*~*Sinful Rewards Book Two by Cynthia Sax Blog Tour – Excerpt & Giveaway*~*

“You like my bike, huh?” Hawke grins, one corner of his lips quirking endearingly higher than the other. The stubble shadowing his square chin accentuates his broad cheekbones, the darkness contrasting vividly with his pale eyes.

“Yep.” I don’t like what his bike symbolizes, his chosen means of transport is built for one person, but I admire the workmanship. “It’s very pretty.”

“Pretty?” He scowls, appearing deeply offended, lines grooved around his mouth. “Paintings are pretty. You’re pretty.”

He thinks I’m pretty. My soul fills with happiness.

“Bikes aren’t pretty, sweetheart. They’re powerful machines.” Hawke clutches the throttle and revs the engine, the sound vibrating through my chest. “One thousand CCs, like having a beast between your legs.”

He’s a beast, all leather and denim and muscle, and I’d like to have him between my legs, our two naked forms fused into one, his rough hands cupping my ass cheeks, lifting me into him.

God, I want this man yet I can’t have him. I squeeze my thighs together, struggling to contain my urge to touch him, to stroke him, taste him. He’s wrong for me in so many delectable ways and I shouldn’t be thinking of him. Nicolas, my stable, serious billionaire, should own my thoughts, my body, my heart.

“I have to go to work.” I step backward, retreating as I always do from temptation, and never have I been as tempted as I am right now.

My gaze lingers over Hawke’s wide leather-clad shoulders, massive arms, scarred knuckles. His tattoos remain hidden but I know they’re there, decorating his golden skin, as detailed as the designs on his bike. He’s big and broad, a mountain on wheels, giving the illusion of solidity yet destined to leave, the combination confusing my bad boy inner warning system.

“Hop on the back.” Hawke twists his torso and pats the tiny wedge of seat behind him, his palm smacking hard leather. “I’ll give you a ride.”

I skim my tongue over my bottom lip, the thought of sitting behind him, straddling his big body with my legs, pressing my breasts against his back, thrilling me.

“Do you have a helmet?” I ask, knowing the answer. Helmets aren’t mandatory in Chicago and a man like him doesn’t wear unnecessary protection. He takes risks, flying as free as the bird he’s named after, untamable and wild.

“No, I don’t have a helmet.” Hawke’s smile fades, his blue jean eyes growing serious. “But you’re safe in my hands, Belinda. I’ll be careful with you.” He extends one of his arms, holding his hand out to me.

I stare at his creased palm. It takes all of my willpower not to grasp his fingers, not to slide my hand in his, allowing him to pull me wherever he wants me to go.

“I can’t risk it.” I force the words, my heart screaming in protest.

“I see.” Hawke drops his hand. He doesn’t see. He thinks I’m talking about his bike. He doesn’t know the risk I can’t take is touching him.