Page 97 of Rebel Hawke

Afraid of the potential legal liability if we let guests up there who had a few too many drinks, we’ve always kept it closed, roped off. Completely private.

Precisely what I need for what I have planned for my Little Bird.

I force smiles at a few people as we pass, but thank God, no one tries to stop us for a pointless chat.

Normally, I can turn on the charm necessary to get the attendees to open their wallets and help the charity, but tonight, I don’t know that I could be stopped for anything. Or that I could hide my straining cock or Wren’s wide eyes and blush, knowing what we’re about to do.

With one hand on her waist, I urge her to the bottom of the stairwell, where a rope stretches with a small sign blocking access.

Closed for event.

I reach down and unhook it from one side, then usher her up and re-secure it behind me before I follow her on the old stone stairs.

The ascent seems to take forever. Each step—with her magnificent ass swaying in the tight, feather-covered gown directly in front of my face—more agonizing than the last.

That iron restraint I’ve used for weeks to try to respect her rule, threatens to snap before we even get to our destination.

By the time we reach the loft that once held the choir, my cock presses so hard against the front of my pants that I feel like it might rip through the fucking fabric before I can get them down.

The moment we round the corner and step out into the open space, I turn her to face me and slam my mouth against hers.

Tasting her.

Holding her.

Needing that confirmation that she’s all right.

And that this is what shereallywants.

After fighting it for so long, after withholding, after weeks and weeks of her telling me this is what I needed, to abstain, to keep my focus on my recovery instead of on her, she’s all I can see now…

Her raven hair twisted up at the back of her head.

Her amber eyes warm and shimmering with the same lust and attraction coursing through me.

All I can feel…

The frantic grope of her hands against the lapels of my tux.

Her tongue tangled with mine.

All I can hear…

The rustle of the stupid fabric that separates us.

Those little moans that slip from her mouth into mine.

They should be drowned out by the orchestra, by the din of voices and laughter floating up from below us, but everything else vanishes, washed away by the wave of desire overwhelming us and threatening to drag us under.

I tear my mouth from hers. “Christ, Wren, you utterly destroy me. You understand that?”

She moans and nods.

“You sure you want this, Little Bird?”

Her head bobs again, and she frantically presses her lips to mine, grinding her hips and pinning my cock between us.

Fuck.

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