Page 43 of Rebel Hawke

He trails his rough hands down across my exposed stomach to the waistband of my yoga pants. Fingers play along the edge, tickling my skin in the most delicious way. I twist under him at the contact, grasping his arms to dig my fingers into the tight muscles. He tugs my leggings and thong down and pulls them free in one smooth motion, tossing them over his shoulder without a second thought.

All his focus is on me.

On my naked body spread out on the bed underneath him.

Being fully exposed to Atlas doesn’t make me want to shy away the way it has with other men. I don’t wonder what he thinks about my scars that are now so glaringly on display for him. Not with the way his heated gaze rakes over me.

“Jesus, Wren, you’re fucking beautiful.”

He runs his fingers from my left shoulder, across my chest, and down over my stomach, letting his fingertips linger on that side, over some of the worst of the damage the fire caused.

I tense, waiting for the disgust I’ve seen so many other times, but when he glances up at me, his eyes hold something completely different.

Concern.

“These don’t hurt?”

He’s worried he’s going to hurt me.

My heart melts for the tattooed bad boy whose bed I’ve found myself in, who tries so damn hard to hide his own pain yet worries about mine.

I blink away the burn of tears threatening to form as I shake my head. “No, not anymore.”

The deep worry line in his forehead softens, his fingertips gently brushing over my marred skin. “Good…”

More questions linger in his gaze.

Things he undoubtedly wants to know about the time we were apart, including what gave me these scars. But he doesn’t press me, doesn’t linger, just shifts back on the bed until he is on his elbows between my legs.

Oh, God…

He uses his broad shoulders to spread my thighs open wider, and I grip the comforter tightly, anticipating his next move. His blond hair glistens in the morning light streaming in from the window. Almost giving him an angelic appearance, despite all the ink and attitude. But the wicked gleam in his eyes is far more devil than angel.

My pussy throbs, and almost as if he can sense the heat radiating from me, Atlas leans forward and blows gently over my slick core. My hips bow up toward him in offering as flutters of arousal rattle my body and mind.

His strong arm comes up, and he presses down against my hips, anchoring me to the mattress. “You stay here, Little Bird. Exactly where I want you.”

The weight pinning me down, keeping me prone, while I’m stripped completely bare in front of him, should bother me. Being in this position, utterly at his mercy, should make me want to rebel against it. But with Atlas, it all seems so right to follow his commands, to let him take control, to close my eyes and allow him to have his way with me.

He kisses up my inner thighs slowly, letting his lips linger over the skin, sucking and licking, paying extra attention to the left side, along the ragged edges of the scars.

Making them shake.

Making goosebumps pebble.

Making me ache and clench, until he finally reaches the apex of my thighs and my throbbing core.

His tongue flicks across my clit sharply. I jerk against his hold, but his intense strength keeps me splayed wide while the way he works me over steals my breath.

Unable to move.

Unable to speak.

Unable to even think.

He shoves his tongue into me without preamble.

Fuck.

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