Sinful Rewards 10 (9 page)

My worries dissipate under Hawke's passionate assault, his taste, scent, feel erasing the tension in my shoulders. This is home. This is where I belong. I want him, need him, love him. There's no one else for me and nowhere I'd rather be.

W
HEN
I
EMERGE
from my Hawke-induced daze, we're alone. Nicolas, the oven mitts, and both of the baking sheets are missing. “He took all of the cookies?” I glance at the closed door in disbelief. “That greedy bastard.”

“Nicolas doesn't like to share.” Hawke captures my face between his rough palms, redirecting my gaze to him. “I don't like to share either.” His square jaw juts. “I'll kill any man who touches you, Belinda. You're mine.”

Hawke was my assistant in five oh one north. Any lingering stress evaporates.

“I like it when people watch me.” I smooth the collar of his ugly T-shirt. “But I don't want anyone else to touch me, not even in my fantasies.”

“Ahhh . . . ” Understanding flares in Hawke's blue eyes. “I'm sorry, sweetheart.” He brushes his calloused thumbs across my cheekbones. “You're fully committed, aren't you?”

“Yeah.” I was fully committed to him the moment we met. Unable to deal with my emotions, I twist out of his arms, dance out of his reach, and he lets me escape. “I made you shepherd's pie.” I wander to the fridge. “Are you hungry?”

“For your shepherd's pie?” Metal squeaks as Hawke claims a bar stool. “Always.”

I warm a heaping plate of the casserole. While Hawke eats his late dinner, I sit beside him, one of my legs pushed against his, giving me the connection I need. He tells me about Mack's adventures with Gisele, how he coaxed her out of hiding with a can of tuna, her displeasure over being handled.

“She's a neat little lady. She was very happy to see a litter box.” Hawke places his dirty dishes in the dishwasher. “She must have had a home once.”

“She was abandoned, left behind.” As my mom and I were. I wet a sponge, sweep it over the counter, the action calming me. “Who would do that?”

“I don't know, love.” Hawke follows the trail of moisture with a paper towel. “But she'll never again have to worry about being abandoned. She'll always have a home here.”

She'll have a home as long as he continues to work for the Organization, the owner of our condo. I scrub baked-on cookie dough off the oven top. “We'll need kitty litter, a bed, a brush.” I list our new cat's needs, wondering how we'll pay for the items. “I can make some of her food, stretch the store-bought portions. That should reduce expenses.”

“Mack will get everything she needs. Don't worry about the money.”

I look up at Hawke, not knowing how he can be so calm. “Someone has to worry about the money. We only have one income at the moment.”

“We're living in one of the priciest buildings in Chicago,” he states.

“Which the Organization pays for.” I rinse the sponge, wring the water out.

Hawke tilts his head to the right and then to the left. “I suppose it did pay for it.” He smiles, one corner of his lips hitching higher than the other. “And my bike? How do you explain that?”

“It's very practical.” This is a guess. I don't know anything about bikes except they're smaller than cars and I'm always hearing people say the size of a car makes a difference with fuel economy. “It must save on gas.”

Hawke stares at me. “It's a customized chopper. Every part is handcrafted.”

I have no idea what that means.

“It's a work of art.” His eyes glimmer. “A craftsman poured his heart and soul into creating my bike.”

These are the words I used to describe my Salavtore Ferragamo purse. I frown at him. “Are you saying that your bike is designer?”

Hawke chuckles. “Come here, my vehicle-impaired sweetheart.” He draws me against him, his body hard and warm, my safe haven in a brutal world. “Nothing I have impresses you, does it?” He rests his chin on the top of my head.

“You risk your life to protect others,” I murmur against his neck. “That impresses me.” It also scares the shit out of me.

“I did that for Rock.” Hawke shrugs. “I was filled with rage after his death, furious that someone would target an individual simply because he was wealthy, that they wouldn't care that other people, people like Rock, would also be killed.” He rubs the barbed wire tattoo encircling his right bicep.

I place one of my hands over his, seeking to soothe him.

“When my tour ended, I returned to the States and saw how many of my former brothers-in-arms were struggling to fit into civilian jobs.” Anger edges his voice. “It made no damn sense. They had specialized skills that should be used, not forgotten.”

“Then you discovered the Organization and you fit.” I understand, having searched my entire life for somewhere I belonged, finding this in Hawke's arms.

He chuckles. “There was no Organization, love.” Hawke threads his thick fingers through my hair, gently separating the strands. “I started one. Its real name is a long list of numbers and letters even I have trouble remembering. The point is to be as invisible as possible.”

I pull away from him, certain I've heard him incorrectly. “You founded the Organization?” I gaze at his lips, needing to see the words.

“I founded the Organization.” He confirms this incredible news.

“The Organization is your company.” I grip the edge of the kitchen counter, the floor tilting beneath my feet. “You don't work there. You own it.”

He nods.

I force myself to breathe in, breathe out. He started a company. Not all founders of companies are wealthy. “The Organization owns the Road Gator.”

Hawke dips his head again.

“And it owns this condo.” I glance around me. This condo is worth over a million dollars. “You have dozens of employees.”

“We have thousands of employees,” Hawke corrects, hooking one of his arms around me. “They're stationed all over the world. And it turns out, all of them are willing to fight for the opportunity to lead the high-profile assignments.”

“They want to impress you.” I pat his chest, light-headed from his revelation. Hawke captures my hands, pressing my palms against him, grounding me. “Because you're the boss.”

“The men assume I report to someone else.” Hawke watches me as though he worries I'll faint.

He might be right. My world is spinning. “They don't know you own the Organization,” I state.

He inclines his head.

“They don't know you're rich.” My tattooed badass biker is rich. My legs collapse.

Hawke doesn't allow me to fall. He swings me into his arms, lifting me easily.

“You're rich,” I mumble, unable to believe these words. “You didn't tell me.” I wince at the betrayal in my voice.

“I thought you knew.” Hawke carries me into our bedroom, a space that he owns. “I'm living in this building.” He sets me carefully on the bed, handling me as though I'm delicate, precious to him.

“I'm living in this building too.” I cling to his neck, not wanting to let him go. “And I'm broke. You're not. You're wealthy.” I say this again, expecting him to correct me, to tell me I misunderstood his words, or that this is all one big joke.

“
We're
wealthy.” Hawke denies exclusive ownership of the fortune but not the fortune itself. “We're partners.” He lowers his body next to mine.

No, we're not. “I'm not your partner.” I can't meet his gaze, not having anything to offer him. “You don't need me.” He doesn't require my help with the finances. He can buy meals at restaurants, hire a maid to clean his condo.

“I need you.” Hawke places my hand on his groin, the ridge in his jeans hard. “And not only physically. Look around you.”

I gaze at the nearly empty bedroom. He's filthy wealthy and he doesn't yet have furniture, the sparseness appalling.

“I need you to make this place a home and to give me a reason to return,” he expands. “I need you to tell me when my intentions are misunderstood by our team, to see what I can't.”

“To see what you can't? I didn't realize you were wealthy.” I'm a fool. “Did everyone else know?”

“You're the only one who knows.” Hawke pushes a strand of hair away from my face. “Nicolas suspects. I'm living in his building. My parents realize I'm comfortable.” He shrugs and the mattress moves under us. “I don't know what other people assume.”

“They assume you're broke.” I pluck at his ugly T-shirt, needing to touch him, to ensure myself he's still here. “And that's what you want them to think.”

“Our wealth makes us a target.” He doesn't refute this. “It puts everyone we care about in danger.”

“I can't tell anyone you're successful.” I have to keep this a secret from my mom, Cyndi, Chicago society. “I'm not a good liar, Hawke.” I snuggle closer to him and he draws me into his big body. “You know that.”

“You won't have to lie, love.” He nuzzles against my neck, the stubble on his chin warming my skin. “No one will ask. They'll assume that we're comfortable, that the Organization is paying for everything.”

He's right. They won't ask.

I curve my palms over Hawke's scalp, tracing the ridges of his scars with my fingertips, relishing the buzz of his closely cropped hair. Questions bubble in my brain. Will he help my mom, Cyndi? Is my broke-ass financial status one of the reasons he feels obliged to stay? I wiggle. How does this alter our relationship? “Hawke?”

“What is it, sweetheart?” He lifts his head, his expression concerned. “What do you need?”

“I need you inside me.” Everything is changing and I'm floating, lost and scared. I want his naked body on top of mine, his cock in my pussy, his arms wrapped around me, holding me tight.

“Give me a second.” Hawke rolls away from me, stands, pulls his T-shirt over his head. As he's stripping, I also undress, folding my sundress neatly, setting it at the foot of the bed, placing my phone and passcard on top of the yellow fabric.

I lie back, wearing only the ball chain and dog tags, and watch my former marine roll a condom over his hard cock. The inked wings on his collarbone ripple, the feathers fluttering. He's big and broad and I don't know if he's mine.

“Hawke?”

“I'm here, Belinda.” He moves between my spread legs. “Talk to me.” He places one of my hands on his latex-covered cock, this familiar action comforting me.

I squeeze his base and release him. “I don't know where I fit.” I bend my legs, cradling his weight between my thighs. “I had a plan.”

“You had a new plan.” Hawke positions himself at my entrance. “And it included me.” He pushes inside me, his cock head stretching me open. I'm wet for him still, always, forever, this never changing.

“Yes,” I moan, gripping his shoulders. Hawke sinks deeper and deeper, the erotic slide delectably slow. His base presses against my pussy lips and I tilt my hips to take all of him. I'm stuffed full of rigid shaft, the connection between us strong and familiar and right. This remains the same. “I knew where I belonged.”

Hawke braces himself above me with his arms. “This is where you belong, with me.” He brushes his lips over mine. “Nothing has changed.”

Does he truly believe that? I stare up at him. “Everything has changed. You have a home.”

“
We
have a home,” Hawke amends. “Somewhere permanent, a space we can't be evicted from.” He repeats the words I once told him. “You were willing to give that up for me.”

I trace the letters etched on Hawke's left pec, a reminder of his time in the Marines. “I was willing to give up everything for you.”

“Because you love me.” He rocks, his rhythm unhurried as though he has his entire life to fuck me.

I don't say anything because I do love him. Hawke grins, reading this confirmation in my face, his smile enchantingly lopsided. I wish I had the guts to ask him if he loves me. Instead, I lean forward and suck on his right shoulder, tasting salt and man, my man, for now, maybe forever.

We undulate together, caressing each other with our entire physiques. This encounter isn't like any of our previous sex fests. It's more, intense undercurrents of emotion flowing between us, unspoken yet undeniable.

I scatter kisses over his chest, laving his tattooed feathers with my tongue, teasing the silver scar slashing across his right nipple. Hawke isn't the minimum-wage-earning security specialist I thought he was, but his body hasn't altered. The stories written across his big form remain the same. He continues to be the most honorable man I know, a man I'd trust to protect the people I love, a man I can't live without.

He's the missing part of me, emotionally and physically. Hawke increases his tempo and I rise up to meet him, lifting my hips. The dildos might be exciting and different, but nothing feels as good as his cock, as good as him.

I breathe deeply. A hint of cologne mixes with Hawke's usual leather, engine grease, and natural scent, and my body tightens around his, memories of our earlier performance pushing me closer to release.

I'm his kinky little pervert and he likes me this way, encouraging my antics, bringing my fantasies to life. A trickle of sweat drips down his chest. I lick the trail and he shudders, thrusting harder, forcing me to take every delicious inch of his cock, slapping his balls against my skin.

God. I arch, rubbing my taut nipples against his straining muscle. He's a brute, his face dark, his eyes brilliant blue with desire, a beacon of color enthralling me. I suck on the silver scar on his square chin, his stubble rough against my lips, my tongue.

Hawke growls, the low rumble exciting me, and increases his pace even more, driving into me with his considerable strength, pinning my ass to the mattress and then freeing me, pinning and freeing, controlling my smaller form.

I'm at his mercy, clinging to his shoulders as he rides me. My arms and legs shake. My inner walls constrict, adding more friction, more sensation.