Hawk: Sex and Bullets, #2

By Jo Raven

Bad-boy heir to the Fleming Group empire, Jamie "Hawk" Fleming, at your service.

Here's the breakdown: my father has been thrown behind bars on murder charges, and my mother as accessory. That was three months ago, and since then, everything has been a downhill ride.

The only thing keeping me sane right now is Hot Body. Her name is Layla, and all that matters is that she's gorgeous, sexy, and great in bed.

Until I wake up tied up and gagged, Layla standing over me. Sounds promising, huh? A pretty girl, maybe handcuffs and a whip?

But that's not our scene, and the pissed-off men who kidnapped me are lurking in the shadows, ensuring that this experience won't be fun at all…

HAWK is a full-length standalone New Adult Romantic Suspense novel by New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Jo Raven.

*Warning: this book contains graphic language, sex, and violence. Mature readers only. Not intended for young readers.*

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jo Raven
• Release date: Jun 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9781533726629

Jo Raven

Jo Raven is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author, best known for her series Inked Brotherhood and Damage Control. She writes edgy, contemporary New Adult romance with sexy bad boys and strong-willed heroines. She writes about MMA fighters and tattoo artists, dark pasts that bleed into the present, loyalty and raw emotion. Add to that breathtaking suspense, super-hot sex scenes and a happy ending, and you have a Jo Raven original story. Meet Jo Raven online – on Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/AuthorJoRaven), chat with her on Twitter (@AuthorJoRaven) and join her readers group for sneak previews of her covers and stories (http://on.fb.me/1K2LvzO). Be the first to get your hands on Jo Raven’s new releases & offers, giveaways, previews, and more by signing up here ▶ http://bit.ly/1CTNTHM

Book preview

Part I

BULLETS

It’s raining outside, a relentless drizzle beating against the windows of the limo. We’re rolling through the streets of Baltimore at a leisurely pace, and I can’t for the life of me tell you where we’re going.

Maybe it doesn’t matter, though I have a feeling it does.

As we come to a stop at a traffic light, the driver looks at me through the rear-view mirror. His face is blurred, indistinct. Weirdly twisted.

Frowning, I press the button to make the partition between us opaque, then lean back against the white leather seat and tug on my short beard.

Weird.

Then the door opens and, along with a gust of cold, in climbs Hot Body, long legs and black stilettos, long dark hair and red lipstick.

Oh yeah, much better.

I grin and reach for her, my body tightening with desire. Come here, Gorgeous.

We weren’t supposed to meet today.

Ah fuck, okay. Maybe that’s what felt off. But we are.

Her skin is warm and soft, her eyes wide and dark when I slip her coat off her shoulders and run my hands over her curves, barely covered by a mini skirt and a tiny top. Her long auburn hair is soft, her skin like satin.

Familiar need zips down my nerves. Blood rushes into my dick as I push her back against the seat and shove a leg between hers.

Here? she whispers, her voice husky, her eyes darting to the opaque partition.

Right here. Her hands are on my shoulders, and I let her hold on to me—for now—while I suck on her neck and run my hand under her skirt, into her lacy panties. I push a finger into her tight pussy and stroke her, looking for her G-spot. Fuck, you’re so wet, Hot Body.

Layla. She moans when I twist my finger, angling it deeper. My name’s Layla.

So hot. I’m panting, burning with need. It’s been a stressful couple of months, and this girl’s sexy as hell. My dick’s drilling a hole through my pants, and I shift, uncomfortable. Need to be inside you, babe.

Her gaze darts again to the partition, and damn, it makes me so horny that she’s angsting about that, about my chauffeur ogling us.

I’m gonna fuck you until you scream, I inform her, because that’s really my intention, and I don’t give a shit if my chauffeur listens in. I pull down her panties and draw in her scent of arousal. Until you’re flushed all over and writhing on the leather.

Promises, promises, she whispers in that sexy as fuck raspy voice she gets when she’s excited and reaches for my zipper, dragging it down, palming my dick through the thin cotton of my boxer briefs.

It feels so damn good I grab her hand and stop her, or we’ll never make it to the fucking and screaming part. Easy.

Want you. She licks her lips and I groan. Want your dick inside me.

Biting the inside of my cheek to control myself, when she’s spread out all silky skin and wet pussy beneath me, I push down on my dick, telling it to take it easy, too.

My dick informs me in no uncertain terms that we’re doing this right the fuck now. Then Hot Body reaches down to rub her clit, and I lose the battle.

Ready, Gorgeous? I do my best to get her ready every time, as I’m not small and I don’t wanna hurt her, but she only moans and writhes, and fuck it. Drawing my dick out of my briefs, I give it a good squeeze and a stroke, and I settle between her legs.

I push inside her. She wraps her legs around my hips and her arms around my neck, dragging me down for a kiss as I push deeper, but I turn my head. I don’t want to swallow the sounds escaping her. I wanna hear them.

Bastard, she hisses, then shudders and pants. Her nails rake the skin at the back of my neck. Oh God.

We’re good at this, Hot Body and me. We’ve been fucking for almost a year now, on and off. We have chemistry. We’re good together when it comes to fucking—all that I’ll ever allow between us.

And I’m fucking her now, long, deep thrusts that make her cry out and lift her hips to meet me halfway. It feels amazing. It feels perfect, so then why…?

Why is it suddenly so damn cold, and why is everything fading to black?

Chapter One

Hawk

Fuck, something’s wrong.

The thought fills my head, expanding like a bubble, growing and growing until the top of my skull is about to blow off.

Something’s fucking wrong, and I’m smack in the middle of it.

Okay, recap. Layla isn’t here, and we’re not in my limo. That wasn’t real. I haven’t seen her in weeks, kept my distance. And I’m fucking cold.

Where the hell am I?

If I could open my eyes… That might help, right? It’s a damn struggle, though, and I frown. My hair is a tangled mess over my face. My mouth feels filled with cotton, my tongue too big.

Jeez, I must’ve been on a hell of a bender last night. Funny that I don’t remember a thing. Such a waste of alcohol.

But when my lashes finally lift, I wish they hadn’t, because, son of a bitch. Ow. The light cuts into my eyeballs like a knife. Quickly I bow my head and press my eyes shut.

Okay, what the hell happened? And why don’t I recognize this place?

My head is pounding, my pulse kicking against the inside of my skull, and my stomach is trying to climb up my throat. Tequila? Jack? Absinthe? A mixture of the above?

Wouldn’t be the first time—but unknown surroundings aside, something feels definitely wrong, and I still can’t put my finger on it.

Speaking of fingers… Why can’t I feel them? Or my hands? I concentrate, roll my shoulders, get a sense of my arms.

Why in the fuck are my arms stretched over my head? I lift my face, try the lash-lifting, eye-opening thing again, and bile rises in my throat as pain ricochets inside my head. My vision blurs. I’m panting.

But it’s getting worse. I’m sitting on the dirty floor of a warehouse, and… my legs are tied together at the ankles with a thin rope wrapped around my ankles. I’m wearing black pants, but my shoes are gone.

When I move my feet, testing the give of the rope, I find another length wrapped around my middle, tying me to something. Not a wall, because edges dig into my shoulders. A pillar?

A goddamn pillar.

All right. Okay. Gotcha. So this is how it is. Gotta say, though, it sucks ass.

And this is when it finally hits me, in the freezing warehouse, with my wrists and ankles and middle bound to a concrete pillar and my thoughts scattered, that I’m well and truly fucked.

***

Water trickles somewhere behind me, intensifying my thirst. My shoulders burn. Time ticks by. I prod my memory for clues, trying to figure out how I ended up here and where this is.

I remember sitting at my desk, in my office, at the Fleming Enterprises HQ, listening as the company lawyer explained to me facets of the bureaucratic chaos left behind by my father’s arrest and his shady dealings with the Organization—the secretive criminal faction Storm, Rook and I discovered. A group in which our parents played a leading role, killing whoever got in their way, be it friend of foe.

Friend, as in Storm’s parents. Foe, as in everyone else. Made no difference in the end.

And then refused to help the police end this, refused to give up any vital information, and got themselves the best lawyer out there to help them maintain that silence.

Still can’t fucking believe my parents were involved in this, can’t fucking digest the fact that—

Focus, Hawk. You’re in a hot mess right now. Focus on that.

Right.

So, I was at my office, hitting my head against the bureaucratic wall, and after I was done with that, I decided to go out for a drink. I remember grabbing my helmet, my jacket and my phone and thinking about calling Storm and Rook, or maybe just Hot Body for some dinner and a quick, satisfying fuck, not necessarily in that order.

But I decided against it, as I often do lately, not wanting to put her in danger. So I thought I’d rather ride my bike through the city instead, clear my head and my thoughts.

I remember nodding at my secretary, entering the steel-and-glass elevator, and pressing the P for the underground parking lot.

I remember the doors dinging as they opened, and my steps echoing as I stepped into the dimly lit space, heading for my custom-made Deus Grievous Angel bike.

And then… a blank. A fucking big black hole.

Why was I out for so long? How many hours has it been? I shouldn’t be out so long from a hit to the head. Unless I was drugged.

Awesome.

Either could explain the fact my head is ready to explode and my mouth tastes like blood and dirt.

Okay, back up. What do we have so far?

Someone grabbed me from the parking lot of my building and tied me up like a sausage in what looks like a warehouse. Where?

The light is coming from a bare lightbulb high above my head. Although it felt like a knife to my eyes, the light is actually faint, barely illuminating the high-ceilinged interior with its steel beams crisscrossing high up like a spider web. No windows.

A basement? I make out a few crates, but it’s otherwise empty. No graffiti, no trash. Not abandoned, then. There’s that.

Lots of warehouses out there to choose from, though, and that’s assuming we’re still in Baltimore.

Hell, even then, it could be any goddamn place inside the city and the suburbs, on the seafront, or inland.

If this were a movie, there would be the sound of surf and seagulls, or a busy street outside giving the protagonist clues. Even maybe the captors standing behind a door and talking about their plans, accidentally mentioning their location.

I strain to listen for any sound. Apart from water dripping and an engine whirring away somewhere in the distance, nothing.

Looks like this is a different kind of movie.

One in which I’m fucked.

More time passes. A rat scuttles along a wall, and I watch its approach with gritted teeth. If the creature decides to start gnawing on my leg, there’s not much I can do. The feeling of helplessness grates on my every nerve ending. I’ve never gotten off on the submissive role. That’s more Rook’s kink, from what I hear.

And Hot Body’s, from experience.

Of course, on the heels of that thought come the images of her bound to a four-post king-size bed, wrists crossed over her head—much like mine are right now—her legs spread, her tits shiny with a sheen of sweat, her mouth slack as I pleasure her with my hand and jack off with the other.

Or on all fours, with her pretty ass in the air as I smack her and then thrust into her.

Or holding on to one of the posts as I prepare my flogger and—

Shit, was that a sound? A door slamming?

I strain in my bonds, futilely pulling, trying to get my hands free. I can’t even see what they tied them with. Rope, I’d guess, like my legs and waist.

No other sound echoes in the emptiness, and I let my head fall back. Dammit, I’m so damn thirsty, and I ache everywhere, except for the parts that are numb, like my hands and arms, and that’s even less reassuring.

Not reassuring at all. Because the kidnapping manual says if you don’t feed and give water to your hostages, then you’re planning to kill them. Or intend to let them die. You feed them and make sure their hands don’t fall off if you plan to ask for ransom.

Guess in which category I seem to fall?

Fuck. I wasn’t supposed to die this weekend. So damn inconvenient. I’ve got stuff to do that just can’t wait, not to mention the Organization to bring down.

***

A bang jerks me awake.

What? Where?

I jolt forward, brought short by the ropes around my limbs, and a shout dies strangled in my throat as the pain hits my shoulders and chest, the inside of my skull.

Fucking ow.

And fuck, I can’t turn and see what’s going on. Another bang—the door closing?—and force myself to wait and stop struggling.

They come into view, two guys dressed in black wife-beaters and jeans, and nope, I’ve never seen them before in my life. Shit, no clue there. They’re built like tanks, taller than my six-foot-four, arms bulging with muscles and covered in tattoos, their faces sporting bristly dark beards.

Oh joy. Clichéd-looking thugs have come to beat me up. Can my day get any fucking better? I want to ask, but I bite my lip and wait to see how things unfold.

Clichéd is good. It means I know the script.

One of them, with a golden earring glinting on one ear, folds his arms over his chest and grins at me. Some of his teeth are missing. Comfortable?

I just stare back at him. He’s one ugly motherfucker. There’s a scar on his cheek, partly hidden by the beard, and another on his arm. Looks like a slash from a knife.

Thug to the bone, huh?

Rest while you can, the other one says. You won’t be comfortable for long.

Well, this has just become interesting. Somewhat off script. And promising.

Because uncomfortable is better than dead. And it probably means someone does want to talk to me. Looks like I’m not going to die today after all.

I slump in my bonds.

Hey, asshole, are you paying attention? The ugly one grabs me by the hair—dammit, why did I let it grow?—and snaps my head back against the concrete pillar. Answer.

You told me to rest while I can, I rasp, and fuck, my throat hurts, it’s so damn dry. Can I have some water?

Can I have some water? he repeats in a high-pitched voice, waggling his brows. Hear that, Elliott?

Why, is he deaf? I watch him from under my lashes, wincing when he pulls harder on my hair. Or maybe your Daffy Duck impersonation is beyond him. To be honest, it’s beyond me, too.

You goddamn son of a bitch. He slams my head back on the pillar, then again, until the pain causes black dots to swim in my vision and my ears to ring. Fucking smartass. You’ll regret this.

Yeah, it happens a lot. I regret lots of things, on a daily basis.

But not this.

I open my mouth to say something that will probably earn me a proper beating, because ugly face is right, I’m a smartass, and I own it, when the other guy hauls him off me, cursing.

Enough, Big Johnny. Get off him, or the Boss will have your ass.

Yeah. Fuck, I’m dizzy, and I’m trying to swallow bile as much as my laughter. Boss wants me alive.

I mean, come on. Big Johnny? Are these guys for real?

Aaaand we’re back to the script. I’m tied up in an abandoned warehouse with Elliott and Big Johnny who wants to bash my head in, and we’re waiting for the boss. Could this get any cornier?

But at least I’m starting to get a feel of how things are. Study your opponent, the kidnapping manual says. Find out what they want. Figure out their weaknesses. Try not to get yourself killed by giving smartass answers.

Yeah, about that last one…

Follow the manual, Hawk. Be patient. Shut your fucking mouth and wait.

***

Wait for the boss. That was my resolution. Don’t rise to the bait when the two morons guarding you prod and poke you and kick at your legs out of boredom and lack of imagination.

Listen.

Only their conversation is boring as fuck. They’re dissing a girl who refused to put out for ugly face—is it any wonder? Just for his conversational skills, or lack thereof, she’d better steer clear—and discussing the football season, then switch to the fascinating topic of toenail fungi.

Someone kill me already.

Oh wait, I’m trying to avoid that. Kinda slipped my mind for a second. That’s how boring this is. Good thing the pain is distracting me, or I’d be asleep and missing out on all this awesome fun.

The door opens. The door closes. Dammit, I hate not being able to see who walks in behind my back. The boss, I presume? I need to know who he is. Need to know if this has to do with the Organization, the mafia, or if it’s something else completely.

Wasted enough time with these two morons already.

They move back as the steps approach me but don’t show any signs of wanting to stand at attention or anything, so now I have to assume this isn’t the boss.

Fuck.

When the guy comes into view, I give him a once-over, keeping my expression neutral. He’s about my age, handsome, with a three-day-beard and slicked-back dark hair.

He’s a douchebag, I can tell from taking one look at him. And he’s a sadist. Which is confirmed when he draws back his leg and kicks me in the stomach before he says a word.

Son of a bitch.

Good morning to you, too, I wheeze, trying to hunch over the pain and not able to.

Who is this guy? He sneers at me and rubs his jaw as if considering where to kick next. So not good right now. If my hands were free, I’d mop the floor with him, and the fucker knows it.

His eyes gleam, and he smiles.

That’s a bad sign. Page nineteen in the kidnapping manual: When your kidnapper smiles, be afraid.

He lowers himself until he’s sitting on his heels and stares me in the face—so close I consider spitting on him, but I still haven’t gotten back the hang of breathing. I’m wheezing, hoping he can tell from my ice-cold stare I would like him to choke on his own spit and die, when he grabs my hair—again, dammit—and slams my head back against the pillar.

Fuck, so dizzy. Is this enough to give me a concussion? Is it enough to make me puke on him? God, I hope so.

And then he says, If you as much as breathe my way again, I’m gonna serve you your balls on a plate for dinner tonight.

’S okay, I gasp, blinking, trying to clear my eyes. Wasn’t hungry anyway.

He slams my head back one more time, and everything goes black.

Chapter Two

Layla

Layla? The whine of an office chair swiveling around and a familiar deep voice greets me as I walk into the dim office. What the hell are you doing here?

Hey, Dad. Nice to see you, too. I flop into the chair across from his overloaded desk and wait until he has turned all the way around from his shelves to face me. How is it going?

Didn’t I tell you not to come here?

I sigh and cross my legs, then fiddle with my bracelet—an expensive one Hawk gave me some months ago. Can’t remember why I put it on today. Yeah, you always tell me that. Can’t see what’s so dangerous about a shipping company, Dad, honest.

My shoes are killing me, but I love these heels. Mom bought them for me in New York where I went to visit her this past week. They make my legs look long and shapely, and it gets the guys staring.

It doesn’t matter. I told you not to come here. Can’t you listen to me for once? He rubs a hand over his face. Just like your mother.

Angry heat rushes to my face. That’s right. She didn’t bend to your commands. How weird, huh?

Layla…

No. I lean forward in my chair and stab my finger on his desk. I won’t just dance to your commands, Dad. Not without a reason, not anymore. In case you didn’t notice, I’m an adult now, and I can make up my mind about things. You said you’d explain to me why seeing him was dangerous, but you haven’t explained anything, have you?

Jamie Fleming, or Hawk as you call him, was never good news. He glares at me from whiskey-colored eyes, just like mine, and runs a hand over his receding hairline. Especially since his parents were convicted and thrown into prison.

He put them there. He’s not corrupt like them. And I don’t know why I’m defending him.

Why am I defending him?

The world is corrupt. He’s not any better.

I narrow my eyes at him. You talk like you know something. Something more than all the news sites are saying.

Didn’t you ask him what they were convicted of, this guy you opened your legs for?

I get to my feet so fast I almost fall over and have to steady myself on the desk. Screw you.

Should have followed Mom to New York. Except I like college here, and I love my friends.

Layla. He’s on his feet, too, his glare matching mine. We’re father and daughter all right. I’m only looking out for you.

No, you’re controlling my life and not telling me anything!

And Hawk has refused to tell me details about