Authors: Cynthia Sax
“You have to put money in to get money out.” I state this obvious and unfortunate truth. “I know you want to take care of everyone.” I pat his chest. “But you don't have to, not alone. We're partners. I can earn money also.” How will I do that? I don't know.
“You don't need to earn money.”
“I need to.” I meet his gaze squarely. “You can't support three households on minimum wage.”
“Minimum wage?” Hawke's eyebrows knit together.
Hell. He must be making a dollar or two over minimum wage, and now I've put more dents in his pride. “Or whatever you're making,” I hastily add. “We're equals. That means we both contribute.”
“You contribute. You help me with the surveillance footage, take care of the condo, making it a home. You're starting that business with your friend.” He stares at me. “Did Nicolas tell you I made minimum wage?”
He's fixated on his rival again. It takes an effort not to roll my eyes. “I haven't discussed your financial situation with anyone,” I assure him. “And it doesn't matter how much you make. It isn't enough to support four people living in three different towns.”
“It does matter,” Hawke insists. “Why do you think I'm poorly paid?”
Because he buys his ugly black T-shirts in bulk, has no furniture and very little belongings. I press my lips together, knowing any answer I give will hurt his feelings.
“Is that why you're selling your pretty things?” He tilts his head, studying me. “Ellen has been blocking calls all day.” The elevator doors open and he moves quickly, silently along the hallway, my body cradled in his arms.
“What?” I wiggle. “She shouldn't be blocking those calls.” No wonder no one has responded to my ads.
“You shouldn't be liquidating all of your belongings.” Hawke enters the condo I now share with him.
I'm home, safe. Some of the tension evaporates from my shoulders. “They're belongings I don't need.”
“You're selling your big red bag.” He walks with me through the main room and the bedroom, into the attached bathroom.
“It isn't a big red bag,” I retort, my voice echoing in the smaller space. “It's a Salvatore Ferragamo purse, a work of art.”
Hawke lowers me until my shoes touch the tiled floor, sliding my curves over his hard muscle, the full-body contact exciting me. “You love that purse.”
“Yeah, well.” I set my not-so-beloved messenger bag on the bathroom vanity, unable to meet his gaze. “I don't need it.”
“And you think we need the cash.” His lips curl upward. Our broke-ass status makes him happy for some bizarre reason. “Because I make minimum wage.” His hands drop to my hips, his clasp on me secure.
“I don't know how much you make,” I admit. I do know it isn't enough.
“Nicolas is wealthy,” Hawke points out, his tone cheerful. “If you chose him, you wouldn't have to suck up your pride and don the dreaded uniform. You could keep your big red bag.”
“It's a Salvatore Ferragamo purse.” I suspect he calls my purse a big red bag to drive me crazy. “And I'm not with Nicolas, am I?”
“No, you're not.” My idiot man grins, his smile adorably lopsided. “You chose me, even though you thought I couldn't give you any of the pretty things you like.”
I
know
he can't give me any of the pretty things I like. “Yes, yes, I'm an idiot.” I wave my filthy fingers in the air. “I'm also covered with grime.” I push on his shoulders. He doesn't move. “I'm taking a shower.”
Hawke's eyes gleam. “I need a shower too.” He unbuttons my dreadful uniform top, peeling back the polyester. “If we take one together, we'll save water
and
money.”
M
Y NIPPLES TIGHTEN
and my heart beats faster. If we take a shower together, we'll do more than wash. Wanting this and needing him, I slip out of my shoes and reach behind me to unzip my skirt.
“No.” Hawke captures my hands, his calloused fingers encircling my wrists. “I'll take care of you, Belinda.” He holds my gaze, his expression deliciously intense. “Emotionally, physically, financially, in all of the ways a man can take care of a woman.”
“Yes, please.” I pluck at his ugly black T-shirt, knowing my honorable military man will do his damnedest to uphold this vow. “But I'm taking care of you while you're taking care of me.”
Hawke grins, one corner of his lips hitching higher than the other. “I like how you take care of me.” He bends over, allowing me to pull his shirt over his head, his golden skin marked with silver scars and black tattoos. “Now it's my turn.” He yanks on my top, tearing the fabric.
“Hey, this uniform has to be returned.” My protest is halfhearted, his savage act arousing me.
“Don't worry, love.” Hawke nuzzles against my neck, teasing me with his stubble-covered chin. “I'll have it washed, repaired, and returned to Khloe.” He unhooks my bra, and that scrap of silk joins the mess on the floor. “You won't need your bra for the rest of the day.”
“No?” I unbuckle his belt, manipulating the leather. He's hard, the bulge in his jeans large and defined, a dab of moisture wetting the denim.
“You won't need a bra or panties.” Hawke unzips my skirt, pushing the polyester over my hips. “Not with one of those pretty little sundresses you have in the closet, the dresses I never see you wearing.” He removes my panties as expediently as he did the rest of my clothing, leaving me completely naked. “You'll feel sexy, free.”
I would feel sexy and free. “I can't wear sundresses while I'm working,” I explain. And I'm always workingâcooking, cleaning, helping my mom. In the past, I held various jobs. Now, I'm building a business with Cyndi. “It's not practical.” I drop to my knees, the tile cool against my skin, and I unlace Hawke's boots, my subservient position exciting me. In our reality, we're equals, partners. In my fantasy, I'm a maid at my master's beck and call, obliged to do anything and everything he asks.
My position must arouse Hawke also as his eyes deepen to a brilliant blue. “You're not working at the moment.” His voice is low.
I smile up at him, sitting with my feet tucked under my ass and my back slightly arched, the pose lifting my breasts, a silent offering to the man I desire. “I'm not wearing a sundress at the moment either.”
“No, you're not.” Hawke stands on one foot and then the other, allowing me to remove his big black boots.
“I'm not wearing anything.” I roll down his socks and place them neatly beside his boots. “I'm naked for you.”
“I noticed.” He plants his feet solidly on the floor. “I see your pretty pink nipples, your white skin.” He leans over my body, his form big and broad and powerful. “The red stripe on your ass.” From his vantage point, he can survey my entire form.
I rub my fingers up his denim-covered legs, savoring the muscles under the frayed fabric. “Are you watching me?” I stroke the ridge in his jeans, up and down, up and down. This man is mine, his arousal belonging to me.
“I'm always watching you.” Hawke pushes his hips toward me, shamelessly demanding more. “And I plan to wash every inch of you, with my hands, my lips, my tongue.”
“I'm a very dirty girl.” I pop the buttons of his fly one at a time, freeing him. “It might take a while.”
I tug down on his jeans, and the denim falls to the floor, revealing his proudly erect cock. My tattooed bad boy isn't shy, his take-me-as-I-am stance moistening my mouth. I want to wrap my lips around him and suck him dry.
“I'll take my time, sweetheart,” he drawls, his dark gaze fixed on my face. “Clean you right.”
“And if I don't want you to take your time?” I trace his shaft with my fingertip, from his base to his tip, and he bobs, gratifyingly responsive to my touch. “If I want it hard and fast?”
“I'll give you hard and fast.” Hawke bends, picks me up, hefting me over his shoulder. I gasp as my stomach connects with solid muscle and he slaps my ass, heating my skin.
We enter the shower stall in two strides. Hawke turns the water on and cold spray soaks my hair, plastering the tendrils against my skin.
“It's freezing.” I smack his back with my palms.
“You wanted fast.” He chuckles, lowering me until my feet touch the floor. “The water takes time to warm up.”
He looms over me, my mountain of a man forming a protective overhang, his massive form shielding my body from the shower. Drops glisten on his closely cropped brown hair. Rivulets run down his chest, darkening the ink on the tattooed wings stretched across his collarbone.
“I warm up instantly.” My voice is husky. “When I'm with you.”
“
Only
when you're with me.” He draws me closer to him, flattening my bare breasts against his chest, his skin warm, his muscles firm. “You chose me.” My eyelashes flutter as I delight in his proximity, his hardness prodding my stomach, his feet bracketing mine. “I'm the only person who makes you lose control.”
“You are.” The scent of engine grease and leather fades, leaving only his natural fragrance, a musk I drag into my nostrils with every breath. I splay my fingers over his pecs, his heart beating under my palm.
“I'll wash you first and then we can play.” Hawke pours apple-scented shampoo into one of his hands and massages my scalp, his fingertips moving in soothing circles. I stand still, allowing him to care for me, treasuring this pampering.
“Your hair reminds me of the dirt path between the apple orchard and Rock's land.” Hawke carefully wipes away the trickle of lather sliding down my forehead.
“I see.” I twist my lips. My hair reminds him of dirt.
“You don't see.” Laughter lightens his voice. “I'd race down that long, unbending path every morning.” He threads his fingers through my hair, straightening the twisted tendrils. “I was eager to see my best friend, to spend the day climbing trees and jumping into creeks and doing what boys do.”
I hear the happiness in his words, feel his delight in these memories, and my chest warms. His days at his family's orchard seem like a magical time for me, a girl who grew up in the suburbs.
“And then when the day was done, I'd hike home,” Hawke continues, tilting me into the stream of warm water, rinsing the shampoo from my hair. “The setting sun would pick up the reds and browns in the dirt, and I knew at the end of that path, my mom and dad were waiting for me.”
He knew he had a home, that they would always be there, loving him, wishing for him to return. I stare at the shower tiles, fighting to control my emotions.
“That's what I feel when I look at you.” He brushes the stray strands away from my face. “That joy.”
He's my home also, my warm, safe place to return to at the end of the day, a man I could possibly love . . . in the future, not now.
I lean into Hawke, unable to form any words, knowing I don't have to. He understands me. He always does.
Hawke transfers some lemon-scented body wash onto a giant bath sponge and gently washes my forehead, nose, cheeks, the bubbles tickling my nostrils.
“You don't have apple-scented body wash?” I lift my chin, giving him access to more of me. “What would your parents say?”
“They'd want me to make you happy.” He follows the lines of my neck, sweeps over my shoulders, my arms. The sponge blackens, this is how filthy I am, and he rinses it, adds more suds. “I bought this body wash for you.”
I smile as he scrubs my fingers, lingering over every knuckle, every cuticle. He noticed my scent. “I smell like lemons due to my cleaning supplies.”
“It's sexy as hell.” Hawke places my now-clean hands on his rigid cock. “I take one whiff and I'm hard.”
“I like that I make you hard.” I stroke him as he washes my breasts, jostling the dog tags, teasing my nipples with his calloused thumbs, decimating my worries with waves of pleasure, leaving want and need in his wake. That naughty sponge lowers, skimming over my stomach, my mons, and I spread my legs, needing his touch on my pussy.
The damn man skips this sensitive skin, his hands dancing over my thighs. I growl my unhappiness, tightening my grip on his shaft, and he chuckles.
“You're a bad man.” I swat his chest with my right hand.
“I'm the worst.” My unrepentant bad boy kneels before me, removing his cock from my grasp, and I grit my teeth, frustrated as hell.
He cleans my knees, calves, lifts one foot and then the other, washing the soles of my feet, dabbing the tip of the sponge around toes, caring for me as one might care for a child.
He'd make a good father.
As soon as this thought enters my brain, I smother it with reasons I won't ever see this side of him, reasons we won't last. Financially, we're a disaster, barely able to cover our own expenses. He hasn't said he wouldn't take risky assignments. He could get himself blown up tomorrow. My legs quiver.
“Control yourself for a couple more minutes, love.” Hawke, concentrating on washing my heels, mistakes my fear for arousal. He straightens, turns me until I face away from him, and glides the sponge up the back of my legs. I feel no pain as he traces the scratch on my ass, the sting erased with time.
“I'll put ointment on this later,” he promises, kissing that wound better also.
“You didn't put ointment on my breast when you bit me,” I point out, bemused by his concern.
“That mark was mine.” He swirls the sponge over my lower back. “I didn't want it to fade.”
He wanted everyone to know I belong to him. My military man is a primitive, possessive bastard, and this should horrify me. Instead, it curls my fingers and moistens my pussy.
Hawke slides the soft sponge between my clenched ass cheeks and I stiffen. “You don't have to wash
all
of me,” I declare.
He laughs, his chest shaking against my back. “Your ass is safe with me, sweetheart.” He rinses the sponge thoroughly and places it on the ledge. “The rest of you I'll hand wash.” Hawke curves his palms over my mons, claiming this part of me, and I tremble. “I wouldn't trust the delicate parts of you with anything other than my fingers.” He dips his fingertips into my moist heat.
“Yes, wash me.” I press against him, yearning for more, needing him inside me. Hawke nuzzles along my face, his stubble burning my skin, and he pushes deeper, stretching me open with two of his thick fingers.
I rock back into Hawke as he licks and sucks my neck, grazes his thumbs over my clit, pumps my pussy, the combination frying my mind, scattering my thoughts. He's all I know and all I want. His knuckles press on my inner walls, the fullness divine. His breath wafts on my earlobe. The water streams over us, merging, meshing our bodies together.
I clutch his thighs, needing to hold on to something, the passion inside me rising quickly, primed by his touch. Hawke's cock rests against my lower back, and every swivel of my hips pulls a groan from his lips.
He ravishes me harder, faster, drawing more wetness from my core, tightening the emotion binding my chest. I move with him, panting, reaching for a satisfaction only Hawke can give me. He knows my form, knows me. He can grant me what I desire.
Or I will take it from him. I clench around his hand, increasing the delectable friction, the sucking sound of fingers in moist pussy echoing in the small room. His scent engulfs me, filling my nostrils, my lungs, all of me.
There's nothing delicate about the storm building within me. It is savage and dark, lightning and thunder, a torrential downpour, a flood of desire. My nipples ache for his attention. My ass slaps against him, heat radiating from the points of contact. Energy snaps in the air, lifting the fine hairs on my arms, an electrical charge I feel when I'm with him.
I want more.
“Hawke.” I bend over, flattening my hands against the tiled wall. Water sprays over my back, a thousand fingers caressing my body. “I need your cock inside me.” I widen my stance, offering him everything, wanting the same in return.
Hawke rubs his rough hands over my ass, and a strangled sound originates from deep in his throat. “No condom.” His words are choked, as though he's almost as lost as I am.
If we don't use a condom, there's a slim chance I could become pregnant, have a baby neither of us want. The rational part of my brain shrieks that fucking bareback is a bad idea. My heart, however, wants, needs, craves this connection with him.
“I don't care about the condom,” I decide. For the first time in my life, I don't require this extra layer of protection. I trust Hawke. He's the most honorable man I know.
Hawke doesn't move and some of my old anxieties return, building inside me. I wiggle my ass, seeking to entice my overresponsible former marine, to make him forget about his concerns before I remember mine.
“You care about the condom.” He spins me around. I lose my balance and pitch forward. Before I hit the slick floor, he scoops me up and flings me across his right shoulder.
“Stop acting like a caveman.” I slap his back, the sound shockingly loud.
“You like it when I act like a caveman.” Hawke turns off the water and stomps out of the bathroom into our bedroom, not bothering to snatch a towel. I look down at the giant wet footprints my Neanderthal of a man is leaving behind us.
And I don't say anything because I
do
like it. “I'm wet.”
“And hot.” He flings me onto our bed and I bounce. “Believe me, I know.” His eyes glitter with breathtaking lust. He grabs a condom, rips the package open with his teeth, and sheathes himself in less time than it takes me to stop moving.