Caught (Prequel to Hawk) (Sex and Bullets) (4 page)

The heat seeps into my cheeks.
Oh God.
“Where are you?” I didn’t mean for my voice to go all breathy, but I can picture him in my mind and…

“On my bike.”

I bite my lip. “So no pics possible, huh?”

I know he rides a motorcycle. A big, mean-looking one. I’ve read much more than I should have about him these past few days, despite my resolve not to think about him.

“I could show you. Up and personal.”

I’m holding my breath, I realize, and let it out in a whoosh. “Is that so?”

Because I thought he’d never call me. That I’d never hear his voice again, or see his face across from mine.

“I’m not far from the restaurant where we met,” he says, his voice soft.” Come.”

I almost do. Holy crap, I’ll see him again. “And then?”

“I wanna take you for a ride.”

I swallow hard, my throat tight. “On your bike?”

“That, too.”

“I’m on my way.”

Chapter Four

He’s sitting astride his bike. I see him as I park my car at the curb and kill the engine.

God.
He’s gorgeous. Even better looking in his leather pants and jacket, if possible, than he was in his expensive designer suit.

His grin flashes bright from across the street.

Right. Okay.
My palms are sweaty as I grab my purse and step out of my car, hitting the lock button and crossing over to him.

He said he follows through on all his promises, and he did promise not to date me. Not to stay with me. Not to be with me as a boyfriend would.

So why is he back?

As I approach and he towers over me even when sitting on his badass bike, self-consciousness belatedly hits and I tug on the hem of my sweater and smooth down my skirt. I wasn’t planning on anything sexier than watching Arrow on TV for tonight, so my skirt is knee-length, and I have my leather boots on. My hair is pinned to the back of my head with a pencil, and I have no make-up on.

Classy, Layla.
Perfect for seducing a millionaire hunk, and… wait, what am I doing? This is the guy who stated upfront he’ll never want a relationship with me.

But aren’t relationships overrated? I think again of mom and dad and their painful divorce as I come to stand right in front of Hawk and shiver.

Maybe I don’t want a relationship, either. As long as I can see this man, inhale his spicy scent. Touch him.

Or maybe I’m going crazy. Lust sure is a powerful drug, and when he lifts a bunch of flowers—roses, I realize dimly—and runs the blossoms over my arm, releasing their scent, it hits me hard.

Roses.
Memory of tiny lashes hitting my back, my ass. His fingers touching me. His cock filling me.

A gasp escapes me.

Then he puts a rough hand on my cheek, then slides it to the back of my neck and draws me closer to him, and I’m falling.

Nestled against this thigh, pressed between his warmth and his bike, with his hand cradling my head, I feel high. His warm breath washes over my mouth, smelling of mint and a hint of Scotch.

“I thought,” I try to keep the words in but they come anyway, “that I wouldn’t see you again.”

“I thought that, too,” he whispers, pulling me even closer, his eyes narrowed, “but fuck that. I wanted to see you.”

Me, too, oh God, me too, I think as his mouth covers mine and the kiss turns hot within seconds—his tongue twisting with mine, his teeth biting at my lower lip. He’s eating up my mouth like a starving man, his hand traveling down to my back, hauling me until I’m riding his muscular thigh.

Pleasure zings down my nerve endings, pools low in my belly. I’m in real danger of coming right here, right now, on the street, dry-humping his leg.

This kind of thing keeps happening when I’m around him. Normally I’m not much for public displays, even less for public orgasms.

I pull back, breaking the kiss, and his hand clenches against my back. He blinks, the gray of his eyes gone dark. “Wanna come with me tonight?”

I lick my lips. “And tomorrow?”

“My promise remains the same,” he says, his voice not faltering. The roses are resting in front of him, on the bike, their scent mingling with his and with the fumes of the passing cars. “Nothing has changed.”

Nothing?

But I want this too much. With him. I want him to show me how it can be. I want him filling me, I want to feel his heartbeat slamming against my back, against my chest. I need him in my arms.

So I lift my skirt and climb on the bike behind him, linking my arms around his hard middle. “Let’s go.”

***

He’s given me a helmet to wear, and it sits heavy on my head. I also can’t rest my cheek on his back, as I’d have liked to do. It’s my first time on a bike, and I’m stressed that I’m going to fall off, especially on the turns.

However, I still notice that he manages to keep the bunch of roses—red roses, almost crimson, like blood—in front of him as he weaves through the city streets, and that he seems to know what he’s doing, like he’s been riding a bike for ages.

Urban cowboy, I think and snicker as I imagine him with a black Stetson and one of those tasseled leather vests, the sound lost in the wind as we speed down an avenue.

An incognito millionaire slash bad boy driving through, crossing the lives of ordinary people, and they don’t even know. When we stop at a traffic light, I catch a girl my age watching us. She smiles, and I guess she’s seen the roses.

She thinks she knows what’s going on here. A romantic escapade.

She doesn’t know what the roses signify—hard sex with no feelings attached, offered by a guy who otherwise spends his days in the offices of his family company, directing the rise and fall of commercial empires.

I cling to his strong back as he speeds down unknown streets, until he parks at the gate of an illuminated building. The street is flanked with trees, and the buildings are shiny, brand new and clearly high scale.

A guard appears from a side building, takes one look at Hawk and opens the gate with a press of a button on a small control device.

We ride into the compound, and park in a covered spot.

“Your place?” I ask after I’ve dismounted, pulled off the killer helmet and straightened my skirt as best I could.

“A friend’s.”

A flash of disappointment goes through me. I really wanted to see his place. Or one of his places, anyway. Get a glimpse into his life, into who he really is.

But then he’s climbing off, unfolding his tall frame and taking off his own helmet, and I forget what I was thinking about.

Dressed in that black leather jacket, a white T-shirt peeking underneath, with that panty-dropping grin directed at me, I’m left with no choice. Right now, I’d follow him just about anywhere for a chance to run my hands over his face and body, to kiss those high cheekbones and the hollow at the base of his neck, the line of his shoulders to his strong arms and down to his hands.

Hands that are currently grabbing my hands and dragging me close to him, so that he can brush his mouth over mine. Then with a wink, he turns and pulls me inside the dim interior of the building.

Caught up in his presence, I barely notice our surroundings, but a few things jump out—like the marble floors and wall linings, the low leather furniture forming a sitting area to the left, the mirrors and perfect polish of the elevator doors. There are three elevators, and Hawk hauls me to the one at the far left. It dings as the doors open and we step inside.

Then Hawk produces a small key which he uses to activate our ride to the top.

The penthouse.

Of course it’s the penthouse, I think, a little dazed, as we stand in the gilded cage of the elevator, classic music playing, Hawk’s hand around mine. He smells of old leather and a hint of aftershave weaves in with his natural, mouth-watering scent, turning my knees weak.

The doors slide open and I follow him into a gleaming white apartment with large black and white photos hanging on the walls and huge windows looking over the twinkling city and the lit-up boats in the harbor in the distance.

Wow.

He leads me across the enormous living room slash kitchen, through a hall wide enough to host a formal dinner in and then into another room.

A bedroom.

“Is this…” I swallow, glancing around as he walks me straight to the ginormous bed. “Is it your friend’s bed? Maybe we shouldn’t—”

“It’s the guest bedroom.”

Oh,
right
. Just a little thing for guests, that’s all.

Hawk pushes me to sit down on the bed and shrugs off his jacket. It thuds to the floor and next he tears off his T-shirt. Muscles bunch and release, and beautiful ink ripples over his abs and pecs.

Roses done in black ink.

Before I take a closer look at the intricate tattoo, he’s pushing me down and climbing on top of me, making the mattress dip. He carefully lowers himself over me until his thick erection is nestled between our bodies, puts down his elbows beside my head, and starts kissing me.

Oh Lord.
I’ve been kissed before. Heck,
he
’s kissed me before—but this is something completely different. He’s fucking my mouth with his tongue, sucking on my lips, and every stroke and thrust of his tongue sends a wave of wet heat between my legs.

He pushes my coat off and I wriggle out of it. He sits up, grabs the hem of my sweater and lifts it off.

“Oh yeah,” he murmurs, his gaze fastening on my bra-covered boobs, a slow smile lifting his lips. “I remembered right.”

“Remembered what?” I’m reaching for his zipper, wanting him out of his clothes, too.

“How pretty you are.”

My throat tightens. I shouldn’t let his words affect me. This is just sex. He’s only being nice.

So I unzip his pants and shove my hand inside, rewarded by a deep gasp and a roll of his slim hips.

“Fuck, babe.” He catches my wrist, giving a breathless laugh. “Not so fast. I have plans for the evening.”

“Plans.” I curl my fingers around his thick hard-on, because he’s going commando tonight, and God, it’s bigger than I remembered. “Like, t
ake me to a classic music concert, or an opera? That’s what you normally do, right?”

He laughs again, and I like the sound. Deep, and playful. “Nah, not my style. Also, I don’t play the piano. Just FYI.”

“Damn.” I grin at him, and he braces himself over me, letting me pull down his leather pants. They slip down more easily than I expected, freeing his cock, and it swings a little, the barbells flashing as it slaps my belly.

He groans. “Fuck, I think the plans are on hold. Need to fuck you first.”

Crude. And hot.

Yeah, he doesn’t seem like the opera-going, piano-playing kind, and know what? That’s fine by me. I don’t think I could deal with any pussyfooting and discussing art before sex.

Not when I want him this badly.

“Condom.” He groans again, his hard-on sliding over my stomach as he flexes up, stretching his arms and looking down at me. “In my jacket. Fuck.”

He pulls away to get it and I start undoing the clasp of my skirt. Need to feel him on every inch of my skin. Although he called and we’re here now, I’m back where I began—scared it won’t happen again.

But he’s back on the bed, tearing the foil open and covering his cock, allowing me a good look at the silver metal piercing the head. So sexy. Never thought a man’s cock would make my mouth water and my body arch.

“The skirt. And the boots.” He reaches for my legs. “Leave them on.”

Speechless I watch as he pulls my panties off, all the way down and off me. As he spreads my legs and rubs his thumb down my seam, opening me. As my skirt pools around my hips, baring me to him completely.

Then he lifts his thumb to his mouth and sucks it off, his eyes growing hooded and dark, and I moan, my insides clenching at the sexiness of it.

“Sweet,” he whispers and lowers himself over me, one hand guiding his cock into me. The head bumps my entrance, and then he’s sliding in, a slow, pleasurable drag that has me arching against him.

“God…” So good. On the edge of painful, but frigging perfect. I clutch at his hips, then slide my hands inward, where we’re joined.

His powerful body is racked by fine tremors as he slowly pushes into me, his abs clenched so hard they feel like smooth, carved rock where my hands are touching them.