Page 31 of Rebel Hawke

To know every single step he takes by heart. Anticipate every punch because I’ve seen them all so many times before. Yet, here I am, watching it again, taking it all in like an addict getting their fix.

I shouldn’t enjoy it…

The violence.

The absolute brutality he demonstrates in the ring.

But my body heats all the same, that throb between my legs intensifying as I absorb the way he moves so fluidly, bouncinglightly on his feet, yet all thickly roped muscle, all pure strength, holding not an ounce of reservation.

He is not even considering defeat as a possibility.

That over-the-top confidence has served him well in the ring. And, if I’m being honest with myself, it’s worked on me, too.

The longer I watch the video, the more the flames he ignited get stoked until I have to slide my hand down into my sleep shorts to give myself some relief from the pressure that’s been building all day.

My finger easily glides through my wetness, and I drag it up across my clit and jerk at the contact, squeezing my legs together.

“Fuck…”

Simply thinking about Atlas Hawke is enough to get me this worked up already. Needy and desperate for the thing only I can give myself.

The longer I watch him fight, take in the way he moves, the sweat glistening on his body, the harder my hips roll against my hand. I glide my finger through my slick heat and up across my clit, over and over, swirling around it harshly while I imaginethatman doing it.

He’s so close now.

Pummeling his opponent.

Landing blow after blow in a relentless attack he’s in complete control of.

It doesn’t take long before a searing flash of heat rolls through my body as he throws the final punch that sends his opponent sprawling out on the mat.

I squeeze my eyes closed as I twitch, pleasure coursing along every nerve and exploding with a breath-stealing rush that makes my back arch off the bed before I collapse onto it, panting and tingling all over.

Fucking hell.

What are you doing, Wren?

I jerk my hand out of my shorts, trying to process that thought through the haze that always lingers after an orgasm.

Atlas is just a flirt—a big one.

He didn’t mean what Ithinkhe did today—or any other time he’s flirted since I’ve been back—and it’s going to be awkward as fuck for you if you start to think that it does mean something and read too much into it.

Friends.

It’s all I can ever be with Atlas.

That’s easy to tell myself.

Harder to accept when my body still spasms in the aftermath of the pleasure that watching him fight and thinking about his scent allowed me to find. When I can still feel the way his simple, glancing touches ignited me from within.

I’m in so much fucking trouble.

I turn off the video and start to toss my phone back on the nightstand when a text message pops up from an unknown number.

I hear you’re opening a Pilates studio. I am interested in arranging private lessons. Can I stop by tomorrow?

How did you get my number?

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