Page 62 of Restless Hawke
Fuck.
It.
Shouldn’t.
Be.
So.
Hot.
This growly possessiveness he is displaying today would normally be such a huge turnoff for me. I despise men who try to dominate and act like they control the world and everything in it, including me. But somehow, with Coen, it’s different.
It just is.
And my pussy, still damp with his cum, clenches, wishing he were back inside it.
He glances at his watch. “I have to go.”
I swallow. “Me too.”
Really.
I hadn’t intended to stay.
I hadn’t intendedanyof this to happen.
Not really.
Maybe deep down I hadhopedit might, but I never believed it was actually possible, given everything that went down between us.
I move to step around him and make my way toward the door. He tosses the wet rag onto the counter and follows after me, catching my hand to tug me back just as I reach for the handle. “You’re not leaving New Orleans, are you?”
God.
There’s so much hope in his voice that I’ll say no. That I’ll tell him I’m staying.
I bite my lip as I stare up at him and melt under the plea in his eyes. “I thought you’d want me gone.”
A war rages in those fathomless blue depths—that anger and hatred he harbored for me because of my betrayal mixing with the lust we both just felt.
Still feel.
It’s a lethal combination.
One we just felt combust around us and shatter us into a zillion pieces.
He shakes his head. “I’m not sure, but I know I’m not done with you yet.”
How this man can say things like that and simultaneously sound threatening and promising is a mystery for the ages. One I would very much like to solve, given the chance. “I’m not leaving yet, if you want me to stay.”
His brow rises. “I do.”
That shouldn’t warm my heart.
Shouldn’t make it flutter so crazily like this, but somehow it does.
Just like with everything having to do with Coen Hawke, it’s a contradiction in everything that should and shouldn’t be.
