Page 17 of Altered By Fire (Undercover Sinners 1)
Holy shit. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.
He feels so damn good, moving with fast but unhurried motions. It isn't going to take long to get off with this guy; my orgasm is already building like a tsunami.
The door slams open, interrupting our impromptu fuck, and there’s Hawke. Dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, covered in guns and knives, he looks like some sort of super-agent porcupine. A scowling, angry super-agent porcupine.
"Get. Off. Her." He grinds the words out through gritted teeth as Colt and I stare at him in stunned surprise. "That's an order."
"Come on Boss, this is personal business!" Colt growls, but his leader is already stalking across the floor and grabbing him by the arm, yanking him off and out of me and tossing him aside. Colt slams into the desk in the corner and falls to the floor. Tucking his junk away—including the condom—he rises to his feet and rushes Hawke, tackling him. But the man is solid muscle and doesn't budge for shit.
Sitting up, I yank the baggy nun’s habit down and watch in horrified fascination as Hawke systemically disables and crushes Colt to the ground, sitting on his back with a single knee.
"You're acting a fucking fool," he tells Colt. "Now say I'm sorry, sir and get the fuck out."
"Screw you, sir, you’re not playing fair," Colt snarls, thrashing around and failing to dislodge his leader. After a while—honestly a long while—he gives up and deflates like a kicked puppy. "Ugh, fine! I'm sorry, sir."
"Go," Hawke says, releasing Colt and standing back up. The sandy-haired man gives one last glance over his shoulder, teeth gritted in anger, before stalking out and slamming the door behind him. "You," Hawke growls, moving over to the edge of the bed and looking down at me. "Are you trying to cause trouble here?"
"We're both adults," I declare, hating how husky my voice is, how hot and bothered I am by the display of male aggression in front of me. It’s as if they’re fighting over me, like I’m some sort of prize to be won. I love it. I fucking love it. "We have every right to fuck."
"Colt is a member of my team and therefore, he belongs to me. He’s my property, and he can’t do a damn thing without my consent." Hawke's eyes gleam dangerously. "And you’re the daughter of the man we've been hired to kill. Therefore, that makes you a part of this mission. And if you're a part of this mission, you're also mine."
"Screw you," I whisper, but my nipples are peaked and my tongue is running across my lower lip. I'm way more into this than I should be. Hawke is everything right now. Male dominance at its best.
"Only if you’re a good girl," he says with a smirk, kneeling on the edge of the bed between my slightly spread legs. He stares at me like he thinks I'll be as easy to break as Colt. "Is that what you want, Natalia? To screw me?"
"What gave you that crazy idea?" I choke out, but really … the answer is yes. A yes as loud and resounding as the church bells clanging up above our heads. I want him so badly it almost hurts.
Hawke doesn't respond to my rhetorical question, but leans closer, planting a hand beside my head.
"What …" My question trails off, and I need to swallow and wet my lips before I can continue. "What are you doing, Hawke?"
"Do you do this often, Miss Petrova?" he asks me in a voice like velvet as his lips brush my ear. Jolts of pleasure shoot through me at that light touch, and I bite my lip hard enough to draw blood.
"Do what? Fuck a fake priest?" I ask, and Hawke chuckles.
"Ask stupid questions." He sits back on his knees, and I whimper at the sudden loss of warmth from his body. Giving me a long, calculating look, Hawke runs his tongue over his bottom lip, and I shiver.
Christ, he’s sexy.
Biting my lip again to keep from asking another stupid question, I wait to see what his next move is going to be. I’m praying it'll be to fuck me. Colt got me more than worked up, and if Hawke isn’t going to finish the job, then I'll have to do it myself.
"Turn over," he commands me, and my eyes widen. Not with fear. With excitement. Quickly, I do as I'm told, and feel his broad hands grip my waist, lifting me up until I'm on my knees. "Face on the pillow," he corrects when I try to reposition my weight onto my hands. His hand grasps my hair, and shoves my face down onto the pillow where he wants it.
Suddenly, with my cheek pressing into the fabric and my naked rear-end high in the air, I'm struck by how exposed and vulnerable I am. It only serves to heighten my excitement though, not diminish it, and I can't stop myself from wiggling my ass in encouragement.
