Page 52 of Rebel Hawke

So do I.

And despite Atlas’ insistence last night during one of the many times he took me in various places around the condo, I can’t stay here locked up for days like he wants me to. I have to finish working on the studio, and I have to check on Gramps.

But first, I have to ask the questions Atlas promised he would answer today.

As much as I would love to spend my morning trying to count how many times that man made me come with his cock, his hand, and his mouth last night, I can’t ignore the real world or the cloud of uncertainty hanging in the air.

Releasing a groan, I toss back the comforter and scooch to the edge of the bed. The ache between my legs reminds me that I’ll likely be feeling what we did for days.

Not a bad problem to have.

I push to my feet, my legs trembling as I make my way around the room, searching for my clothes. But they aren’t on the floor where Atlas tossed them last night. My gaze driftstoward my open purse near the door, then to the nightstand where my inhaler still rests after I eventually needed it last night.

Atlas wasn’t wrong about that.

But there isn’t any sign of my clothes.

I wander into the bathroom and find them folded neatly on the counter.

A smile pulls at my lips at the sweet gesture, until I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror.

Shit.

My dark, disheveled hair looks more like a rat’s nest at this point, my skin pink in spots from Atlas’ scruff abrading it…

Holy fuck.

I tilt my neck to get a better look at the dark mark along the edge of my right collarbone.

He left a hickey?

Good Lord…

I don’t even remember that. Though, other parts of the night are still crystal clear, in blindingly vivid detail that makes my pussy ache and my thighs clench. It must’ve been when he’d already fucked me so well that I was in a pleasure coma.

Hell.

That will definitely raise questions from Gramps.

No way I can claim Atlas only brought me here to protect me from whoever Damon is and whatever threat hesupposedlyposes.

I run my fingers through my mess of hair and drape it over my shoulder in an attempt to cover the mark, then release a heavy breath and make my way out of the bedroom to try to find the man responsible for the debauchery.

Because that’s what it was.

Acompletedestruction of everything I thought I knew about sex and what it was supposed to be like.

Even now, as I step out onto the landing and stare down at his condo spread out beneath me, a tremor rolls through me with the memories. The massive living room with three-story ceilings opens into an immaculate kitchen with black granite countertops, giving me an unobstructed view of Atlas at the stove with his back to me, bare from the waist up, his tattoos on full display, a pair of gray sweatpants barely hanging onto his perfectly formed ass.

Jesus…

Itwould be so much easier to concentrate on important things if I didn’t have to look at the man.

As if he can sense me watching him, he glances over his shoulder, and his lips curl up into a grin. “Good morning.”

His voice carries up, rolling over me like a smooth, sultry wave that heats my skin and yet somehow raises goosebumps across it.

Clearing my throat, I start my way down. “Good morning.”

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