Hawke (Cold Fury Hockey, #5)(39)

And just like that…I melt. Completely sag against him, letting the weight of the world roll right off my shoulders. I let my worries go and trust that my needs will be taken care of. I gladly and most willingly hand over the control to him.

It’s one of the things I loved most about him in the past…his self-awareness and confidence that he would always get the job done no matter what. Ironic, that when I needed that most from him, I refused to let him have the chance to prove himself.

Hawke’s mouth returns to mine and we kiss slowly but no less deeply than before. The passion is there, simmering below the surface, yet any sense of urgency is gone now. He knows I’m not going to call a halt to him this time. I know he can’t walk away. His hands slide up my rib cage just under the hem of my shirt, pushing it up along the way. I almost let out a sob from that simple touch, because it’s so electric it borders on painful. How had I forgotten what this felt like? How could I ever let anything like this go?

With one hand resting on my ribs, he inches the other higher and turns inward, finally coming to rest over my breast. His fingers dip into the cup of my bra and pull the fabric down, scraping my nipple with his nails. My entire back arches and my pelvis knocks against him. I feel the briefest measure of his erection before I pull my hips back, shocked at my own brazen bodily response.

Hawke merely responds by stepping in closer to me, pressing his own hips forward until his thickness is pushing into my belly. Liquid heat pulses between my legs and my hips move against him. He grunts in appreciation as his fingertips pluck at my nipple.

Without ever breaking the kiss, Hawke drops his other hand from my rib cage and pulls at the button on my khaki pants. I’m still wearing my Cold Fury uniform, never having had the chance to change once I got home this afternoon. Or rather, yesterday afternoon, as the clock has long since struck midnight.

Hawke’s not moving fast enough for my needs, so I let go of my hold on his hair and squeeze my hands in between our bodies. I knock his out of the way, deftly undoing the button. He, in turn, bats my hands away and yanks at the zipper with a muttered curse against my lips when it catches briefly before sliding down.

Then his hand is down the front of my pants, skillfully dipping into my panties and his fingers are against me…in me…rubbing me.

My head falls back in ecstasy, and even though my mouth mourns the loss of his, the feelings he’s evoking between my legs more than makes up for it. I’m wet, almost embarrassingly so, and the only way I know this is a turn-on to Hawke is by the low moan of appreciation in his throat as his fingers get drenched from their ministrations.

My blood is racing so fast I feel dizzy, and all I can do is clutch on to his biceps while he works me. I’m so turned on right now I’m on the verge of blowing. My hips rock against him…almost there…just about—

Suddenly his hand is gone and I cry out in frustration over being denied. He just smirks as he lifts me up in his arms, wrapping my legs around his waist. “Time to get to the bedroom.”

Now? He wants to go right this very second?

I almost think to argue with him, but that plan goes out the window when his head tilts and kisses my neck to soothe some of the sting of a lost orgasm. He chuckles when I try to grind my hips down on him for some friction, and his hands squeeze my ass cheeks as he walks down the hall.

“Which one?” he asks.

“On the left,” I mutter, grinding down on him again.

Always and ever efficient, Hawke pushes my door open and dumps me on my bed unceremoniously. He leaves me to walk back to the door where he hits the light switch, flooding the room in brightness.

And my heart gives a knock of quiet recognition. Hawke always did that. Always wanted the light on so he could see exactly what he was doing to me. So he could see every nuance of pleasure written on my face. So he could experience firsthand every dirty and filthy thing we did to each other without anything standing between us, including the dark.

He stalks back to me, his eyes pinning me in place as I lay there. I know that look on his face as I’ve seen it a hundred times before. It’s animalistic need and it turns me on.

Hawke works swiftly, the slow seduction phase of this mating now complete. Shoes, socks, my khakis…all pulled clear of my body by Hawke and thrown to the floor forgotten. He kneels on the bed, in between my legs, and pulls my shirt off quickly. His gaze drops to my chest, my one bra cup still pulled down and tucked under the globe of flesh. His hand comes to the middle, and with a slight flick he pops it open. With a subtle graze of his hand back and forth, he peels the material away and just stares at me.

There once was a time he stared at me only in reverence. Now, I’m not sure what I’m seeing. Definitely lust, of that I have no doubt. But I also see something flicker through his eyes…I’m thinking it might be sadness.

Without a word, Hawke backs off the bed, his fingers hooking my panties at my hips and dragging them down. His eyes travel the length of my body, which should make me feel pretty and wanted, but I have a thump of pain in my chest when I note that he specifically refuses to look at my right leg that bears the rose tattoo with his name skillfully hidden.

For a moment, as he stands up straight, I think he might leave me there, because his eyes come up to mine and I see a moment of condemnation in them. I’m not sure for what, but it could be a number of things.

For hurting him all those years ago.