marriage declaration would be the sensible action, the safe route.

Shit. My lips twist. I can't do it, can't settle for less than my dream.

“This isn't what I want.” I reluctantly draw away from him. “I want more.” I stare at the scar on his square chin, avoiding his gaze. “I want a man who proposes because he loves me, not because he thinks I'm pregnant. I want him to kneel on one knee, put a ring on my finger, and ask me for my hand, not announce we'll get married. I want to be his first and only choice, to know he's proud and excited to be marrying me.”

Hawke says nothing and my heart twists. He can't offer me my vision, not now, perhaps not ever, and I won't accept less.

“I deserve all of this, Hawke. And so do you. You should love your bride-to-be as much as I love you.” I blink back tears.

“Belinda, I—”

“Stop.” I hold up my right hand, stemming the declaration he thinks I want to hear. “Don't say words you don't mean.”

“I mean them,” Hawke insists. “But you won't believe that, will you?” He sighs. “You don't trust words.”

I can't deny his statement. Too many people have made statements they didn't honor. My mom would promise to spend time with me later, and later never came. My high school buddies swore to be friends forever. At the first hint of scandal, they turned their backs. My previous boyfriends broke their vows, betraying me. Words mean nothing to me.

“You require proof.” Hawke touches the dog tags dangling between my breasts, the reassurance he'd given me that he wouldn't leave.

“Yes.” My eyes sting with unshed tears.

We stare at each other. His face grows harder and harder.

“My lame-ass proposal, my offer to permanently fuse my life with yours, wasn't enough, was it?” He bites off each word. “You need more from me.”

He's angry and hurt. I hurt the man I love. “I—”

“I'll get you your more, sweetheart.” Hawke puts a sarcastic twist on this endearment. “I'll get you so much damn proof, you won't have room for doubt. We'll settle this insecurities shit once and for all.”

He turns away from me without a touch, without a kiss, and the insecurities he spoke of grow within me. Did I do the right thing?

I did. I'm sure I did. I ruthlessly squash my doubts. No man wishes to be forced into a marriage he doesn't desire. I made the best decision for him, for both of us. Years from now, he'll thank me.

Yes, a decade later, when he's married to a woman he loves, he'll look back at this moment and be glad I said no. I clench my hands in front of my body, struggling to contain my grief, while the man I adore gathers his clothing.

The muscles in his back ripple. His ass cheeks clench. Silver scars mar his golden skin. Hawke pulls his hideous T-shirt over his head and yanks on his frayed blue jeans, dressing as he stalks toward the bedroom door. He doesn't look over his shoulder, doesn't glance back at me, his stride purposeful.

My fingers curl around the dog tags. He'll return. But our relationship won't be the same. I've pushed him too hard, demanded too much. A tear drips down my right cheek, pooling in the corner of my lips.

I know what comes next. During his quest to find the proof I demanded, he'll realize he doesn't truly love me. Our relationship will limp along, the two of us trying to prolong the inevitable until, one day, in the near future, he won't be able to pretend any longer. He'll ask for his dog tags and leave me, and all I'll have are my memories and a forever filled with loneliness.

A door clicks closed. Hawke left. He truly left. A part of me thought he wouldn't, thought he'd turn around, draw me into his arms, hold me close.

But he didn't turn around. He continued walking.

Panic swells within me, building more and more. Oh God. I can't do this. I can't be strong and let him go.

“Hawke.” I run through the condo, not caring that I'm naked, concerned only with stopping him. “Hawke,” I call his name, knowing it's futile. The walls are soundproof.