Page 60 of Restless Hawke

Tensing more and more.

Her grip becoming more demanding.

She’s preparing for what’s coming.

Bracing herself for the onslaught.

I pull my head back and take her mouth again, needing that taste, wanting to devour all of her, and she lets me. And with each drive of my hips, it feels like winning a little battle in this war she started that night in Atlantic City, but also, somehow, losing a little bit of myself to a woman I know I shouldn’t.

“Coen—”

My name comes out like a prayer offered to a god she doesn’t fully trust to answer it.

And if I had more strength, I might stop this now and walk away.

But I have lost that ability when it comes to her.

I shift her position again, dragging one leg up over my shoulder so I can plunge down into her at a different angle.

She gasps, her eyes rolling back as her head drops. “Fuck. Yes, right there.”

A few more hard strokes are all it takes before she explodes, her nails scoring my skin, her cry echoing off the expensive marble and glass in the penthouse.

Her pussy squeezes my cock like a vise and draws out my own release. My balls tighten up, and I grit my teeth, trying to hold off, but I can’t. I come in hot spurts inside her, burying myself to the hilt, wishing desperately that I’d had the strength to walk away from her, like I should have.

9

ALLEGRA

Coen’s cock twitches in me.

His chest heaves against mine.

Our heavy breaths mingle as we both come down slowly from the high of our releases, trying to get our bearings and regain control of our faculties.

What the hell just happened?

My body buzzes with energy, tingling everywhere, every nerve ending flaring and sparking and making me twitch. He slides my leg down from his shoulder and his hand around my back to support me as I start to sag even more, losing my ability to stay remotely upright.

His lips flutter against my temple. “That was far better than you deserve after what you did to me.” He nips at my ear, and I shiver, clenching around him and drawing a low groan from deep in his ribcage. “But I think we should do it again.”

I can’t fight the grin that pulls at my lips or squeezing him again as his cock already starts to re-harden. “It depends on what game you want to play this time?—”

An electronic clicking sound drags his attention from me and toward the door before it pushes open.

The stunning umber-skinned woman who stands on the other side of it narrows her dark eyes on our compromised position. She tilts her head slightly, the long braids twisted high at the top of her head in a bun, moving with her.

Her gaze darts to the shattered glass on the floor beside the bar, and Coen moves to block her full view of me, but I can still see most of her if I lean to the side.

“Jesus Christ, Bishop. Knock much?”

She scowls and leans against the doorjamb, keeping it open to the small foyer and elevator. “Everyone was worried when you vanished”—she raises a black brow—“for obvious reasons.”

I try to peek around Coen to get a better view of her, but he shifts again, completely blocking my view of her or hers of me.

“Soooo…”—she drawls the word, intentionally dragging it out with a note of annoyance and maybe humor in it—“I checked where your keycard was last used.” One hand spreads wide enough for me to see it from around Coen’s protective shield. “The penthouse. You know this isn’t your own private fuck palace, don’t you?”

He grits his teeth, a muscle in his jaw flexing as his hands tighten around me, clutching me closer. “Get the fuck out.”