Hawke (Cold Fury Hockey, #5)(40)

For calling on him tonight when I had no business doing so.

Maybe even for tempting him to come back to the very vessel he was denied with no explanation.

But he merely strips away his clothes with the same efficiency that he used on me.

Unlike Hawke, there is no doubt in my gaze. My eyes roam over inch after inch of exposed, tanned skin and lean muscle. My eyes follow the V from his lower abdomen, all the way to his cock, which is revealed to me when he pushes his jeans and underwear to the floor. And when he’s as naked as I am—more so if you consider my bra straps are still hooked to my shoulders—he crawls right back onto the bed, right in between my legs, and stretches out over my body, where he holds himself up with elbows pressed into the mattress next to my ribs.

He stares at me, those eyes reminiscent of the way sunlight dances on the blue sea. Such intensity…such need and desire. Such wariness I also see, but also a tiny bit of care. Such emotions that I can’t even begin to guess what he could be thinking.

But it becomes clear to me when he lowers himself so his pelvis meets mine, his cock coming to rest hot and heavy right at the juncture of my thighs. His face descends slowly and his lips touch mine…softly at first, but only momentary in their slight graze, to then be deepened into a full-out kiss full of lust and passion.

It’s on.

Our hands both journey against the other’s body. Mine roam from muscled shoulders to his chest, down his ribs to his ass, where I dig into him in invitation to press against me. Hawke leans to one elbow, moving the other hand down my stomach, back in between my legs. He knows my body so well, even after all these years, that his finger slides inside me like a homing beacon.

God, that feels good.

Another finger in.

Shit…feels really, really good.

I slip my own hand in between us, pushing and grappling for space until I find his cock. So thick, satiny. I always loved the feel of it in my mouth…in my hand, inside of me. I squeeze it, give it a few rough pumps while he fingers me.

Our kissing becomes more desperate. For every moan that gurgles out of me, he lets out a grunt or a growl of his own, more particularly pronounced when I pull my hand up his cock and graze the underside of the tip that’s silky, wet.

His fingers move against me faster, causing me to suck in air desperately. My hips pump against him. My hand works him roughly.

“Fuck,” Hawke groans as he rears up, kicking his legs out to spread mine further. Tiny ripples of anticipation race up my spine as I watch him take his cock in hand, give it a rough stroke, which is sexy as hell, and then place the tip right at my entrance. It’s a beautiful moment, only to be ruined slightly when his gaze flicks to the left to look at the rose tattoo. He doesn’t give more than the briefest of looks before he’s grabbing that leg and hooking it around his waist, moving the offensive tattoo out of his line of sight.

Hawke’s hands then go to the mattress, and with a sharp punch of his hips, he drives into me.

“Oh, God…Hawke,” I moan as he fills me up in one powerful move. A long gust of air whispers out of his lips and he drops his forehead to mine. He holds still for a moment—maybe to get his bearings, who knows—then he starts moving.

It’s just like old times, and yet…it’s different. We’re frenzied in our need as we continue to touch each other. His hand to my breast, mine to his ass to help keep his strokes steady and deep. Yet, there’s also a reservation on his part…maybe a lack of fully committing and losing himself in the moment.

My sad and sore heart knows this is because he’s afraid of giving me anything other than his body and an orgasm. This is purely physical for Hawke, him needing the release apparently as badly as I do.

“Kiss me,” I say softly as I bring my hands to his cheeks. He raises his forehead from mine, looks at me with troubled eyes, but ultimately he gives me his mouth.

I roll my hips against his, my tongue against his, and he responds in kind. Steady, deep thrusts of tongue and cock, almost like a choreographed symphony. His breathing becomes labored so I know he’s getting close. I know this so well about him. He slips a hand in between our bodies, presses and then rubs against my clit, and an unforeseen and previously dormant orgasm springs to life within me. I cry into his mouth as it explodes and consumes. My hips buck up, causing him to ram deeper. He tears his lips from mine, buries his face in my throat, and lets out a long groan as he grinds his pelvis against me, trapping his hand against my pulsing clit.

I feel him unload, remembering the first time we disposed of condoms and made the move to just relying on my birth control. The unbelievable closeness I felt to him in that moment, actually replicated here, and I can’t find it within me to even question the haste by which we just had sex with no protection.

With a long huff of breath against my neck, Hawke pushes up and rolls off me. For a brief moment, I feel utterly alone, then his arm is circling my waist and dragging me into the side of his body. He lifts my torso with little effort, pulling me half onto his chest. His other hand comes up, and he silently brings it to my head where he pushes it down.

I lay there with my ear against his sternum, listening to his heartbeat start to slow while warm fluid leaks out of me. I’m completely spent, entirely boneless. I couldn’t move if I wanted to, and I don’t want to.

We don’t speak, but then again, we didn’t say much while we were just f*cking. While there were so many things that were as familiar as my mom’s old quilt that still graces the back of our couch in the living room, there was one thing that was glaringly different about the way in which we just had sex.