Page 70 of Rebel Hawke

If I don’t end this conversation now, it’s going down a road I don’t want it to, and I don’t need anything ruining a night that’s supposed to be relaxing and fun for all of us.

Not that I’m exactlyrelaxed.

My gaze drifts toward the condo door, my knee bouncing rapidly, pondering what the girls might be up to—and what they might be discussing.

Like me.

Those women know me better than anyone.

All my secrets.

My faults.

My frailties.

The things I don’t ever want Wren to know or see.

We’re still too new, and already, so much has happened in such a short amount of time. And here I am, wanting to go over there, scoop her up, and drag her back here with me after only a few hours apart—even though I know she’s perfectly safe with the new bulletproof glass installed and the heavily armed and capable women with her.

I still can’t shake that worry or the desire to have her in my arms.

“Hey”—Isaac leans into my field of view, blocking the door—“the girls are fine. You know Bishop and Jack aren’t going to let anything happen to them.”

I force a smile and rap my knuckles on the tabletop. “That’s true.”

Even if Bishop weren’t there, Giacomina is kind of a badass. She can probably handle a gun better than any of us, if necessary. And with all the kids over there, too, God knows, if anythingwereto happen, if bullets did start flying, she’d find a way to end it before anyone got hurt.

The same way I tried to.

Tried and failed.

All I managed was to almost die and just about drag Astrid into the grave with me.

Pope rises from his seat and stretches, extending his long arms above him to try to crack his back after sitting at the table for hours. “How’s that going?”

I shift my focus to him. “How’s what going?”

He motions across the hall. “You and Wren. I mean, you moved her in with you pretty fucking quick.”

Understatement.

Somehow, I went from the guy who never pictured himself settling down to the one who demands a woman cohabitate within a day of sleeping with her for the first time.

I take a sip of my beer, trying to let the cold, hoppy liquid calm my unease. “It’s great.”

Except the woman won’t let me fuck her…

Or eventouchher the way I want to.

Sleeping next to her in that bed every night with her warm, lithe body pressed against mine has been utter agony, and not because I want to get off.

Because I crave seeing that pleasure crossherface.

I live for the way she completely releases it all when I make her come.

It isn’t about me at all, except maybe the satisfaction I get out of hers.

I don’t know how I’m going to last three months without experiencing that again when I’ve barely lasted three days.

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