Hawk (70 page)

How can something so awful be so perfect? How can she not sense that I'm here to destroy her?

What am I going to do?

Oh, great. She's asleep.

She starts snoring. Even that is endearing. She looks like an angel when she's sleeping. Her hair is all tangled, she's flushed and sweaty, and so gloriously naked, her big breasts resting against me, her skin so silky as she breathes in her sleep. She snorts and shifts and the snoring stops, but her breath tickles my armpit. It's never been like this before. We didn't even go all the way and all I want to do is wrap my arms around her and protect her. She looks so
delicate
like this, something truly rare and precious.

It takes some doing to detach from her, but I manage it. I lay her down on the couch and wrap her up in a blanket, and she curls up into the fetal position and settles there. I tug my shorts back up and sit next to her, wondering what in the hell I'm going to do about this. I don't want to hurt her.

I sag, my head falling into my hands, and feel the world spinning around me. This was such a mistake. I should have just left when I had the chance, and now… now what is she going to think? The way she looks at me, nobody has ever looked at me like that before. She sees me, if that makes any sense.

She keeps rubbing her feet together. Her toes must be cold. I pull the blanket over them and she stops, makes a soft sound, and stills in her sleep.

Time to go, Apollo. Get up and walk out, call her later.

I'm supposed to search the house for the codes but I don't even know where to start. I can't bring myself to leave. I should go somewhere, do something.

Somehow, I manage to sit there for an hour or more, staring at nothing. No answer presents itself to me. What am I going to do?

Then she wakes up. She yawns, looks over, and smiles, wraps the blanket around her wonderfully naked body and downs the rest of a can of warm, probably flat orange soda, and puts her head on my shoulder. Her arm slides around my waist.

I know, rationally, I need to pull away from her. I can't. I hold her back, lean back into the sofa and look past her.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"You're lying."

I flinch. You're damn right I'm lying. I'm here to rob you. You're the means to an end. This is just a job.

Except it isn't anymore.

The concern on her face only makes her more beautiful. Then she does it. She touches my cheek, runs her hand over the stubble and smiles.

"Talk to me. I don't know anything about you."

"What is there to tell?"

I have a cover story. We went through it together, point by point, but the details are slipping away from me now, like trying to grasp too big a handful of sand. I can't tell her the truth.

"Where are you even from?"

"Bayonne. I grew up in a housing project with my mother."

"Housing project? I thought…"

"That we're rich? I guess we'd have to be, to be donors, or whatever, right? My father is. My mother wasn't. He wasn't around when I was younger."

"That's awful. Where did he go?"

"He never told me," which is almost accurate. My father's life before he took me into it is a void. I don't know how much, if any, of what he's told me is true. What he has told me amounts of a few scant details, pieces of a puzzle that don't always fit.

I wrote off the inconsistencies as indicators of truth, to be honest. The real world is never perfect, things never make absolute sense. That's the foundation of a good lie, knowing the difference between something that makes too little sense to be true and something that makes too little sense to be false.

My deep breath turns into a sigh.

"She got sick. Lung cancer."

"Did she smoke?"

"No. Didn't help."

"Oh." Her hand presses to my chest as she rubs her cheek
 
into my side. "I'm sorry."

"Not your fault."

"I'm still sorry. That's awful. How old were you?"

"Thirteen. Dad came for me then. Took me under his wing. I think Mom got word to him somehow. He came and took me after the funeral. I didn't have anybody else. Mom was an only child and her parents were dead."

"Why didn't he help you while she was alive?"

I have to roll that question around a bit. You know, I don't know the answer. He didn't have to be there. He could have at least sent money, kept us in better conditions, done something about her care when the insurance dropped. It was like he never checked on us at all.

"I don't know. I guess he took me in because he felt guilty."

"You seem a little distant with him," she sighs. "Look, I…" her voice catches, just a bit. "I like you a lot, but I don't know about him. I may be fighting with her but she's still my mom. Is he going to hurt her?"

I pull her close to me.

"I don't know. I think he feels stronger about her than he wants to admit."

That much is true. He's been acting off this whole time, ever since the last job. I don't know if it's affection for Carol or not.

"He doesn't sound like a nice person. Leaving you two alone all that time…"

"He had his reasons."

"Sounds like you trust him."

"Yeah."

She yawns. "Did he teach you how to fight?"

"Yes. He taught me how to do all sorts of things."

She looks up at me with wide eyes.

"Uh, not that stuff. That's… experience."

"Oh.
Oh
. Oh my God." She sits up, pulling the blanket over her full breasts. The gesture is so endearing and demure I can't stop staring at her. "How many?"

"Uh, a lot. I didn't really count, I mean it's not something I brag about…"

She's staring at me now, her mouth open a little.

"I'm… I did it safely. You don't need to worry about that."

She swallows, her throat bobbing. "This isn't some kind of a game, is it? You're not just messing with me, are you?"

"No. No, I swear. There's something different about you, Diana. I want to tell you everything, but…"

But if I tell you everything, you'll throw me out of the house and never speak to me again, and probably call the cops. That's if you don't stab me for my trouble.

"What is there that you're not telling me?"

"A lot," I whisper.

I'm not sure what I'm expecting. Anger, maybe, but her hand rests on my back and rubs in slow circles. Not in a sexy way, like she's trying to arouse me. It's comforting. She puts her head on my shoulder.

"You can talk to me. I'll listen."

"I don't know what to tell you."

I swallow. Something about saying that hurts more than it should.

She pulls the blanket up to her neck and sighs a deep, sad sigh. "Are you going to leave?"

"No. I"ll stay if you want me to. I just…"

"Nobody needs to know what we're doing for this week. We can sort things out when they get back."

Yeah. We can sort things out when they get back.

I'll give Dad a chance. Lay it out. I can't do this to her, I can't let this happen to these people. They don't deserve it.

"So," Diana murmurs, "Are you going to spend the night, then?"

"Yes, I am."

"Good."

She rises and shrugs out of the blanket, grabs her clothes and walks to the stairs. I hate to see her leave, but I love to watch her go. All I can do is stare, open-mouthed. She cradles her breasts in her arm as she walks up the stairs, and I lean forward to crane for a better view of her perfect ass swaying as she makes her way up. Then I leap up and follow her. I want her so bad I can taste it. It sings in my veins like fire, hammers in my chest. It's like I've been crawling through the desert and she's a glass of water, and all I have to do is drink.

I can't. Not yet. I can't be her first and then just disappear on her, especially if Dad carries off the heist anyway. She'd be crushed, I can feel it. She's so inexperience about the whole thing. Everything is new to her, and through her, it's new to me, too. I've always gone down on my conquests because I
like
it, but this time it was different. It was about her, about making her feel pleasure, about making her happy. My touches weren't to satisfy me but to drive her to higher heights of pleasure. I want to do that now. I want to see her red faced and sweating, her hair fanned out over the bed, her body heaving, her hands balled into fists as she can't take it anymore and screams for me not to stop. I want to grab her naked body, feel her warm softness against me and carry her right to the bed.

When I make it upstairs, she's in the shower.

"Join me," she calls.

I swallow, hard. It's going to be tough keeping control of myself like that, but I can't turn her down, either. I lay my clothes on her bed and walk over to the bathroom, step inside and spread back the shower curtain. Her hair is all wet and glued to her back, strands hanging over her shoulders, clinging to her nipples. Her mismatched eyes make her look like some kind of exotic, supernatural creature, a goddess or nymph out of a myth. Even the thick brown hair between her legs is slicked down and wet. It looks good on her. I like it.

All those curves. Her body is so full and lush. I can't stop myself from slipping into the shower with her and running my hands up her sides, feeling her tremble under my touch. Every little thing excites her, everything is new. I step in and she presses against me, her big breasts sliding over my chest, and she leans on me, holds me. She's so content just to
touch
me. What is this? When her hair is wet it's a thick, full mop, and my hands get lost in it as I slip them around her. The feeling of her wet skin slipping against mine, the soft scent of her hair under my nose, and I'm hard again. I want to fuck her so bad. The idea of being her first, of calming her fears and gently entering her as I reassure her with my gaze makes me hard as a rock, so hard it hurts.

Her hand curls around my shaft and she starts stroking, still holding me in her arm as I embrace her. My legs start to tremble almost immediately. It's like she just
knows
how to please me. She starts grinning as I start groaning.

"Slow down," I murmur, and kiss her.

I kiss her a lot. I'm afraid the water is going to go cold. I push her into the tiles and she spreads her legs and it would be easy, so easy to just slide inside her. I know she wants it, I can feel her throbbing at the idea, but I let her slip her hand away and slide my cock against her wet stomach until I explode all over her.

The look on her face is priceless, and I enjoy soaping her up as much as I enjoy the event that led to it, even if my legs feel like jelly. Washing her up turns into just holding her from behind, her breasts cradled in my arm as I slide my hand between her legs. The wet heat I feel isn't from the shower water.

It isn't long before she can't stand up anymore, her legs shaking hard, so I lower her to the bottom of the tub with me and slowly finger her there, savoring the feeling of her tight walls gripping my finger, wishing I could take her fully. I should stop this, but her excitement drives me on, her moans are like a song calling my name.

She arches against me, her legs jittering as they shoot out straight in front of her. She feels tight all over, her muscles coiled until they feel like they'll pop, her soft skin furnace hot. I ease off when I feel her getting close, again, and again, and again, until there's no turning back and she bucks against me. Her little squeaks are adorable, it's like she's afraid to moan.

Then she relaxes. The water is going to go cold soon if we don't get out. She reaches out and turns it off with her foot, and lays there, a content smile on her face, until she finally sits up.

When she steps out I have to do it. I grab a towel and sit her down, and start rubbing her down. She trembles, her face twitching between confusion and enjoyment. I've never felt an urge to do these things before. When I'm done I'm done, but soon I find myself running a brush through her hair, smoothing it to her head.

I could get used to this.

I don't have anything to change into, so I end up putting my old clothes back on, slowly as I watch her dress. It's fascinating. Not like I've never seen a woman put on clothes before, but her ever movement draws my eye. Even watching her slip into a bra is sexy, and her choice of underwear isn't what I'm used to, just plain white cotton. She tugs up a pair of loose lounge pants and a shirt that all swallows her curves, but when she moves the way they drape over her body hints at what lies underneath.

"Dinner?"

"Yeah."

"I'm not much of a cook," she confesses, shrugging. "I can microwave something."

I feel like I'm in a dreamworld. She's so…
normal
. She hums as she cuts slits in the plastic wrapping on some microwave dinners, and fidgets, her fingers drumming on her hips, while they cook. She stands off to the side when the microwave warms up.

"Why are you doing that?"

"I don't want to stand directly in front of the beams. It gives you brain cancer."

She flinches.

"Uh, sorry."

"You don't have to try not to say the word cancer around me ever again."

She smiles sadly. "You had a rough time growing up, huh."

I can't help but look around. "It wasn't like this. It's just you and your Mom?"

"Yeah. Dad divorced her. I have a half-sister I've never met, out in Arizona."

I laugh. She shoots me a look.

"It wouldn't surprise me if I have some half-siblings running around out there somewhere."

Diana eyes me. "Your Dad is that kind of guy, huh?"

I swallow, hard. "I, uh, he must have sowed his wild oats. Before I was born, I'm sure. I was just joking. I don't know of any siblings."

"You know my Mom went to Las Vegas with this guy."

"Right, he's my father. We've met."

The microwave dings and she sets the tray before me, and starts heating her own, again avoiding standing directly in front of it while it cooks. The food is passable, but I eat it hungrily. I am hungry, but it's almost like I don't want to insult her cooking. Diana picks through hers, her cheek propped on her fist. She looks at me, her mismatched eyes sucking my attention away from everything else in the room. I feel something on my foot and realize it's her toes.