Sinful Rewards 8 Read online

  Dedication

  To my dear, wonderful hubby for being my biggest supporter, to N.J. Walters for being a great writer and an even better friend (congrats on making the bestseller lists, girl!), and to Lisa at Tasty Book Tours for treating my blog and review buddies right. I love you all!

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  About the Author

  Also by Cynthia Sax

  An Excerpt from Various States of Undress: Georgia by Laura Simcox

  An Excerpt from Make It Last by Megan Erickson

  An Excerpt from Hero By Night by Sara Jane Stone

  An Excerpt from Mayhem by Jamie Shaw

  An Excerpt from Sinful Rewards 1 by Cynthia Sax

  An Excerpt from Forbidden by Charlotte Stein

  An Excerpt from Her Highland Fling by Jennifer McQuiston

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  THE WARM BLANKET draped across my shoulders lifts and cool air sweeps over my bare skin, the abrupt change in temperature wrenching me from a Hawke-filled erotic dream. I mumble my discontent into a pillow, unwilling to open my eyes and face the day ahead of me.

  Yesterday was a disaster. Because of her association with me, the whore of Chicago, my best friend was disowned by her wealthy family. Cyndi lost her job, leaving both of us unemployed, and her dad plans to evict us today. I’ve received no interviews, not one glimmer of hope to offset this financial devastation.

  Life is becoming more and more complicated. I grip my man-scented pillow tighter, adrift on a sea of uncertainty, the waves of responsibility pulling me under the surface. My mom depends on my income to pay her rent. Cyndi will require cash to fund the business we plan to start together. The five thousand dollars I received from Lona will only cover a fraction of these expenses. I don’t know where I’ll find the additional money.

  The crinkling of a package breaks the silence. This noise is followed by a softly spoken curse, the tones deep, masculine, unmistakably familiar.

  Hawke’s presence temporarily soothes my aggravation, distracting me from my problems. He hasn’t abandoned me as my dad deserted my mom, leaving her to deal with her pregnancy, her poverty, her challenges alone.

  Hawke isn’t flush with cash. My former marine’s job as a security professional doesn’t pay much. But the little he has, he offered to share with us, opening his sparsely furnished company-owned condo to Cyndi and me.

  I sigh, my chest rising and falling. We won’t be homeless, living on the streets in a cardboard box, showering in opened fire hydrants, forced to transport our designer fashions in shopping carts borrowed from a grocery store.

  We’ll have a place to stay, as long as Hawke doesn’t leave me. I stretch out my legs, my right foot connects with firm muscle, and I relax. He’s here with me. I dig my toes into his skin, holding on to him, my rock, my mountain.

  The mattress dips. “Your feet are chilly, love.” He encircles my waist with one of his big arms, pulling me back against his unyielding wall of a chest. “I’ll warm you.” His heat and distinctive scent, a heady combination of leather, engine grease, and man, engulfs me.

  “Mmm . . . ” I wiggle into his body, brushing my ass against latex-covered hardness again and again, teasing him until he groans in my ear, the sound sending tremors of anticipation down my spine.

  “Bad sweetheart.” Hawke cups my left breast with one of his coarse, calloused palms, and squeezes. I buck, unable to remain still, and his grip on me intensifies, allowing no escape.

  “You’re wild,” my military man murmurs against my shoulder, the stubble on his chin escalating the fires building within me. Nicolas, the billionaire I thought I’d wanted, had said something similar when I kissed him, except his words had dripped with disapproval. Hawke, in contrast, encourages my inner pervert, embraces me, celebrating my lack of inhibitions.

  “Open for me,” he commands, wedging one thigh between mine, not waiting for my compliance. His condom-covered shaft slides along my wet pussy lips, his tip nudges my clit, and we moan, his baritone underlying my higher pitch.

  The full-body contact is delicious. His chest presses against my back. His rigid cock lies snug along my soft flesh. But this no longer satisfies me. Hawke showed me last night how good sex between us could be.

  Craving that bliss, that connection, I rock. He retaliates, pinching and plucking at my taut nipples, each twinge of sweet pain driving my passion upward, toward the finely crafted ceiling moldings.

  God. I wiggle with happiness. He knows how to touch me, having watched me pleasure myself. He’s learned all of my secrets.

  Most of my secrets. Hawke doesn’t realize this is a temporary arrangement, that I can’t link my life to a man who equates wealth with danger, I can’t accept a future filled with financial uncertainty, not belonging, fitting in anywhere.

  I reach behind me and grip his hip, urging him to move faster, to erase the grim thoughts from my overactive brain. Hawke chuckles, his lips hot and firm against my left earlobe, and he increases his pace, fucking me without entry, skin smacking against skin, warmth radiating from the points of connection.

  It isn’t enough, not nearly enough. I arch, needing him inside me, filling me, strengthening the link I’ve always experienced with him. “Hawke,” I plea, past the point of shame.

  “Open your eyes, Belinda.” His voice rumbles over me, curling my toes, drawing more moisture from my core.

  “No.” I shake my head, bumping backward against him, attempting to take what I want, what I need. If I don’t open my eyes, I can remain in bed, avoid my ever-growing list of responsibilities.

  Hawke flips me onto my back. My eyelids flutter and I squeeze them shut, as stubborn as he is. “Open them,” he repeats, his tone as hard as his cock.

  “Can’t make me,” I grumble, reaching blindly for him. My fingers touch scarred ridges marring smooth skin, and the tension inside me builds even more.

  “You’re not a morning person,” he states, laughter lilting his words.

  “Thank you, Captain Obvious.” My bitchy remark pulls another chuckle from his throat. “I need you. Fuck me already.” I push upward, slapping our bodies together.

  Hawke lowers his body, pressing his hips against mine, pushing the length of his shaft against my feminine folds, pinning my ass to the mattress. I’m captured completely, unable to move, at my military man’s mercy. The bastard.

  “I won’t take you while you’re sleeping,” he states. “You should know what you’re doing and who you’re doing it with.”

  My lips twist. I had to fall in lust with a former marine. “You’re too damn honorable.” I open my eyes and blink, the room’s brightness sucking all of the impact from my skewering glare.

  The first thing I see when my vision adjusts is Hawke’s lopsided grin, the flash of white teeth in a stubble-covered face, his square chin, flattened nose, glimmering blue eyes. His blunt savage countenance captivates me. I could look at him forever.

  And this scares the shit out of me.

  “You like that I’m honorable,” Hawke replies, no doubt in his voice.

  I do, too damn much. “You’re an extremely ugly man,” I retort, my rudeness shocking even myself.

  Anyone else would be hurt by my comment. My big idiot laughs, his chest shaking, the wings inked across his collarbone fluttering. “You’re priceless, love.” His cock head rubs against my clit, increasing my frustration.

  “Stop laughing.” I slap the USMC tattooed over his left pec, leavin
g a pink handprint on his tanned skin. “You said you’d fuck me if I opened my eyes. I opened my eyes.” I glower at him. “Why am I still empty?” I wiggle, unable to move him.

  “For a good girl, you’re very demanding.” He brushes his lips over mine.

  I chase his kiss, unable to snare him. “You know I’m not a good girl, and my impatience is all your fault.” I slap his chest again, aggravated by his lack of movement. “When you touch me, I lose control. I want. I need.”

  I blow out my breath, exasperated. This craving I feel for him was supposed to lessen with each sexual encounter, not increase. How will I ever be free of him?

  I gaze upward at his rugged face, all of my carefully crafted plans scattered by this massive man. “Hawke, this was—”

  He covers my lips, swallowing my misgivings, erasing my worry that fucking him was a mistake. I open to him and he surges inside, conquering my mouth as he won over my body, my mind, my soul, allowing no retreat and no resistance. Our tongues touch, twirl, entwine. I cling to his nape, holding on to him, trusting him to be my anchor in a heaving storm of change, to be here when I need him.

  Hawke strokes into me, surely, steadily, each invasion of his tongue stealing more and more tension from my shoulders, turning my frustration into joy. My lips hum and my mind spins. I undulate against him, tempting my unyielding military man, caressing him with my entire form, my nipples grazing his chest, my pussy lips hugging his shaft.

  He takes one of my hands, lowers it to his shaft, curls my fingers around him. My heart stutters. He’s reassuring me that he’s wearing a condom. I won’t live my mom’s life, conceiving a baby neither of us want.

  I nod. His head dips with mine, our lips fused together, the coarse hair on his chin branding my skin, heating me to my toes. We’re one, linked by our desire. I guide his shaft to my empty entrance, moan into his throat as he pushes inside me, stretching me tight. He’s so damn large, his cock as massive as the rest of him, and, if I hadn’t taken him last night, I’d be concerned.

  But this is our second fuck and I’m fearless, lifting my hips, speeding the long, slow glide of rigid shaft into warm, wet pussy. In Hawke’s brilliant blue eyes I see a reflection of my own wonder, my own joy. This experience is as unique for him as it is for me, energy flowing from his body to mine and back again, a continuous loop growing stronger and stronger.

  Finally, my pussy lips touch the curls at his base. “Fuck,” he mutters, this one word encompassing my feelings. “You’re perfect, love.”

  When I’m with him, I am perfect and I belong, my curves meshing with his muscle, my smaller body fitting into his larger physique. Hawke pulls back and surges forward and I gasp, gripping his shoulders, a ripple of pleasure flowing over me.

  He retreats and advances, retreats and advances, his rhythm constant and too controlled for my liking. I want him to be as wild for me as I am for him. Wrapping my legs around his waist, I kick my heels into his clenched ass cheeks.

  Hawke jerks, growls words I can’t decipher, and pushes back, taking me harder, deeper. I laugh, exhilarated by his reaction, and rise up to meet him, clenching my inner walls around his shaft, shredding his restraint even more. His lips flatten into a determined white line as we battle for dominance, driving each other insane with desire.

  Sweat beads on our skin, slicking our bodies and darkening Hawke’s tattoos, making us one. I pant, he grunts, and the bed rocks, the sounds of our lust echoing in my ears, exciting me.

  As he thrusts into me, I lick his chin, his stubble scraping my tongue, the salt of his efforts filling my mouth. He shudders, his shaft swelling inside me, his balls hugging his body, and the pulse of need within me grows, a tempo I can’t ignore.

  “Hawke.” I dig my fingernails into his shoulders, trying to delay my release.

  “No . . . curtains,” he huffs, his hot breath blowing over my cheeks. His biceps bulge as he braces himself above me. His chest flattens my breasts. “Watching . . . us.”

  He knows what to say to drive me wild. I turn my head toward the window. The sun’s rays reach deep into the room, the light dancing over the hardwood.

  We’re visible. Anyone looking at Hawke’s condo will see us, view how he’s pounding pleasure into my small, pale form, witness his thick shaft glide between my pink pussy lips.

  “Know . . . you’re . . . mine.” Hawke’s eyes gleam with a primitive possession.

  “Yes,” I agree, his declaration thrilling me. No one watching us fuck would deny his ownership, his hard muscle imprinted on every inch of my curves, his skin smacking against mine.

  I belong to him and, in this moment, he belongs to me, laboring over me, both of us struggling for our satisfaction. I won’t last much longer. The emotion binding my chest tightens, and I struggle to breathe, to think, to survive, the pressure inside me unbearable. My arms and legs shake. My lips quiver.

  I gaze up at him, unable to form words, unable to ask for what I need.

  Understanding flashes across Hawke’s rugged face. He withdraws and I whimper, requiring more of him, not less. His lips twitch, the damn man.

  As I open my mouth to object, he thrusts hard, driving his cock into my pussy and nipping my neck with his teeth. The combination breaks me and I scream, flying upward, airborne for one glorious moment, my world exploding with sound and light and color.

  Our bodies collide and Hawke roars, powering downward with all of the strength in his massive physique, flattening me, sandwiching my form between his unrelenting hardness and the bed. Air whooshes from my lungs, the oxygen deprivation spiraling my bliss higher.

  He thrusts once, twice more and collapses on top of me, blowing heavy on my neck, his chest heaving. I squeak, slapping his shoulders, unable to breathe. He mutters an apology and rolls onto his back, taking me with him, his cock remaining inside me.

  I sprawl over his larger form, lifeless, drained of all worries, shrouded in a sense of rightness, as though this is where I’m meant to be. Hawke pets my hair, his calloused fingertips grazing my shoulders, back, ass.

  “You might just turn me into a morning person,” I murmur into his skin.

  “I’ll make that my mission.” Hawke chuckles, his response shaking our bodies. “Why don’t you like mornings?”

  “Besides worrying about waking up to a floor covered with mice?” When I was young, the only apartments my hardworking single mom could afford were rodent-infested. I shudder, remembering their wiggling bodies and beady little eyes.

  “I’ll always leave the lights on, love.” Hawke rubs his hands over my back.

  I gaze upward. The bulbs in the overhead light fixture glow a soft yellow, and a warmth spreads across my chest. He remembered, indulging my childish concerns.

  “Thank you.” I kiss his square chin. “I only need one light left on.” Keeping every light on will result in an electricity bill we can’t afford. “That’s enough to scare the mice away.”

  “I won’t let them get you.” He rests his palms on my bare ass. “Is there another reason you don’t like mornings?” he asks, genuine curiosity in his deep voice.

  “It’s a foolish reason.” My cheeks heat.

  “Try me.” My former marine demands an answer.

  Part of me is glad, wanting to share this secret with him. My gaze lowers to the silver scar below his lips. “I don’t like mornings because my dreams are always better than my reality,” I whisper.

  Silence stretches. I wiggle. He must think I’m silly. “I told you it was a foolish reason,” I say, my tone defensive.

  “When I was in Iraq, there were days, bad days,” Hawke shares, the bleakness in his voice paining me. “At night, we’d huddle down wherever we could. I’d fall asleep and dream of my family’s apple orchard. I felt the sun on my shoulders, heard the birds singing, smelled my mom’s baking. It was so real. I could taste the butter melting over her biscuits.”

  “Your dreams were better than your reality,” I murmur. He understands.

  “Yeah.�
�� He brushes a strand of hair away from my face, handling me gently, carefully, as though I’m a precious object, designer, a one-of-a-kind item. “Tell me about your favorite dream.”

  I gaze at him. Hawke’s expression is earnest, sincere, and I trust him. He won’t judge me, won’t belittle my fantasy.

  “I arrive at a fancy red carpet event in a long black limousine.” My eyelids lower slightly as I envision the event. “I’m wearing diamonds around my neck.” I skim my fingertips over my skin. “I sparkle.”

  “You always sparkle.” He presses his lips to my forehead and I smile, enchanted by his compliment.

  “Everyone looks at me,” I add.

  “Ahhh . . . ” His lips curl, one corner reaching higher than the other. He knows I like being watched, equating it with being cared for.

  “I’m wearing a slim form-fitting black Versace dress, strapless with a slit in the skirt, paired with Salvatore Ferragamo peep-toe heels,” I describe my ensemble.

  “Salvatore Ferragamo, like your big bag,” Hawke contributes, toying with the dog tags hanging on a chain around my neck.

  “It’s a designer purse, not a big bag.” I’ll have to sell that one-of-a-kind purse to pay the bills. My joy dims, reality intruding on my fantasy. “Everyone I know is attending this event,” I doggedly continue. “They’re dressed in their finest and no one has to work. There are no customers to serve. Everyone is happy. They’re not worried about money or the future or where they’ll sleep that night, and they welcome me. I’m one of them.” I stop, realizing how shallow I sound. He’s seen the horrors of combat. I’m talking about balls and dresses. “It must seem silly to you but—”

  Hawke rests his right index finger against my moving lips. “I don’t think your dreams are silly. You’ve been excluded and poor in the past, and you don’t want that for your future.”

  “No, I don’t.” If I stay with him, that will be my fate. I’ll struggle to help my mom, to subsidize Cyndi, unable to afford the fashions I adore, to be accepted in Chicago society. Women like Tara, Mrs. Davis, Angel, will look down on me, viewing me as less than, unworthy.