Sinful Rewards 12 (5 page)

Ed leans over Hawke's hand, that nasty needlelike instrument gripped in his fingers. Oh God. He's going to hurt my man again. I turn my head, searching for a distraction.

“Walk me through the process.” I concentrate on the business, on my former marine's blunt countenance. “How do customers decide on their designs? Do they come here with ideas or do the tattoo artists recommend images?”

H
AWKE EXPLAINS THE
business to me. Ed adds his insights as the manager and an artist. Although I know as little about tattoos as I do about wine, my former marine patiently answers my questions, valuing my observations as an outsider to this world.

I suggest some small changes to make the space more female-friendly. Both Hawke and Ed listen to me, buoying my confidence and my belief that I can stand by my man's side and be his equal. Someday, he might propose again.

Or I'll propose to him. I smile.

“We're done.” Ed pats a moist disposable towel over Hawke's hand and removes the strap from his wrist. The tattoo artist's wiry right arm is inked with a flowing Fallen But Not Forgotten banner and too many names. Everyone working in the shop is a veteran, Hawke employing more of his displaced brothers in arms.

Ed takes a step away from us. “What do you think?”

Hawke bends over the small table. “That's fine work.”

“It's one of my best.” The artist beams.

“Let me see.” I wiggle in Hawke's lap. He turns my palm upward and places his hand in mine. My breath catches. It can't be. I close my eyes, count to five, open them.

It is.

Belinda is inked on the ring finger of his left hand, a band of letters declaring to the world that he belongs to me. “Hawke.” My eyes prick with unshed tears.

“She doesn't hate it,” Ed observes.

“Hate it?” I carefully touch my military man's fingertips, staring at my very visual claim on him. “I love it.” I love him. “You did this for me?”

Hawke nods. Of course he did this for me. That's my name on his body.

Forever.

I tremble, unable to believe this, yet the proof is in front of me, permanent proof in vivid black ink. “It's on your ring finger.” I glance at his face. He must know this. “People will think you're married.”

“Good.” Hawke smiles. “Because in my heart, I am.” He brushes a strand of hair away from my face with his right hand. “You're my girl. You will always be my girl.”

“You're committed.” I gaze at his finger. A tattooed wedding band with my name on it is a commitment.

“Yeah.” His voice is gruff. “I've been committed since the first moment I saw you. You were cleaning your ceiling fan with your rainbow-colored duster, a small hole in your black stretchy pants, your hair loose and free, and I knew you were the woman for me.”

“You love me.” I need to hear these words from my lips and from his.

“I've loved you for months, before we spoke, before we touched.” Hawke rests his forehead against mine. “Then we met, your purse broke, you threatened to slap my face, and I knew I could never walk away from you.”

“I was rude to you. I'm never that rude to anyone.”

“Because you wanted me.” He smiles knowingly. “And it scared you. I made you feel out of control.”

“You still do.” I touch the scar on his chin. “How do you know me so well?”

“We're meant for each other. You're my sweetheart, my love, my apple blossom, my dirt path home.”

Ed snorts. We both ignore him, lost in each other. No one else matters.

Because Hawke loves me.

“I love you too.” I chew on the inside of my cheek. “I'm sorry about this morning.”

“Don't ever be sorry for asking for what you want, what you need.” His breath wafts against my lips, a soft sensual caress. “You've given me the opportunity to make it right.” His eyes sparkle. “As for earlier this morning, I'll never forget the sight of you against the window, pale and pink and ready for me.”

My face heats. I glance at Ed. The gray-haired tattoo artist has developed a sudden interest in his tools. I lean closer to him. “I'm always ready for you,” I whisper, rubbing my ass against his groin.

Hawke hardens, his long, thick cock pressing against the button fly of his jeans. “Ed, we're moving to my office. Tell the men the timelines have been pushed forward.”

“Yes, sir.” The man snaps into a salute. “But I'm applying your bandage first.”

Hawke holds out his left hand. Ed dabs a fresh disposable towel over the tattoo, his attention to hygiene pleasing me, and applies white gauze to the finger, fastening it securely with medical tape. “You know the deal. Remove the bandage in a couple of hours. Apply the ointment. Keep it moist and clean.”

“He will.” I speak for Hawke. “I'll take care of him and ensure your beautiful artwork doesn't get infected.”

“You're a lucky bastard, Hawke.” The tattoo artist smiles, his face wrinkling even more. “It was a pleasure to meet you, ma'am.” He salutes me and wanders toward a group of leather-clad men talking near the front reception desk.

“How is your finger?” I slip off Hawke's lap, planting my ballerina flats square on the industrial-style floor. “Do you need help walking?” I hold on to him as he stands. “Should I get Mack or Demo?”

“I'm okay, love.” Hawke chuckles, his right palm connecting solidly with my left, our fingers linking together. “If I can sew my own flesh wounds, I can survive a tiny tattoo.”

I cringe, not wanting to hear about these previous injuries. “The skin around your tattoo is red.” I watch him closely as we walk toward an office, his stride shortened to match mine. He appears steady and strong, but I know how deceiving appearances can be. “I saw some beads of blood.”

“That's normal with tattoos.” Hawke's bare arm brushes against the sleeve of my blouse, the brief teasing contact heightening my awareness of him. “Ed is one of the best artists in the country. He's very careful, hasn't lost a customer yet.”

His joke falls flat. “He won't lose you.” When discussing my man's health, I have no sense of humor. “I won't allow that.”

“I love that you're protective of me.” Hawke squeezes my hand. “You'll make a great mom.”

“I learned from the best.” I only recently appreciated how truly wonderful my mom is. “Thank you for asking her permission.” He asked the wild woman of Happydale for my hand in marriage, treating her with respect, with sensitivity, with caring. “That meant a lot to her and to me.”

“Your mom worries about you.” Hawke shrugs. “She deserved to know my intentions.”

Mack approaches us, carrying a cardboard box. “Sir.” He holds out the package.

Hawke is in no state to lift anything heavy. A part of me knows I'm babying him, overreacting to his tattoo, but I can't help myself. Now that I love him and know he loves me, I won't allow anything to happen to him.

“I'll take that.” I grasp the box. My name is on the plain white label. Excitement bubbles inside me. This is my reward.

“It's for you.” My military man opens the office door. The space is meticulously clean, not one speck of dirt on the gray carpet or the vividly painted walls. The bright blue wooden desk is bare, the superhero red leather chair immaculate.

“Sit down.” I place the box on the desk and close the door behind us, blocking the outside world, creating a sanctuary for him and me. “I'm taking care of you today.” I'll show him how deep, how true my love is.

“Belinda.” I see the protest in his eyes.

“I'll treat you well, Hawke.” I undo my blouse slowly, slipping each plastic button through the finely stitched openings, revealing pale skin, the hint of curves, the white silk of my finest bra. “Don't you want that?” I drop the garment to the floor, forcing myself to ignore the mess.

Hawke sits with a thump on the leather seat, his mouth hanging open. “Hell, yeah.”

“Good.” I unzip my black pants. “Because I want you.” I swivel my hips, dancing to a beat only I hear. “Badly.” The fabric lowers, lowers, lowers and then falls, forming a puddle around my shoes.

“Do you see how wet I am?” I widen my stance, posing in my bra and panties, aware that a flimsy wooden door separates my near-nude form from the gazes of a dozen or more burly bikers. “Can you smell my hot pussy?”

Hawke breathes deeply, his nostrils flaring, his eyes darkening to a brilliant blue. “You smell delicious.” His tongue darts over his lips, leaving a trail of moisture. “You'd taste even better.”

“You can lick me clean after we fuck.” As I say these naughty words, freeing my inner bad girl, I run my hands over my damp panties, petting the silk. His heated gaze tracks my caresses, the ridge in his jeans pronounced. “After you've filled me with your hot cum.”

His eyes flare with fierce emotion. “I have condoms.”

“I don't want there to be any barriers between us.” I reach behind me and unfasten my bra. “I want to feel every inch of you.” I roll my shoulders, discarding the sexy scraps of lace. “Your tip pressing against me.” My nipples tighten in the cool office air. “The veins in your shaft pulsing, your cum heating my pussy.”

A strangled noise comes from deep inside Hawke's throat.

I shimmy out of my panties, leaving more of a mess on his office's clean carpet. “Don't you want that too?”

I brazenly straddle him, perching my ass on his denim-covered knees, my body open to him. He can see everything, my bare breasts, my pink folds, my empty entrance.

“I want, fuck me, do I want.” His voice is a bottomless abyss of raw need. “But there's a possibility of—”

I place my fingertips over his lips. “Of what? Of expanding our family? Of creating a stocky little baby boy with his daddy's blue eyes and brown hair?” I lower my hands, splay my fingers over my flat stomach, imagining the pale skin rounded with his child. “What would you do, then?”

“I'd be the happiest man on the planet.” Hawke gives me the reassurance I need, easing my lingering fears. “I'd love and protect both of you with everything I had.”

“You truly love me?” I need to hear these words again also.

“I fell in love with you at first sight.” He meets my gaze, his expression solemn, sincere. “I knew you were mine. And every moment I watched you, I loved you more. By the time we finally met, I was twisted up with wanting, desperate for you.”

I touch his square chin, his stubble-covered skin, his silver scars, struggling to absorb this revelation, knowing in my heart, it's true. He loves me. “When you called me ‘love' that first day—”

“I meant it.” Hawke turns his head, kisses my fingertips. “You were, are, and will always be my girl, the only woman I'll ever love.”

“Oh God.” This is too much. My world is spinning and I need him to ground me. I pop his button fly, freeing his hard shaft. “I need you inside me now.” I push the faded denim downward. He lifts his ass, helping me. “Show me where I belong.”

“You belong with me, Belinda.” Hawke cups my ass, holds me above him. I position him at my entrance. “If you ever doubt that, look at your name on my body.”

He lowers me slowly. The slide is endless. The fullness is divine. I savor every delectable inch, the connection tightening between us.

My military man feels our link too, his face reflecting awe and amazement. His fingers tremble against my back. My sensitive flesh touches his unrelenting base and we both groan, his baritone underlying my higher pitch.

“You're a part of me, permanently.” Hawke's eyes flash with triumph.

“And you're part of me.” I squeeze his shaft with my inner muscles and he jerks, his lips flattening. “We'll never be alone again.”

I glide my palms under his ugly black T-shirt, his skin hot against my fingers, his muscles rippling. Sex without a condom
is
better. I feel everything, all of him, our bodies meshing, bonding, becoming one.

Unable to remain still, I rock, a gentle wave of movement rolling throughout my form. Hawke undulates just as leisurely under me, his gaze fixed on my face, as though he can't believe I'm here, with him, loving him.

I think of how I almost chose another man, almost settled for okay, forgoing this wonder, and I ride him harder, faster. All of the pain, the disappointment, the abandonment led me to this, to Hawke, the most honorable, steadfast, badass man I know.

And this former marine loves me. He lifts me higher and higher, thrusting upward as he drives me toward him, impaling me on his rigid shaft. I pant. Hawke's breath blows hot against my right ear. The chair squeaks under us, protesting the movement, our combined weight.

The proof of his commitment is all around me. The dog tags Hawke gave me shine between my bare breasts. The bandage on his left hand protects my claim on him.

He plunges his cock in and out of me. No condom separates us, its absence a declaration of intention. He's with me forever, will never leave me, and I trust him to stay, to keep his vows.

This knowledge spirals my passion toward the unadorned ceiling. Our bodies bump again and again. My arms and legs tremble. Sweat trickles down my spine, between my ass cheeks. I curl my fingers, digging my nails into his skin.

“Yes.” Hawke bucks. “Mark me, love.”

I lean forward, kiss his chin. His stubble burns my lips. His chest flattens my breasts, the soft cotton of his T-shirt teasing my aching nipples.

“You feel so good.” Hawke's rhythm grows wilder. “You're hot and wet and mine.” He grunts each word. “I'll never let you go.” His arms close around me, his fingers pressing against my back. “Never.”

God. I arch my back. He knows what I need to hear. My pussy constricts around him, the friction escalating my desire.

“Can't. Need.” My mind splintered by his touch, I'm unable to form complete sentences. “Hawke, please.”

“I have you.” He sinks his fingers into my hair, pulls my head back. I shudder, pinpricks of pain shooting over my scalp. Sweat glistens on his face. His shaft swells inside me.

He's close, as close as I am to release. I resist the urge to squeeze his shaft, wanting to plunge over the edge with him.