Sinful Rewards 12 (6 page)

“Come for me.” Hawke scrapes his teeth along my neck and I shudder, my grip on reality loosening. I can't last. I can't—

“Now, love.” He tugs on my hair.

The pain breaks me, and everything inside me contracts, my pussy clenching down on his cock, my fingers curling into fists. I open my mouth to scream.

Hawke covers my lips with his, swallowing the sound, adding his roar to the mix. Liquid heat shoots from his tip, bathing my battered pussy, the sensation unlike any I've ever experienced. He pushes deeper, his ass lifting off the chair, as though he wishes to brand as much of me as he can with his essence.

Hawke holds this impossible pose for one, two heartbeats, and then falls. His bare skin smacks against the leather seat. My ass slaps against his legs, setting off an after-tremor of pleasure within me.

I quiver with delight, the ecstasy of our joining too good to comprehend. He rubs my back, murmuring words I'm too fractured to decipher.

As the fog of bliss clears, I remember his new tattoo. “Did I hurt you?” I pull back, grasp his left wrist, examine his finger. There's no blood on the white gauze. “Are you feeling okay?” I touch his forehead. His skin is hot and moist. “Did we overdo it?”

“I'm better than okay, love.” Hawke's eyelids are partially lowered, his face soft. “Remember how you felt when you walked into the Road Gator and everyone cheered?”

“It was one of the best moments of my life.” Until a few minutes ago, our arrival at the Road Gator had been the very best moment. But this was surpassed when I saw my name tattooed on Hawke's body, heard him declare his feelings for me.

My military man meets my gaze, the love in his eyes taking my breath away. “That's how I feel right now.”

H
AWKE LIFTS ME
off him, setting my ass on the desk. Warmth rushes down my thighs and I gaze downward, dismayed. “Sex without a condom is messy.”

He chuckles, pulls his jeans up, fastens them. “Hold still, love.” He scoops my white blouse off the carpet. Before I can protest, he kneels before me and sweeps the soft cloth over my skin, cleaning me gently, thoroughly.

“I have to wear that blouse.” I frown. It will be stained with his cum.

“Do you?” He presses his lips to my right knee, his impulsive kiss curling my toes. “I could keep you naked.” He kisses the left. “And at my mercy.”

I'm already at his mercy. “When we leave this office, your men will get quite a show.”

“They can look. They can't touch.” Hawke straightens, hands me the brown cardboard box. “You're mine.”

I turn the box, examining it from all angles. “Is this one last reward?”

“This is one more reward.” He sits beside me, completely clothed. I remain naked. “The missions, if you choose to accept them”—my military man grins—“will continue indefinitely.”

He'll continue to test my sexual boundaries and surprise me with luxurious rewards. Excitement zips through me. “I will choose to accept them.” I consider the size and shape of the box, speculating at its contents. “The rewards don't have to be as extravagant as they have been.” I'm aware that we have three households to maintain—ours, my mom's, and Cyndi's—and that we both have businesses to grow. “I only need one purse, one evening gown, one beautiful hair comb.”

Hawke brushes a strand of hair away from my face. “You like to have a relationship with your pretty things, to use them often.” He's aware that I don't abandon anyone or anything. “I'll only give you rewards that you need, love.”

He believes I need this recent gift. Unable to prolong the suspense any longer, I rip open the box. “Your Reward” is printed across white card stock. I move this message to the side. “I keep all of these.”

“I know.”

Hawke watches me. He knows everything.

I brush the brown tissue paper aside, revealing light blue tulle. My fingers tremble as I shake out the fabric. Clusters of pink and dark gray glitter embellish the Mary Katrantzou blouse. “This is so beautiful.” I hold it up to me. “And sheer.” I lift my eyebrows. “Your men will see everything.”

“It matches my eyes.” Hawke's voice is husky. “And there's more.”

There
is
more. A black silk cami is neatly folded in the box. “It's perfect.” I feed the undergarment between the tulle, admiring the combination. “So delicate.”

“Like you.”

My lips twist. “If that's a short dig, I've come to terms with the fact that I might be a little bit smaller than the average woman.”

“A little bit smaller?” Hawke chuckles.

I roll my eyes and gaze into the box. “Oh my God. That wasn't all of it.” I pull out a pair of black Stella McCartney Jasmine wool-twill straight-leg pants. “Look at this tailoring.” I show him the seams.

He feigns amazement, humoring me. The man has no concept of fashion.

But he does know how to choose rewards. I hug the clothes to my body. “All I need is shoes.” I glance in the box. “You sent those too.” I gaze at the Gianvito Rossi sleek black point-toe flats. “I'm never wearing the ballerina flats again.”

“The shoes have buckles.” Hawke flicks one of his thick fingers at the delicate ankle strap. “So they won't fall off when you ride with me.”

If I wore this outfit, I'd be the best-dressed old lady at the Road Gator. I pause, thinking. Is that his plan, why he sent me such an extravagant reward today, hinting I'd need it? Does he want me to look nice for his friends?

Then I won't disappoint him. I find my panties and bra, don them quickly, eager to try on my new clothes, to make him proud. “Mack brought my helmet.”

“I'm glad.” Hawke watches me dress, his pale blue eyes glowing with appreciation. “Because we're riding today.”

He does want to show me off. I tuck my camisole in and zip the pants. They fit as though they were made for me, hitting my ankles in exactly the right spot. “Will Gisele be okay?” I slip my feet into the shoes. “I don't want her to run out of food. She's already so skinny.”

“She'll be okay, love.” Hawke carefully buckles the straps around my ankles. “Gisele has enough food for a week, and she's a cat. Cats like to spend time alone.”

“I thought I liked to spend time alone too.” I fold my dirty clothes. “Then I met you and I realized I was wrong.” I place the clothes in the cardboard box, line up my tattered ballerina flats by the desk. “What should we do with these?”

“We'll retrieve them later.” He holds out his right palm. I grab his fingers.

We exit the office, hand in hand. I brace myself for the knowing looks and the teasing from Hawke's men. The space is surprisingly empty. Only the blonde, pierced Amazon woman and her bald client remain.

“Is it closing time?” The sliver-thin heels of my new shoes tap against the gray concrete floor, the happy tempo matching the one in my heart.

“Not exactly.” Hawke holds the door open for me.

I step into the sun. Leather-clad men on a dizzying assortment of pretty motorcycles block the road to our right. I recognize many of the weathered faces, Mack, Demo, Prick, and Ed leading the pack. Some of the men are accompanied by their old ladies. Very few women and none of the men wear helmets.

These are the people Hawke wants me to impress. I smooth down my blouse. “Are we going to the Road Gator?”

My helmet and Hawke's sunglasses have been set on the seat of his bike. “We're riding.” He grabs the helmet and places it on my head.

“With your team?” I tilt my chin upward, allowing him to adjust the straps.

“With our team.” Hawke taps the tip of my nose and I blink.

I'm part of a team. We won't be riding alone. We'll be surrounded by friends, by our motorcycle family. I grin at the bikers. Mack winks at me.

Hawke dons his sunglasses, covering up his beautiful eyes. The bike dips as he straddles it. “Hop on the back.” He twists his torso and pats the tiny wedge of seat behind him, his palm smacking hard leather. “I'll give you a ride.”

Those were the same words he said to me the first time he offered. My eyes mist with unshed tears. “You have a helmet for me this time.” I tap the accessory.

“I'll be careful with you.” He looks at me with love. “You're safe in my hands, Belinda.”

“I always knew I was safe with you.” I climb onto the bike, the warmth of the leather seat felt through my pants. “I refused that first ride because I didn't trust myself.”

“You can lose control with me.” Hawke grasps my knees, pulls me closer to him. His denim-clad ass presses against my fabric-covered pussy, his leather, engine grease, and man scent engulfing me.

I wrap my arms around him, rest my helmeted head on his back and my brand-new Gianvito Rossi flats on the rear footrest. He revs the engine, the vibration felt in my soul, and we shoot forward. I grin. It's like flying, with zero risk of falling. I know Hawke will protect me.

The sun's rays heat my shoulders. The wind plucks at the sleeves of my blouse, my military man's big body blocking most of the displaced air.

The other bikers follow us, allowing Hawke to lead. Engines roar. Pedestrians stop and stare, looking at us. I splay my fingers over my biker's cotton-covered stomach. His abs undulate under my palms.

More bikers wait for us at intersections. They join our makeshift parade, falling into line behind us. Many of them have military motifs on their jacket patches. They served our country, could be part of the Organization, Hawke's company.

I don't know where we're going. Hawke maneuvers around potholes, moving with his bike, man and machine acting as one. I try to do the same and fail miserably, my reactions delayed.

His chest shakes, the damn man laughing at me. I slap his rock-hard stomach. This makes him laugh harder. I shake my head. I'm in love with an idiot.

As we leave Chicago, the traffic eases and our speed increases. We're on the I-57, the route I normally take to Happydale.

Today, we're going somewhere else. There's no reason to visit my hometown. My mom isn't working, doesn't need help at the diner. She's in upstate New York, hiding from the paparazzi at the Masterses' apple orchard.

Every on-ramp adds more bikers to our procession. Truckers honk at us as we pass them, their big rigs casting shadows over the pavement. My excitement and pride builds and builds. This isn't an everyday ride. This is an event.

As we near the side road turnoff for Happydale, we slow, and I frown. Why are we stopping in my childhood hometown? Hawke signals the turn a mile before we need to exit, confirming my suspicions.

I glance behind us. One by one, the other bikers activate their turn signals, the red lights blinking. They're coming with us. We're all going to Happydale.

This scares the shit out of me.

I'm not concerned that they'll find out about my mom or about my shitty childhood, that they might uncover the rumors about me. Many of the men work for the Organization. Researching people is their job and they'd delve into my background. I'm their boss's girl.

It's Hawke's purpose for this trip that ties my stomach into knots. He's hell-bent on proving his love and has threatened numerous times to kill anyone who hurt me.

Almost everyone in Happydale has done that—the rare exception being Karl, the diner's chef. We pass the motels, the medical center, and the perfect little houses with their vividly green lawns.

Killing them will land Hawke in jail and solve nothing. The memories and the pain they caused would remain. And any act of revenge would hurt my mom. I might hate this place, but this is still her home. I don't want to take it away from her.

What am I thinking? I shake my head. Hawke knows how important home is. He has vowed to protect my mom, wouldn't do anything to harm her. My shoulders lower. I'm being an idiot. He won't kill anyone.

Not today.

Hawke rides directly to West Court Street, Happydale's main thoroughfare. He coasts his bike into a spot by the door of the diner, his tires kissing a red safety cone.

Bikes are already parked around us. Men and women in leather, chains, and tattoos linger outside the building, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes, smiling and laughing. When they spot Hawke, they extinguish the butts under their boots and straighten.

Hawke cuts the engine and stretches his legs out, stabilizing the machine. Bikers park to the left and right of us, the noise decreasing to conversation-friendly levels.

A crowd of townspeople forms across the road. They gawk at us, their eyes wide, their mouths moving.

Happydale has been visited by biker gangs in the past. It's a regular stop for truckers and other travelers. I've never seen a group this large. The bikers continue to arrive, filling in every gap between parked cars with their machines.

“We're here.” Hawke dismounts. None of the bikes are as pretty as his.

And no one has a helmet as gorgeous as mine. I tug on the straps. “Why are we here?”

Since I last visited, the owner has redecorated the diner, covering the glass windows with silver paper. I have no idea why he would block the natural light, but then, many of his past decisions haven't made sense either.

Hawke unbuckles my helmet. “When a man is proud and excited about an upcoming event, he often throws a party.” He lifts me off the bike and presses my body against his. “I'm proud and excited.”

My lips twitch. “Judging by the state of your junk, you
are
excited.” There's no mistaking the hard ridge in his jeans.

“I'm proud
and
excited.” He stresses this combination, a combination I used this morning.

I want to be his first and only choice, to know he's proud and excited to be marrying me
. Butterflies flutter in my stomach. My mouth dries. Has he brought me to my hometown to propose? I gaze into his mirrored sunglasses.

My reflection horrifies me. “I have helmet head.” I rake my fingers through the moist strands. Only a crazy man would want to marry someone looking the way I do. “I'm a disaster.”

“You're a breathtaking disaster.” Hawke leans his forehead against mine. Fortunately for me, he is a crazy man, a tattooed badass, a world-weary former marine. He sees the sexiness in my mess, the splendor in the disaster.

I cuddle against him, trusting him to hold me, my palms flat on his chest. My feet dangle inches above the sidewalk, his casual show of strength impressing me. Hawke's hot breath wafts over my cheeks, a soft, subtle caress reassuring me that he's here. He wants me despite my mussed hair.

“Beautiful.” His lips tease mine.

“You can't properly see me.” I reach up, remove his sunglasses, revealing his gorgeous blue eyes. “That's why you think I'm beautiful.” I clip the eyewear to the collar of his hideous T-shirt and glance upward.

He'll never be a handsome man, his face too rugged, too scarred, too worn by life, but when I gaze at him, my heart melts and my pussy moistens.

Hawke groans. “Don't look at me that way, love.” He slides my curves over his muscle, lowering me. “You know I can't resist your fuck-me face.” His big body trembles.

This is the power I hold over him. I make him shake with need.

“You don't have to resist me. We have a bike. We can go somewhere private.” I glance around us. His men are watching us. “Or not.”

The thought of dropping to my knees, pulling out his big cock, and pleasuring him in full view of everyone turns me on, pleasing my inner pervert.

“You're so damn perfect for me.” Hawke hooks his arm around my waist, draws me to him, our bodies fitting together as though we're made for each other. “Let's attend our party first and then, later, you can have your wicked way with me.”