Chapter 5
5
ATLAS
I ’m in big fucking trouble…
And for the first time in what feels like fucking forever, it has nothing to do with how I completely failed in the gym today or the way Jimmy looked at me like he knew why I was taking it light and barely using any of my power on the bag.
I can’t even enjoy not thinking about that because the trouble I’ve found myself in has everything to do with the fact that I’ve lain awake all night, obsessing about Wren and the time we spent together working on the studio all afternoon.
Every single second, each minute detail is seared into my brain with shocking clarity.
The way she somehow still smelled like almonds and cherries, even after working all day…
How soft her thick, dark hair was as it brushed against my cheek…
How warm and soft her body was pressed to mine…
How every brush of her skin set mine on fucking fire…
And it still burns hours later.
I’ve tried to fight it, done all I can think of to stop myself from thinking about her because getting involved right now would be an epically bad idea.
Not just because she’s Jimmy’s granddaughter.
During any training camp, I need to be completely focused on the upcoming fight. Single-minded about ensuring I dominate. Winning is literally my one job. The only thing I’m good at or that’s felt right for as long as I can remember. And it’s the single way I can actually make the family proud of me.
All of that is especially true with this one.
The Hawke Hotel is our future.
Our legacy.
And that opening relies on this title fight to be the main event, the big draw—besides the opulent rooms and stunning casino floor.
If I’m not ready, if I can’t perform and be at one hundred percent, it will not only be an epic embarrassment for me but for the entire Hawke name.
So, the last thing I should be obsessing about is how badly I want Wren, about how good it will feel to hold her in my arms and sink into her wet heat, but my hard cock doesn’t seem to want to agree.
And I can’t bear the ache anymore.
I throw off the covers and pad into the bathroom naked, then turn on the shower as cold as it will go. Maybe it will shock me from this mental loop of picturing her bent over every goddamn surface of my condo, and the gym, and her fucking studio…
There was always something about Wren that drew me to her, but now it’s so much more than that. Some bone-deep need, like she can provide exactly what’s been missing in my life.
I step under the spray and suck in a sharp breath as the icy-cold water pelts my skin, sending a shiver through me. But it doesn’t do anything to chill the searing need, quell the deep ache, or ease the need and desire that keeps me hard as granite.
Only one thing will.
I take my hard cock in my hand and stroke it slowly, groaning at the pleasure that ripples through me instantly at the contact.
Imagining it’s her small, soft hand wrapped around my shaft…
That I’m pressed up against her, devouring that luscious mouth of hers, tasting her everywhere, making her come on my mouth and my hands, on my dick…
Watching her take her pleasure…
Relishing in the way she unravels…
Drowning in the woman who has me all wrapped up in her without even trying…
All the things I absolutely should not be picturing, should not be wanting, are the very ones making me stroke viciously, twisting my wrist to rub my palm against that spot at the base of the head that’s sure to make me come hard and fast.
The chilly water cascades over me, and I drop my head forward, letting it sting the back of my neck and shoulders as I press my left hand against the tile to keep myself upright.
Picturing her on her knees in here with me, my cock crammed down her throat, her pink lips wrapped around it, thrusting as she swallows me down deeper and deeper…
Her soft amber eyes staring up at me, begging me for more while I give her everything I can…
Nails biting into my ass as she demands more…
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I can’t remember the last time I wanted anyone as badly as I do Wren. Maybe never. Today was as close to torture as I’ve ever come, being so close and not being able to pull her into my arms and kiss her…
The mere thought is enough to draw out my orgasm, and I finally come, the rush shooting out and disappearing in the cold water swirling around and then down the drain at my feet.
Gasping, I drop my forehead to the tile and sag against it, letting my mind wander to what it would be like to hold her in the afterglow of doing that inside her when she’s all sweaty, sticky, breathless, sated, and happy.
The Wren I knew, the one I grew up with, was vibrant and sunny—at least as much as she could be given her mother’s situation. She knew how to make anyone smile, especially me. This one who returned is different, but that joy and sunshine are still there; they’re just hidden beneath the scars and trauma she suffered.
I want to wipe it all away.
Take back the last twenty years.
Pretend it didn’t happen and bring back that girl I think I loved even then. Instead, all I have is the ability to fantasize about her because I can’t touch her.
Not the way I want to.
Not when other things are at stake, like the success of the most important business move Hawke Enterprises has ever made.
“Fuck!”
The word echoes around the bathroom, reverberating in my ears almost violently, a vicious reminder of the frustration I’m sure to struggle with for as long as that woman stays. Which might be forever.
I step back under the spray and tip my face into it, letting it beat down over my skin and wash down my body.
It doesn’t cool my heated flesh.
And coming hasn’t released any of the tension I’ve felt all day.
I scrub my hands over my cheeks, flip off the water, and step out, grabbing a towel. The harsh ring of my phone from the other room hits me before I even have a chance to start drying off.
“What the fuck?”
A phone call at 2:00 in the morning is never good news—that’s something I unfortunately learned far too young.
My gut tightens instantly, and I hustle back into the bedroom, water still dripping off me, and snag it from my nightstand to find Dad’s name on the screen.
Shit.
Accepting the call, I put it on speakerphone and start drying off, already anticipating what’s coming—a quick exit. “What’s wrong?”
“Where are you?”
His tone makes me freeze with the towel on my head, halfway through drying my hair, unease coiling around my spine. “My place. Why?”
He releases an annoyed huff. “It’s the third time I’ve called.”
“I was in the shower.”
“At 2:00 in the—never mind.”
My chest tightens more the longer it takes for him to get to the point. Something is obviously wrong, and it isn’t like him to beat around the bush. “Dad, what’s going on?”
“I need you to come by the club.”
It isn’t a question; it’s an order. And when Gabe Anderson gives orders, he expects them to be followed. He may have retired from the Rangers, but he never lost that military mentality that ordered his life for so long.
I return to drying my hair and body, exhaustion starting to settle at the most inconvenient time. “Now?”
“Yes, now.”
Fuck.
“Can’t you just tell me what—”
“Atlas Anderson-Hawke, what about ‘I need you at the fucking club’ do you not understand?”
Shit.
There it is—that mix of anger and disappointment that I’m not leaping to do what he asks without question. I’ve heard it so many times during my life that it shouldn’t still get to me, but it does. That same weight settles on my shoulders, knowing I’ve disappointed him. Again.
“Fine. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Click.
He ends the call, and I let out a frustrated groan and run my hands through my still-damp hair.
What the fuck was that all about?
Whatever is going on, he clearly didn’t want to discuss it over the phone.
That does not bode well.
I finish drying myself as I make my way into my closet and grab a T-shirt and jeans without even looking at them. At two in the morning, no one is going to be examining my attire. I tug on the pants, zipping my fly with one hand while I toss my towel into the hamper.
As I cross the room toward my nightstand, I tug my shirt over my head with a little wince at the twinge in my shoulder.
For one brief second, I consider calling Astrid to see if she knows what’s going on, but if Dad wants her to know, she’ll be there and find out the same as I will.
I slide my phone and wallet into my back pockets, slip on my shoes, and hurry down the steps to open the door to the hallway. The moment I step out, Isaac steps from his condo across the hall.
His eyes meet mine, filled with concern. “Did my dad call you, too?”
I pull my door closed behind me. “Mine did.”
“Shit.” He does the same, waiting for it to click into place before he turns to me. “What the fuck’s going on?”
“Wish I fucking knew…”
Isaac offers a grim look as we walk to the elevator. “It can’t be good.”
“That was my thought, too.”
I should have known it was too good to be true—this apparent reprieve from major drama and life-threatening bullshit we’ve had the last few months.
This family always seems to get sucked into some sort of problem every time we think we can finally relax and take a deep breath.
And we’ve been breathing far too easily lately.
WREN
The number of ceiling tiles doesn’t change no matter how many times I count them tonight—sixty-four.
Sixty-four dirty, grimy, off-white squares that probably contain asbestos and lead paint, given the state of this building.
And the little stain from water leakage in the corner is starting to look more and more like a hand reaching out for something the longer I look at it.
Maybe it’s looking for some form of peace, too.
I sure as hell can’t seem to find any tonight.
Releasing a frustrated sigh, I turn and flop onto my belly, facing the nightstand where my clock and phone sit. Staring at them is better than ceaselessly counting gross ceiling tiles, but watching the numbers tick over from 2:03 to 2:04, then to 2:05 and 2:06, it becomes crystal clear that I am not going to be getting any sleep tonight.
I can’t stop running through my to-do list, thinking of everything I need to accomplish in a handful of days.
Atlas and the other guys from the gym assisting with the boxes and reformers today were a huge help, and it finally put a dent in my mile-long list. But it had a tremendously problematic trade-off.
Having him there brushing against me, smelling so goddamn good, his hard muscles bulging in his shirt every time he lifted something, his natural heat permeating into my skin if he got close…
All of it has wreaked havoc on my mostly dormant libido.
That had to be intentional, right?
The way he leaned over me…
How he was sure his body touched mine at every given opportunity…
Those insanely sexy smirks and smiles that short-circuited my brain…
The man is toying with me.
And it’s working.
I release another frustrated groan and flip onto my back, legs and arms spread wide, staring, once again, at the ceiling. The dull ache and incessant throb that’s been at the apex of my thighs since he walked into the studio today continues as the images of all that tattooed skin stay cemented at the forefront of my mind.
The Hawkes must hate all that ink.
It doesn’t fit at all with the buttoned-up billionaire reputation their name holds or the appearances they go to such lengths to maintain.
But then again, Atlas always was the rebel, even as a child. The one who wouldn’t listen when Skye and Gabe or any of the other adults told him what to do. He was constantly pushing boundaries. Questioning things. Sneaking around, begging to get into trouble, though he claimed he wasn’t.
That was bullshit.
Atlas was built for trouble—and sin.
Definitely some goddamn sin…
The most beautiful kind that makes women feel like this after spending time with him.
There’s no denying it—that stunningly beautiful man has me all bent out of shape tonight. Which was likely his plan from the moment he knew I was back.
He always did love to play games.
This one is just more adult.
And I have no chance of winning it.
I roll over and grab my phone, then open the app that contains the video I’ve watched a thousand times, even though I shouldn’t—Atlas’ last fight before the shooting, when he absolutely dominated Anderson Petty. Took him out in the third round with an uppercut that sent him flying backward against the mat so hard that I’m surprised his opponent even got back up.
At this point, I have it memorized.
Embarrassing really.
To know every single step he takes by heart. Anticipate every punch because I’ve seen them all so many times before. Yet, here I am, watching it again, taking it all in like an addict getting their fix.
I shouldn’t enjoy it…
The violence.
The absolute brutality he demonstrates in the ring.
But my body heats all the same, that throb between my legs intensifying as I absorb the way he moves so fluidly, bouncing lightly on his feet, yet all thickly roped muscle, all pure strength, holding not an ounce of reservation.
He is not even considering defeat as a possibility.
That over-the-top confidence has served him well in the ring. And, if I’m being honest with myself, it’s worked on me, too.
The longer I watch the video, the more the flames he ignited get stoked until I have to slide my hand down into my sleep shorts to give myself some relief from the pressure that’s been building all day.
My finger easily glides through my wetness, and I drag it up across my clit and jerk at the contact, squeezing my legs together.
“Fuck…”
Simply thinking about Atlas Hawke is enough to get me this worked up already. Needy and desperate for the thing only I can give myself.
The longer I watch him fight, take in the way he moves, the sweat glistening on his body, the harder my hips roll against my hand. I glide my finger through my slick heat and up across my clit, over and over, swirling around it harshly while I imagine that man doing it.
He’s so close now.
Pummeling his opponent.
Landing blow after blow in a relentless attack he’s in complete control of.
It doesn’t take long before a searing flash of heat rolls through my body as he throws the final punch that sends his opponent sprawling out on the mat.
I squeeze my eyes closed as I twitch, pleasure coursing along every nerve and exploding with a breath-stealing rush that makes my back arch off the bed before I collapse onto it, panting and tingling all over.
Fucking hell.
What are you doing, Wren?
I jerk my hand out of my shorts, trying to process that thought through the haze that always lingers after an orgasm.
Atlas is just a flirt—a big one.
He didn’t mean what I think he did today—or any other time he’s flirted since I’ve been back—and it’s going to be awkward as fuck for you if you start to think that it does mean something and read too much into it.
Friends.
It’s all I can ever be with Atlas.
That’s easy to tell myself.
Harder to accept when my body still spasms in the aftermath of the pleasure that watching him fight and thinking about his scent allowed me to find. When I can still feel the way his simple, glancing touches ignited me from within.
I’m in so much fucking trouble.
I turn off the video and start to toss my phone back on the nightstand when a text message pops up from an unknown number.
I hear you’re opening a Pilates studio. I am interested in arranging private lessons. Can I stop by tomorrow?
How did you get my number?
The Hawkes.
I release a relieved breath.
Atlas did say they know a lot of suburban housewives, so maybe finding clients won’t be so difficult.
We aren’t fully set up yet and won’t be open until next week on Monday, but I will be there tomorrow between about 6:00am and 5:00pm if you want to swing by for a chat.
That would be lovely. 6:00 AM?
Sure. See you then.
I slide my phone back onto the nightstand and grin as I snuggle down in bed, finally starting to feel a little less tense than I have all night. Though, I’m not sure whether that was from the orgasm or my first potential client.
Perhaps both.
And they each came my way from the Hawkes.
As much as I might not want it to be true, I may need them if I’m going to get this thing off the ground and make it successful.
It’s what I need, for myself and for Gramps.
He can’t work much longer, and sooner than I want to think about, he’ll need the kind of full-time care I can’t afford.
If making this work means accepting help from the Hawkes, I can do that…
Just don’t let yourself fall for Atlas.
You’re only going to get hurt.
I know it’s true, but as my eyes start to get heavy and my lids droop, it’s his face I see. His touch my body imagines. His strong arms wrapped around me, holding me tightly and keeping me safe as I finally fall asleep.