Page 30 of Rebel Hawke

Sixty-four dirty, grimy, off-white squares that probably contain asbestos and lead paint, given the state of this building.

And the little stain from water leakage in the corner is starting to look more and more like a hand reaching out for something the longer I look at it.

Maybe it’s looking for some form of peace, too.

I sure as hell can’t seem to find any tonight.

Releasing a frustrated sigh, I turn and flop onto my belly, facing the nightstand where my clock and phone sit. Staring at them is better than ceaselessly counting gross ceiling tiles, but watching the numbers tick over from 2:03 to 2:04, then to 2:05and 2:06, it becomes crystal clear that I am not going to be gettinganysleep tonight.

I can’t stop running through my to-do list, thinking of everything I need to accomplish in a handful of days.

Atlas and the other guys from the gym assisting with the boxes and reformers today were a huge help, and it finally put a dent in my mile-long list. But it had a tremendously problematic trade-off.

Having him there brushing against me, smelling so goddamn good, his hard muscles bulging in his shirt every time he lifted something, his natural heat permeating into my skin if he got close…

All of it has wreaked havoc on my mostly dormant libido.

That had to be intentional, right?

The way he leaned over me…

How he was sure his body touched mine at every given opportunity…

Those insanely sexy smirks and smiles that short-circuited my brain…

The man istoyingwith me.

And it’sworking.

I release another frustrated groan and flip onto my back, legs and arms spread wide, staring, once again, at the ceiling. The dull ache and incessant throb that’s been at the apex of my thighs since he walked into the studio today continues as the images of all that tattooed skin stay cemented at the forefront of my mind.

The Hawkes must hate all that ink.

It doesn’t fit at all with the buttoned-up billionaire reputation their name holds or the appearances they go to such lengths to maintain.

But then again, Atlas always was the rebel, even as a child. The one who wouldn’t listen when Skye and Gabe or any of theother adults told him what to do. He was constantly pushing boundaries. Questioning things. Sneaking around, begging to get into trouble, though he claimed he wasn’t.

That was bullshit.

Atlas was built for trouble—and sin.

Definitely some goddamn sin…

The most beautiful kind that makes women feel likethisafter spending time with him.

There’s no denying it—that stunningly beautiful man has me all bent out of shape tonight. Which was likely his plan from the moment he knew I was back.

He always did love to play games.

This one is just more adult.

And I have no chance of winning it.

I roll over and grab my phone, then open the app that contains the video I’ve watched a thousand times, even though I shouldn’t—Atlas’ last fight before the shooting, when he absolutely dominated Anderson Petty. Took him out in the third round with an uppercut that sent him flying backward against the mat so hard that I’m surprised his opponent even got back up.

At this point, I have it memorized.

Embarrassing really.

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