Page 60 of Hawke

I sniffed, not bothering to reply.

“There is no other woman, there never was, it has always been you,” he whispered.

More encouraging words spilled from his mouth. More words of affirmation that I craved. How strong I was, how brave I was, how amazing it was that I’d left and decided not to be taken advantage of by his fucked up head.

Leaving had been worth it all along. It kicked him in the pants.

And secretly, I hoped he would come for me. Because I saw him as worth fighting for, but I needed him to realize I was worth fighting for, too.

No one else saw him for who he was, and even if I didn’t know his history well, I knew who he was today. Maybe he led a wicked life before me, but it must have molded him into the man he was now.

I was still going to bring it up until the day I died that I had to wait for him to man up and grow some balls, though.

Going against all better judgment and giving him another chance because my gut was hell bent on me accepting him, I soaked in his words. His words were beautiful and everything a woman would want to hear from a man. If I wasn’t still weak from my anxiety attack, I bet he would be on his knees in front of me kissing my feet.

It wasn’t just his words that felt so good, but also the touch of his skin. I couldn’t explain why it felt so good to have his body touching me, but I wanted more. It was fire and ice at the same time—it tingled, it sparked. It did everything in between.

I huffed, wiggling in his lap.

“Sunshine,” his voice rumbled down to my core, “what’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.” I shook my head. Everything was so much better, and yet it wasn’t. “I need more of something.” I wiggled again, my body not feeling completely sated even when Hawke was right here.

Hawke was right where I needed him. He was in this room, he was with me, and he wasn’t going anywhere. I honestly believed that.

I rubbed my cheek over his chest again, like a cat searching for the perfect spot. My hand roamed over him, touching him everywhere. He didn’t say a word, letting me do what I wanted until I got the great idea to just pull my sweaty shirt off.

His eyes widened, his arms opening so I had enough room. I kept my bra on, but then I straddled his lap and plastered my body to his.

Oh, so damn good.

That’s the stuff.

I relaxed further, melting into him. He moved his body, so he was lying on the bed. Laying on top of him, I completely covered him and felt better than I could have ever imagined.

I’d gone insane. What the heck was going on?

Hawke’s hands ran up and down my back, his finger fiddling with the bra strap until he flicked it off and groaned. “Sorry, it was in the way.”

I grinned and grabbed ahold of the bra and pulled it out from under me. It landed on the floor with a thump, and my breasts laid right on top of his cold nipple piercings.

“Why does touching you feel so good?” I moaned, rubbing my cheek next to his neck. “I thought I was dying an hour ago, and here I am, feeling so much better.”

I felt a wave of darkness wash over me, but I pushed it away and kept it buried deep within my heart. I did not want to reenact that slap, not again, not now.

I wasn’t sure how long those dark memories would stay hidden, so I concentrated on the sweet paradise I now had.

Was I so weird and broken I had emotionally attached myself to Hawke and talked myself into thinking he was the only medicine that would keep me from breaking down?

The sound of Hawke clearing his throat was accompanied by the delicate sensation of his fingers tracing up and down my back. “There’s a reason for that, and I’m afraid it’s my fault you felt all that pain. And why you feel so much better after my touch.”

I lifted my head, cocking it to the side. “What do you mean, it was your fault? You didn’t have anything to do with it.” I laid my head back down on his chest, soaking up more of his steady heartbeat. “I was having a panic attack. I’ve never had one so bad before. I used to get them—a long time ago.”

Nope, not going there.

Hawke growled, sitting up and gripping me tightly. He moved my head to the crook of his neck, where I could take in his scent. “You are not messed up or broken. It is my fault, and I need to explain why.”

“It can’t be your fault,” I said, my voice muffled in his shoulder. “I’m tired and fed up with fighting my feelings if I should let you into my heart or not, plus you leaving gave me some sort of PTSD. I can’t expect you to be around me all the time. I’m just a little broken—”

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