Page 89 of Restless Hawke
I have to try.
And there’s only one way to do that—I have to put as much distance between us as possible and keep it that way.
The plane should be ready and waiting on the tarmac within an hour. With the car service already waiting for me outside after bringing me back here from Coen’s this morning, it won’t take long for me to flee New Orleans and put Coen Hawke squarely where he belongs—locked away in the mistakes of my past.
Steam starts to flood the bathroom, and I slip out of my dress, letting it fall to the floor so I can step under the hot spray.
I need to wash that man off me.
His touch…
His scent…
It’s already hard enough to think clearly without it clinging to me.
The thought of you walking around the rest of the day with my cum dripping out of you is pretty much the highlight of my existence up until now…
His words from the other night haunt me as if he were standing in the shower with me right now, saying them in my ear as he pumps inside me with purpose.
I reach between my legs and feel the evidence of last night, still slick inside me. Proof that it was real. Thathewas real. That the pleasure and connection were very, veryreal.
Maybe the only real thing in my life anymore when so much of it is acting and playing games.
“Fuck…”
Hot tears pool in my eyes, and I drop my forehead against the tile, letting the spray beat down on my shoulders and back. My limbs quiver with the memory of his touch, of his cock slamming into me, of the way his mouth moved over every inch of my body and centered right between my legs where my hand is now.
Dammit.
The throb.
The ache.
The need still lingers there.
Even after a night like that, I still wantmore.
Despite my best efforts not to give in to the need, my fingers roll across my clit of their own accord, knowing exactly what I crave.
A tiny moan slips from my lips, and I remember how it felt to have his hand there, those calloused fingertips, that wicked tongue…
All those sinful parts of him.
Coen Hawke is absolutely nothing like I thought he would be. How a man can be so intense, so brutal in so many ways, yet also bring so much pleasure is one giant mind fuck that I am not prepared to try to sort through. Nor do I have the time.
Need to leave.
But at this moment, another need overpowers that self-preservation instinct. I brush my fingers across my clit, my hips bucking at the sensation and memory of what he so expertly did there.
Rough.
Harsh.
So.
Fucking.
Good.
