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Oh no, I’d crossed the line. He wasn’t going to give me anotherIt’s my decisionspeech, was he? And why did I have to call him pretty? I hoped he didn’t think I was making fun of him. Sure, he was delicious and handsome and sexy as fucking hell, but I doubted anyone ever referred to his scarred face as pretty.
But, to me, it was. We were all marred by some trauma, be it emotional or physical. Beauty wasn’t perfection, but how we healed from and overcame our traumas. Hawk was a survivor. The storm in his eyes and the scars on his face were only glimpses into the depth of pain he endured. But he kept living. Living was beauty.
I stared at those three damn flashing dots.
Oh man, I hoped Hawk didn’t have the same insecurities as I did. Whenever a guy looked at my body and said I had a great ass, a small part of me always thought he was mocking me, joking, lying to me…
My chest constricted as I held my breath, waiting for something else to appear instead of the dots.
Hawk: If he or anyone else bothers you, I want you to tell me. Immediately.
I let out a huge sigh of relief that he didn’t bring up the ‘pretty’ thing. Then I reread the text. Something about his protectiveness and the commanding way he communicated got me wet.
Hawk: And STOP worrying about me. I can handle myself.
I had no doubt he could handle himself in an actual fight. I remembered the way he had twisted Dr. Creep’s hand to defend me. And then in today’s daydream, correction, wet dream, that I had earlier in the car. My Hawk—naked, muscles rippling, big and hard pulsing cock—fighting for me.
My hand slid into my underwear. The moment my fingers found my clit, a moan ripped out of my chest. The moan that had been building up within me for weeks. My hips bucked.
I imagined my naked Hawk triumphantly knocking out Rick and turning his primal stare toward me. He’d won the battle, and he wanted his prize. He stalked toward me and scooped me up in his arms. My fantasy continued as he pressed me roughly against a wall and claimed me in front of the defeated Rick. “Mine,” he would say hoarsely as he pumped into me hard and fast.
I wanted to be his. I wanted him more than I’d ever wanted anyone before.
My other hand dropped the phone and clutched the edge of the bed. Wave after wave of erotic sensations washed over my body until one maverick-sized one crashed through me, within me, over me, and around me. I rode that wave like a pro-surfer on a peak, and my moans turned to howls.
While panting in the aftermath, I patted the bed to find my phone.
Hawk: U still there?
Me: Yep. Sorry. Had to answer a call.
A carnal call from deep within the abyss of my nympho psyche.
Hawk: So, you won’t see this guy again???
He’s totally interested. He has to be. Why else would he ask? And look at how many question marks he used. Lustful Lila wanted to crawl through the phone and into his pants.
My brain was buzzing with tiny molecules of euphoria, and they spelled out the name HAWK, while my lips had taken a permanent residence in GrinVille.
I felt like I was transported back to high school, my thoughts sounding like a giddy teenage girl with her first crush.
A boy I like texted me. I wonder if he likes me back. Mae and I will gossip about it tomorrow. I’ll slip a sheet of graph paper with little hearts scribbled on it in his locker.
Yep. I was in trouble.
Me: Not unless he has a lobotomy, but otherwise, I’d rather eat Fettuccini Alfredo.
Hawk: You’re not what I expected.
What did that mean? Was that a ‘you blow my mind’ you’re not what I expected? Or a ‘stay away from me, weirdo’ you’re not what I expected?
Why was it so hard for guys to use emojis? Tone! We can’t read the tone in a text. Use emojis, for the love of Gaia, use more emojis.
Hawk: So, you don’t like Italian food?
Me: Actually, I love it, but I can never step foot in an Italian restaurant for as long as I live.
Hawk: I understand.
