Sinful Rewards 12 (8 page)

I suck back a sob. He'll help me take care of my mom.

“Yes, sir.” My mom snaps into a salute.

My laughter joins Hawke's. My mom looks adorable and not at all dignified. My salute
has
to be better than hers.

“Show me that big-assed ring,” Cyndi demands from the next display. “You dirty whore.”

I beam, my heart expanding until it threatens to burst from my chest. I have friends, a happy mom, a biker family, a humongous rock on my finger, and a mountain of a man behind me, a former marine whom I love and who loves me.

It's damn good to be Bee.

“D
ID YOU SEE
Nicolas's face when you asked him to be your best man?” I skip along the third-floor hallway, still bubbling with excitement hours later, thrilled to be returning to the condo, our permanent home. “Thank you.” I hug Hawke's arm. “It meant a lot to him.”

“Nicolas was the right choice.” My military man links his fingers with mine. “He was the reason we met when we did.”

“He was the reason we met at all.” That precariously thin thread of fate, joining us, creates an anxiety inside me. Which is foolish. We did meet. We're together now. “If Nicolas hadn't asked you to investigate me, if I hadn't moved into his beautiful building with Cyndi, you—”

“I would have found you eventually.” Hawke's tread is soundless on the luxurious blue carpet, the rolling, purposeful walk of a natural predator. “I would have roamed the planet, searching for you, not stopping until you were in my arms.”

God, he knows what to say. My heart swells with emotion, his words making my insides melt into a puddle of warm goo. “You said I could have my wicked way with you.” I want him. Now.

“I'm all yours.” Hawke swings me into his arms, and I yelp, surprised. The barbed wire tattoo ripples along his right bicep.

“What are you doing?” I slap his cotton-covered chest.

Hawke opens the door to our condo. “I'm carrying my bride across the threshold.” The scent of lemons fills my nostrils. “It's good luck.”

“I'm not your bride yet.” I will be soon. My toes curl in my shoes.

“You've always been my bride.” He steps into our home, my body cradled in his arms.

We're not entering an empty space. Gisele sits on her haunches, staring up at us with her yellow cat eyes. My chest heats. Has she been waiting for us all this time?

“Hi, Gisele.” I grin at her. “Did you miss us?”

She flicks her tail and walks away, her lean body swaying.

“That would be a no.” I track her progress, expecting her to turn around, to give us, her pet parents, a warmer welcome. She doesn't. Our cat is a diva.

“Gisele is a cat, love.” Hawke chuckles, his chest vibrating against my shoulder. “They aren't the most demonstrative creatures.”

“They aren't the neatest creatures either.” Dry cat food is scattered across the hardwood floor, the tiny smiling fish spread everywhere. The missile launcher-themed scratching post has also been torn to strips. “You've been bad, Gisele.”

Our cat plunks her skinny feline ass in front of the window and gazes out, ignoring me and the disastrous state of the room. I can't blame her for not caring. Before we met, she was living alone in a garbage-filled back alley, having been abandoned by her humans. We'll have to earn her trust and her love.

As Hawke earned mine.

“Gisele made a terrible mess while we were gone.” I wiggle, trying to free myself from his grip. “I should clean it up.”

“Cleaning can wait.” He walks with me into our bedroom.

“But”—my fingers twitch—“our home is filthy.”

“Love is messy, sweetheart.” Hawke tosses me onto the bed and I bounce. “You'll soon see how messy.” He pulls his T-shirt over his head, drops it on the floor.

I stare up at him, admiring his muscular form, in awe that this man belongs to me. Tattooed wings stretch across Hawke's collarbone, the black ink contrasting with his golden skin. USMC is printed on his left pec, over his heart, a visible reminder of his days in the Marines. A thick scar slashes through his right nipple. If his wound had been deeper, I would have lost him, would never have experienced this wild, unruly, yet lasting and constant love.

Under the white gauze wrapped around his left hand is his latest tattoo, my name branded on his skin forever. I'll change that bandage later, care for him as he cares for me.

“You're not undressing.” Hawke nudges his big boots off his feet and removes his socks.

“I'm enjoying the show.” I fold my arms behind my head. “Sometimes I like to watch too.”

“I like that you watch me.” He echoes words I've said to him in the past and flexes his muscles for me, the cascading ridges of flesh over his abdomen rippling. “But this is an interactive show. I expect audience participation.”

“You'll get it.” I won't be able to keep my hands off him.

“Good.” Hawke pops the fly of his faded blue jeans one button at a time, revealing dark curly hair and a hard shaft. My mouth dries and I lick my bottom lip. Hawke's gaze tracks this movement, his eyes brightening to a brilliant blue. He shoves the denim downward and straightens proudly, allowing me to look at all of him.

This man is mine. It's his ring on my finger. I touch the band and his cock bobs. He likes that I'm his, that every man knows I'm taken.

“Hawke.” I don't hide my need.

“If you like your pretty clothes, remove them.” His eyes gleam. “Because I'm one hot look away from ripping them off your sweet body.”

“We can't have that.” My fingers tremble as I unbuckle my shoes. “I earned these clothes.” I kick them off my feet. “I was a very bad girl.” I tug my blouse and my camisole over my head, not caring . . . much . . . where they landed, my attention on him, on tormenting my former marine until he breaks.

That will happen soon. Hawke watches me with a pussy-wetting intensity, his fingers curling into tight fists, a bead of precum forming on his cock head.

“I fucked a sexy hunk in front of an audience.” I unzip my pants, shimmy them over my hips. “I begged for more, more, more as he rammed his big cock into my tight, hot pussy.” I run my hands over my bare skin, pull the cups of my bra downward, showing him my ivory curves, my taut pink nipples.

“Time's up.” Hawke pounces on me. I squeal, trying to escape him, hoping I won't be successful. He pins me to the mattress and yanks on my panties, shredding them, the silk burning my skin. His savagery thrills me. The slight pain spikes my need.

“Yes, take me.” I arch, pressing my nipples against his chest. “Stamp your ownership all over me.”

“You belong to me.” Hawke prods my entrance with his broad tip. “And only me.” He thrusts hard and deep, filling me completely, and I cry his name, tilting my hips to take all of him, every delicious inch. Nothing feels as good as his cock inside me, his fit physique over mine, his weight pressing me into the mattress.

I grasp his shoulders. The diamonds on my left hand sparkle, Hawke's visible claim on my body, heart, soul thrilling me. He won't regret his decision. I'll read articles, research secrets of lasting couples. I'll be the best damn fiancée possible.

And if I fail, he'll love me anyway. Hawke doesn't expect perfection from me. I rock with him, splattering kisses over his stubble-covered cheeks, square chin, neck. He has seen me at my worst—covered with grime, red-eyed from crying, semihysterical with fear, losing my shit over a misunderstanding—and he continues to care, to want me.

My military man won't ever leave me. I undulate under him, caressing him with my entire form, our tempo unhurried, as though we have a lifetime to find release.

We do. He's mine forever. Rock's dog tags nestle between my breasts, more proof of Hawke's constancy, his devotion to friends, family, me.

“Priceless.” He sweeps his lips over mine, sucks on my flesh, the pull escalating my need. “You're so fuckin' priceless.”

He meets my gaze, his eyes brilliant blue with passion, and I glow, overfilling with confidence, seeing myself as he does. I'm not the child no one wanted, the disposable friend wearing cheap knockoffs, the easily replaced employee. I'm priceless, designer, one of a kind, a strong, powerful woman worthy of love, success, everything she ever wanted.

“I have a price.” I wrap my arms around his neck, my legs around his hips, rising up to meet him. “Give me all of your love and you can have me, no refunds, no returns.”

“You have it, Belinda.” Hawke drives into me harder, faster, his tanned skin glistening with moisture, darkening his tattoos, his silver scars. “You've always had all of my love.” The bed thumps against the hardwood floor. “All of me.”

“Then I'm yours.” I've been his since the first moment we met, our love inevitable, as unstoppable as fate, as a summer storm. Our bodies smack together, the sound obscenely loud, and delicious heat radiates from my breasts, hips.

The window is bare of curtains, of blinds. Anyone looking at our condo will see Hawke's thick cock spearing between my pink pussy lips, his muscles moving against my curves, his golden skin sliding over my pale curves. They'll see his ring on my finger, the bandage on his hand, realize our claim on each other, recognize us as a couple.

I run my hands over his shoulders, his back, savoring the swell of muscle, the indents near his spine, the warmth and size of him. We're no longer individuals, alone, with no one standing protectively behind us. We have each other.

I bounce my heels against his clenched ass cheeks, urging him to move faster. He grunts, following my orders, increasing our pace, his thrusts shaking the bed, slamming the headboard against the wall.

“Yes, give me everything you have.” I push back, amplifying each drive forward, turned on by his strength. This is my man. His power, his savagery, now belongs to me. “Make me feel you for days, weeks.”

“Fuck, you're perfect.” Hawke's voice lowers to a deep growl, the sound rolling up my spine, feeding the flames inside me. “Made for me.” He presses his cheek against mine, his stubble razing my skin, the sensation mind-numbing.

“Harder.” I push him more, wanting him beyond speech, beyond thinking.

He complies, grunting with every thrust, his eyes wild. We fuck like two wild animals, rutting with no barriers between us, a shimmer of perspiration coating our forms. I pant, a strap of emotion tightening around my chest, restricting my lungs, making it difficult to breath. My arms and legs tremble. My pussy hums with the sweet abuse, my inner walls constricting around his shaft.

“Love.” Hawke sucks on my neck, his muscles straining under my palms. His distinctive scent—leather, engine grease, and man—fills my nostrils, each gulp bringing him into my body. “Love.” He chants this endearment over and over as he pistons in and out of me, a relentless fucking machine designed to drive me insane.

I dig my fingernails into his shoulders, holding on to him, my mountain, my rock, fighting to delay my release. We crash into each other again and again, our forms meshing, then retreating, meshing, then retreating.

Each collision strips more of my control, pushing me closer to the brink until I'm dangling over the abyss, supported only by my grip on him. He won't allow me to fall, not until I want to.

Oh shit. I grit my teeth, tremors shaking my form. I can't delay much longer.

My lust-ravished gaze sweeps over Hawke. He appears as far gone. Veins lift on his forehead. His body is hard, his muscles flexed. I'm tormenting both of us by denying my release.

“Hawke.” I tilt my head, offering him the delicate skin at my neck. “Please.” I need the pain to pitch me over the edge. “I need.”

“Yes.” He scrapes his teeth over my neck. He knows what I need. I quiver, ready, so fucking ready for this. “Come for me, love.” Hawke thrusts deep. “Come now.” He nips my skin.

I scream his name, propelling myself upward. He doesn't allow me to fly far, to hurt myself, caging me with his muscle, pinning me to the mattress, his cum heating my pussy, his cock pulsing inside me.

I wiggle and writhe. He pushes deeper, grinding his base against my clit, drawing more pleasure from my unwilling form. Colors explode in my mind, more radiant than the diamonds on my finger. Warmth spreads over me, our connection perfect, right.

This is what forever feels like. I fall back, staring up at Hawke. And this is what it looks like. I cup his cheeks, his short coarse hairs tickling my fingers. Forever isn't pretty or perfect. I stroke his blunt features, his square chin. But it's real and better than I ever imagined. I wish everyone could experience this.

“I love you, Hawke.” My voice is husky.

“I love you too, sweetheart.” He rolls onto his back, taking me with him. I sprawl over his heaving chest, riding the ups and downs of his breaths, his heart pounding under my cheek. “This is where you belong.”

He strokes his fingers through my hair, smoothing the strands, his touch comforting me. “It is.” I smile.

F
IVE MONTHS LATER
, I still can't believe I'm getting married.

“This is the finishing touch.” Kenzie, the perky bridal consultant, places the lace veil on my head. This gorgeous one-of-a-kind handcrafted accessory matches my Vera Wang mermaid gown, yet is classic and timeless, an heirloom piece to be handed down to my daughter.

The daughter we haven't yet conceived. I press my fingers over my flat stomach. Hawke and I were both disappointed that the first broken condom didn't have consequences, that we didn't immediately need the wedding dress I had rush ordered.

“You'll be a beautiful bride, Belinda.” Kenzie presses her hands together, her eyes glowing. “Do you want to show the others?” My entourage waits in a nearby viewing room.

“I'll be out in a second.” I want to have a moment of my own, to absorb this, freeze this occasion in my mind.

“Take your time.” She leaves me to dream of the man I love, the day we'll officially become one.

R, Nicolas's club, is reserved for a Saturday three weeks from now. Everything is taken care of: the flowers, cake, food ordered. Hawke will wear his tux. My mom will walk me down the aisle. We'll dance and laugh and celebrate love, life, friends, and family.

I gaze at my image in the full-length mirror one more time and slip out of the dressing room. My heels make no sound on the plush carpet. I creep toward the viewing room, peek around the corner.

Ellen and Mack, my security team for the day, stand by the far entrance, nattering back and forth. Ellen was assigned to this girly outing. Mack volunteered. I suspect he wished to tease the beautiful assassin. I also suspect that he likes her more than he admits, his gaze following her everywhere.

My unlikely advisors are seated on the three white couches facing a pedestal. Nicolas, my billionaire friend, lounges on one couch, his legs sprawled before him, his dark head bent over his phone, a scowl on his handsome face. On another couch, Lona is applying red lipstick to my mom's smiling lips. The two older women have formed a surprising bond during the wedding planning. Susan and Cyndi sit on the third couch. Susan is staring at Nicolas as though he's a tub of that Heavenly Hash ice cream he's always bringing me. Cyndi is yapping on her phone.

Our business, Covert Couture, is growing at a dizzying rate, and she has been interviewing possible assistants for two positions, one in Chicago and the other in LA. One of Cole's actress friends talked about our desire to be stylists for the average woman in a celebrity gossip magazine, and our phone has been ringing off the hook ever since.

Hawke grumbles about how he and the Organization are our most important clients and we shouldn't forget that, but I know he's proud of us. His pale blue eyes glow whenever I talk about the business.

Being a stylist puts more pressure on me to ensure my wedding dress is perfect. I'll be representing our company.

It's time to be critiqued.

“Duh, duh, duh-duh.” I hum the wedding march as I move forward, walking as I will on my special day.

Phones lower. Heads turn. My mom bursts into tears.

“My honeybee is getting married.” She gives me a watery smile.

Lona pushes tissues into her hands.

“Hawke is going to freak.” Cyndi bounces, her enthusiasm causing Susan to bounce also. “You had better plan to cut the cake right away. Your badass biker will want to start the wedding night early.”

“You have that freshness, that innocence men can't resist,” Lona, the expert in men, adds. “Am I right, Mr. Rainer?”

Nicolas gazes at me, appreciation in his brown eyes. “Are you trying to get me killed, Miss LaMarre? I'm not commenting on the attractiveness of our bride-to-be. I like my head where it is.”

“Stuck up your ass,” Cyndi mutters. The two have come to an agreement. She makes wisecracks. He ignores her.

Kenzie joins us, fluttering around, oohing and aahing. My mom continues to cry. Cyndi and Susan look to me for advice with their own looks. Lona is busy, comforting my mom.

That leaves me with my blunt-talking billionaire as a source of feedback.

“You promised to be brutally honest with me, Nicolas.” I turn, allowing him to see my dress from all angles. “Tell me how I can improve my look.”

He surveys me with a critical eye, taking his role seriously. “It's almost perfect.”

“Almost?” Cyndi gasps. “She looks like a fuckin' fairy princess.”

“The top”—he waves a well-manicured hand at my bodice—“is too loose.”

“You're an uptight prig, Rainer.” My best friend springs to the dress's defense. “You can't swathe her from head to toe in fabric. This isn't medieval times.”

“Straight men don't know about fashion.” Kenzie is on Cyndi's side.

“Maybe not.” Nicolas's voice is curt and clipped. “But this straight man
does
know he'd rather not look at his best friend's nipples all night.”

“She's not your best friend.” Cyndi jumps to her feet. “She's mine.”

“And mine,” Susan murmurs.

“And mine,” Lona adds.

“You look so beautiful.” My mom blows her nose.

They love me. These five crazy wonderful people love me, consider me their best friend, and, in my mom's case, her beloved daughter. My eyes sting with unshed tears. Oh God. I tilt my head back. They'll make me cry too.

“I know that look.” Cyndi stalks up to me, having designated herself as my emotional watchdog. “You have to hold it together on your wedding day or you'll ruin your makeup.” She punches me on the shoulder. “Better?”

“Better.” I rub my skin. “Thanks.”

“Not a problem. It's what a best friend would do, a true best friend.” She slides her gaze to Nicolas. He lifts one eyebrow. Cyndi narrows her eyes at him and then looks down my top. “I don't see any nipples, Rainer.”

Kill me now. My face heats.

“I'm taller than you are.” He sounds damn sure about his position on my cleavage.

Cyndi drags over a chair, stands on it. Red creeps up her neck. She glances at the far wall for a moment, takes another look down my dress, and sighs. “Shit. The bodice needs to be tighter.”

Nicolas's lips curl upward, his expression smug.

Kenzie clips the bodice. “It's a small alteration, Belinda. We can do it in a couple of days.”

“That's fine.” I gaze at Nicolas. “Is there anything else I should modify?”

“The asshole in me is tempted to say your choice of husband-to-be,” the billionaire teases, his smile reaching his eyes. “Hawke is a fortunate man.”

“I'm a fortunate woman.” I smile back at him. “I'll change into my street clothes and then we can all go for lunch.” Nicolas opens his mouth, a protest written across his gorgeous face. “You promised me half the day, Mr. Rainer.”

Nicolas groans. Cyndi cheers. My mom cries harder.

If she's this emotional over my dress, Hawke will, as Cyndi says, freak. This is exactly the response I want. I hum happily as I return to the dressing room.

Kenzie takes my veil. “I shouldn't have said that to Mr. Rainer. I forgot who he was.” She unzips my dress, helps to lower the garment.

“Don't worry about it.” I step out of the circle of fabric. “He wasn't offended.” I assist her in placing the dress back in the garment bag. “Between you and me, I think more people should forget who he is.”

“That's unlikely.” She laughs. “I'll take your dress to alterations.” The blonde hurries out of the dressing room.

I gaze at myself in the mirror. The strapless dress didn't require a bra and my breasts are bare, my nipples tightening in the cool air. I'm wearing only my white heels, thigh-high stockings, panties.

This is how Hawke will see me on my wedding night, my brown hair cascading down my back, my skin as pale as my undergarments. I touch the stockings, enjoying the feel of them against my palms. Will he like them too, or do men prefer skin?

The door clicks open and closed behind me. Kenzie would know.

“Are the stockings too much?” I ask. “I want to look sexy, not sleazy.”

“Sweetheart, if you look any sexier, I won't make it through the service.” Hawke's big form appears behind me in the mirror.

“Hawke.” I manage to turn my squeal into a whisper. “You're not supposed to be here.”

“It's good that I am.” He slides his scarred fingers along my stocking, leaving a trail of sexual awareness over my form. “My consultation skills are needed.” He clasps the dainty ribbon ties at my hips. “I expect my bride to be bare under her wedding dress.”

“I couldn't try on my wedding dress with no panties.” I lean against him, trusting my former marine to keep me upright, to never allow me to fall. “This is a respectable boutique.”

“You're not trying on your wedding dress right now.” He twists the ribbons until they snap, the fabric burning my skin. The panties float to the floor. He's such a beast. My eyes glow.

“You didn't see my dress, did you?” I attempt a stern tone, achieve huskiness. “It's bad luck.”

“I didn't peek.” Hawke cups my mons, the contrast of his tanned hand against my ivory skin exciting me, the pressure exactly right. “I waited for the blonde lady to leave.”

Kenzie could return. “She might come back.” The possibility of being caught thrills me. “Discover us.”

“Then we'll have to be quick.” Hawke spreads his fingers, parting my pussy folds, revealing my pinkness. “And quiet.” He nuzzles against my neck, teasing me with the stubble on his chin. “No screaming my name or begging me for more, more, more.”

He knows it's impossible for me to remain silent, especially with the way he touches me. “You're bad.” I gaze at him through the mirror, enthralled by the love on his face, the passion in his eyes.

“I'm the worst.” Hawke pushes his tattooed ring finger inside me, and I bite down on my bottom lip, stifling my moan. “Watch us, sweetheart.”

He pumps me with this permanent symbol of his love. My juices glisten on the black ink. I rock, taking him deeper and deeper. He adds a second finger, stretching me even more.

I'm wearing heels and flimsy white stockings, my form tiny against his wide shoulders, fit physique. Hawke is fully dressed in his hideous black T-shirt, faded blue jeans, monstrous boots. The contrast between us never fails to stimulate me.

It must turn him on also. The ridge in his jeans presses between my ass cheeks.

I want that big cock inside me. “Don't tease me, Hawke.” I bend over, flattening my palms against the mirror. “You know what I want.” I wiggle against him.

“Patience, love.” He gives me that lopsided grin I adore, leisurely strokes me, determined to drive me crazy.

I have ammunition of my own. “I forgot to take my birth control pills today.”

This statement gets immediate results. “Fuck, Belinda.” My military man pulls his fingers from my wet pussy, straightening. “You tell me this now?” He pops his button fly. “If I'd known, I would have spent the morning inside you.” He shoves the denim to his knees.

“You
did
spend the morning inside me.” I grin, waving my ass in the air.

“I would have spent every minute of it.” Hawke prods my feminine folds with his tip, searching for my entrance. “You would have missed this appointment.” He finds what he's looking for, pushing his broad cock head into me, filling me as only he can.

“Then we would have missed this.” I meet his gaze via our reflection.

“You're so fuckin' perfect for me.” He thrusts deep, making us one, again, still, forever. I chomp down on my bottom lip, sucking back a scream, waves of delight radiating from my center.

He doesn't allow me to catch my breath, pulling back and driving forward, pulling back and driving forward, his face dark with intent, his eyes fierce with emotion. When I woke, he loved me gently in our bed, then hard against the shower stall wall.

This is a different type of fucking, one I have yet to experience. Hawke is a virile dominant male seeking to plant his seed in his fertile female, to create the next generation, to bind us together permanently. He's primitive and feral.

And I love it. I pant against the mirror, steaming up the surface, my breasts swaying with each vigorous thrust. Our bodies smack together, heat spreading over my ass, thighs, lower back. He grips my hips, holding me in place.

Not that I wish to escape him. I sway backward, meeting him halfway, as equals, a strong woman claiming her strong man. Moisture covers my form, creating a sheen that reflects the light, making me sparkle all over like the diamonds on my finger.

The air fills with my musk, with his unique leather, engine grease, and man scent. He bends over me, the cotton of his T-shirt soft against my back, and grunts into my ear, the primal sounds of our rutting causing my pussy to constrict around his shaft.

“Hawke.”

“Hush, love.” He drags his teeth over my neck, flooding my form with bliss.

We have to be quiet. If we aren't, we'll have to stop, and I don't want that. Ever. This feels too good, too right. There are no barriers between us, our connection tight.

“Fuck.” Hawke ravishes me with his cock, smacking his balls against my skin. “Fuck.”

He pulls my hair, forcing my head upward, demanding that I meet his gaze. His eyes are brilliant blue, shining like sapphires. His jaw is clenched. Sweat beads on his forehead.

We fuck like wild animals in this sophisticated Chicago wedding boutique, writhing, bucking, Hawke's fingers twisting in my tendrils. Outside this dressing room, women are talking about tiaras and tulle, silk and taffeta, not knowing that one massive groom is pounding his cock into his bride-to-be, taking her like the savage he is.

“Hawke?” I shake, crazed with the need to come. When I do, I'll scream and everyone will know. We'll be discovered, embarrassed. “Hawke?” I need his assistance. He'll know what to do.