Page 44 of Altered By Lead (Undercover Sinners 2)
“Talia,” he begins in a soft rumble, like thunder in the distance. “Do you—” He cuts off when the front door of the old hotel bangs open, and Hawke stomps down the old wooden steps with a face like a storm cloud. "Go easy on him," Mace says before Hawke reaches us. "He's confused, but he means well. And I will not let him hurt you."
I snort a sarcastic laugh, but there's no time to respond before Hawke practically rips the door open.
"Hi honey!" I purr with a sickly sweet smile. "Did you miss me?" Carrying my snarky bullshit a step further, I slide off of Mace and practically throw myself into Hawke’s arms.
I intend to just give him a quick smooch—you know, committing to the cheery ditz act for a few more seconds before flipping him off and telling him to go shove his bad mood where the sun doesn't shine—but things ... escalate.
I blame my tryst with Mace for it, Mace and the lingerie.
The second my lips touch his, time seems to stop. Or ... my brain sure as fuck does. Suddenly I've totally forgotten what a total bitchy asshole Hawke's been for the last two months. I've forgotten the hours on days on weeks of grueling physical training he's been putting me through with zero praise on my progress. I've totally forgotten the fucked up fucking bet that he cooked up.
Fuck.
All that matters is the soft warmth of his lips. The way his breath catches lights a fire in me and that light, teasing smooch turns scorching hot.
On the edge of my consciousness I hear Mace bark a curse, but I don't care. Hawke's strong hands grip my waist and my back slams into the side of the Hummer with enough force to knock the air from my lungs. He doesn't give me a moment to catch my breath, or ask if I'm okay. Not Hawke. He just takes and fuck if I don't crave his controlling, greedy touch like I used to crave cocaine and champagne.
My legs wind around his waist, my whole body supported by the heavy crush of his body against Mace's truck, and I moan when his steel-hard erection grinds against my cunt.
For a moment, it's all consuming. If Mace and Weston hadn't got me off so fucking well in the last twelve hours, I'd have already come right then and there. But that small reprieve in hormones gives me the mental slap I need.
"No!" I shout, shoving Hawke off me with all my strength.
Two months ago, I'd have barely pushed him an inch. Thanks to his training—and a healthy dose of surprise, I suspect—he staggers back several steps then lands on his ass in the dirty gravel driveway.
I just barely manage not to land on my ass myself, and I thank fuck for the solid vehicle at my back keeping me upright.
"No," I repeat, my voice like granite. "You don't get to touch me like that. You gave up that right weeks ago." The fact that I initiated the kiss is irrelevant, and he damn well knows it.
"Talia," Mace rumbles from behind me, but I shake my head. I don't even look at him. I can't. My eyes are glued to Hawke's furious, hurt face like I'm watching a car crash, or a sunrise, or ... something.
"No. Hawke fucking knows I'm right." I sneer at him as he slowly picks himself up from the ground.
He takes his time to brush dirt and dust from his pants and by the time he's done, all traces of emotion are gone. The only telltale sign that he’s pissed off is the tightness to his strong jaw.
"Do we have a problem, recruit?" He damn near spits the words at me, betraying a whole lot more emotion than his face is showing.
"No," Mace replies for me.
"Yes," I snap at the same time. "We have plenty of problems, sir. Where shall I start?" His sarcastic question was like a floodgate getting opened and now I can't catch my runaway mouth to save myself.
Screw it. We're overdue this fight.
Hawke's glare is cold enough to freeze the Australian Outback, but I'm fucking done taking his shit. He wants to have this fight? I'm all for it.
"Fucking hell," Mace mumbles under his breath, "I'll be inside if you need me." His dark gaze swings between both Hawke and me, so I'm not sure who he's talking to. Hopefully Hawke. Hopefully he's worried I might rip his friend’s balls off with my bare hands then stuff them down his throat.
Probably not, though.
Neither of us speak as Mace reluctantly heads inside the Rouge Elk, shaking his head and letting his boots clomp heavily over the old wooden veranda. But at least I feel good about what happened with him, about our conversation, about his promise not to let Hawke hurt me. All of that gives me strength
