Page 15 of Heart of Stone
Hawk straightens, turning to face me. The shadows sharpen the cut of his jaw. The dim glow of my phone screen flickers between us, painting him in half-light, half-shadow, making it impossible to read his expression. But the heat rolling off him? That’s unmistakable.
He takes a step closer.
Then another.
I retreat instinctively, my back pressing into the hard edge of the dresser, pulse skittering faster. His presence is overwhelming—too much, too close—but I can’t seem to stop him. Can’t make myself want to.
His hands rise, bracketing me on either side, palms flat against the wood. The scent of leather and motor oil surrounds me, and for a breathless second, all I can do is stare up at him, chest tight with something wild and unfamiliar.
“What are you doing?” I manage to ask. The words barely escape before he moves again—one hand sliding from the dresser to tangle in my ponytail.
“Warning you,” he growls, then his mouth crashes down on mine.
His kiss is hard, demanding, stealing my breath and my sanity in equal measure. One of his hands holds me in place by my ponytail while the other trails up, fingertips grazing my throat. Not squeezing, just... holding. A show of strength. Control. His thumb presses lightly, tilting my head back, forcing me to open to him in this dark, intense, desperate kiss.
His tongue sweeps in, tasting, taking—possessing. His hand tightens just enough in my hair, holding me where he wants meas his grip at my throat reminds me exactly who’s in control. He tastes of whiskey and something darker, more dangerous.
I should push him away. I have three kids sleeping under this roof. I have responsibilities, plans, a life I’ve carefully built that’s already begun to disintegrate. My life is complicated enough without entanglements with dangerous men.
But oh, does it feel fucking good to be touched. Tasted. To be kissed with such reckless intensity.
My hands fist in his shirt, torn between pulling him closer and pushing him away. His body presses into mine, all hard muscle and blazing heat. One of his hands slides from my hip to tangle in my hair, tilting my head to deepen the kiss.
When his tongue sweeps into my mouth, electricity shoots through me, igniting every nerve ending. A whimper escapes before I can stop it.
God, how long has it been since I’ve been kissed like this? Have Ieverbeen kissed like this? Like I’m being devoured, claimed, marked?
His other hand grips my hip, fingers digging in just shy of painful as he grinds against me. The dresser digs into my lower back, but I barely notice, too lost in the way he seems to be trying to crawl inside me through this kiss.
The rational part of my brain screams that this is a terrible idea. He’s obviously involved in something illegal. I have the kids to think about. I can’t afford indulgences.
But my body has other ideas, arching into his touch as heat pools low in my belly. Three days of stress, fear, and uncertainty meltaway under the onslaught of sensation. For just a moment, I let myself get lost in it—in him.
He pulls back just enough to speak against my lips, his breath ragged. “If you don’t want this, stay away from me. Because next time?” His teeth graze my bottom lip, sending shivers down my spine. “I won’t stop.”
And then he’s gone. The loss of his heat feels like a physical shock. I grip the dresser to stay upright, my legs shaky and weak. My lips tingle where he kissed me, my body humming with unfulfilled need.
How am I supposed to stay away when every cell in my body is screaming for more?
“Well, fuck,” I whisper into the darkness.
Things have just gotten that much more complicated.
5
HAWK
I’ve barely slept.
The taste of her is still on my lips—like honey and heat, like something I shouldn’t have taken but couldn’t resist. I’ve scrubbed my hands, brushed my damn teeth twice, but she’s still there. Lingering.
Dawn breaks over the neighborhood as I step onto the front porch, the sun crawling slow over the horizon to stain the sky with soft golds and blues. My coffee is piping hot but not enough to clear my head. The aftermath of last night’s party sprawls across the lawn—empty bottles, passed-out bodies, the stale scent of weed and spilled booze hanging thick in the air. The kind of mess I should be dealing with.
But all I can think about is her.
Brandi. Andi with an i.
I told myself I went over there to keep things clean. To warn her. Scare her a little. Make sure she understood who she was dealingwith—whoIwas. A sergeant-at-arms doesn’t leave loose ends. And she’d been on the verge of unraveling, already too close to shit she didn’t need to be mixed up in.
