“Fine by me,” he says, pointing his finger at Hawke, “because racer gets the girl in the end.”
The two men lock eyes—a nonverbal pissing match is waged between the two of them. I wonder what in the hell I’ve missed by going dancing and think maybe I don’t want to know the parameters of this little contest that’s going on.
“Just a little dick-dueling,” Rocket says into my ear as he slings an arm around my shoulder. I bite back the chuckle I want to emit when both Hawkin and Luke unbeknownst to the other narrow their eyes at Rocket for touching me.
“Looks more like a big dick contest,” I muse, my thoughts drifting back to Luke and his ten inch comment from weeks ago.
“Now, that? I’m not going to be the judge of,” he laughs with a shake of his head and plops down next to Luke, whose head is now resting on the back of the couch, not looking so well.
The night wears on a bit longer, the contest slows down, but as I watch from the sidelines, I notice that Hawke is not downing the shots like Luke is. He’s picking them up and then just moving them full to the table beside him where one of the others in the VIP room takes and downs them.
I cringe thinking what Luke is going to feel like in the morning—well, later in the morning—when he’s done being passed out because that sure as hell is the way he’s headed. And as much as I want to be pissed at the guys for whatever the bet is that’s going on, I can’t be because they continue to tell Luke the game’s done, and yet he still feels the need to play. I have a slight feeling I know what the prize is and just why he’s fighting so hard.
Last call comes and goes and it’s decided by someone in our group that Axe is going to drive all of our drunk asses home. Luke disagrees and wants to stay and drink some more despite being unable to stand up, but it’s closing time.
We are all zoned out in the limo bus, the evening’s adrenaline and alcohol high slowly fading into exhaustion. We’ve dropped Luke off at his hotel room where Axe and I made sure he made it safe and sound inside and onto his bed. I felt like shit for leaving him there like that but he passed out on the bed before I could even take his shoes off.
When it comes down to it, whatever testosterone-fueled game he was playing is only going to result in a lot of puking tonight, and I really don’t think he’s going to want to end our first date that way.
And call me coldhearted but this squeamish girl doesn’t really want to see it.
I left him a note to call me in the morning so that I can make sure that he’s okay, that I had a good time, and thanks for the invite. What else am I supposed to say? Thanks for making this easy on me, for passing out, so that I can go screw the man I really want?
At least for now his dignity remains intact in more ways than one…. Too bad I’m going to add to the wicked hangover he’s going to have in the morning when he wakes, calls, and I tell him thank you for the nice evening, but there’s nothing there on my end.
Axe is cautiously making his way through downtown LA traffic—present at all hours—toward my house. Gizmo went home with his raven-haired hottie and Rocket is currently making moaning noises a few rows behind us doing who knows what with one in a trio of women. Or maybe with all of them.
“Keep it down, Rock,” Hawkin scolds. “Lady present.” I can’t help but laugh at the comment and love it all at the same time because it’s cute. And then I wonder how offended I’d be if I were one of the trio but I figure their mouths are a bit too busy to pay attention to insults.
Sinking into Hawkin next to me, the alcohol hums through my blood and helps dull the guilt over abandoning Luke and leaves me charged with anticipation of how I want to spend the rest of the night.
I know Hawkin feels the same way because his body tenses up every time I rub against him, and I know it’s taking a strong hold on his restraint to prevent himself from taking me right here and now. And the idea sends a slight thrill through me, fills me with a wanton desire to see just how far I can push him.
Shifting in my seat, I watch the lights of the city play over his face as we move through the night, my mind trying to process how we got from a combative first encounter to here. I slide my hand across his thigh, notice the hitch of his breath and the snap of his eyes over to mine. Oh yeah, he wants this just as bad as I do. Hell if that notion isn’t a heady feeling.
The tips of my fingers graze the top of the crotch of his jeans, the seam already straining and begging me to relieve the pressure against it, soothe the ache with the warmth of my mouth. My sex throbs from the thought, and unsated need drives my actions.
As I lean into him, his eyes watch me all the while until I kiss the side of his neck before running the tip of my tongue up to just below his ear. The salt of his skin is on my tongue and the smell of his cologne is in my nose but it’s the pained groan of restraint that turns me on more than anything. I’m a girl who loves a good dare and I’ll be damned if I’m going to back down from this one.
I want a reaction from him right now—the fist in my hair, his mouth claiming mine, his hands parting me and dipping inside to ready me for the one thing I really want—to prove to myself that I can make this player lose his control.
“How hard are you going to fuck me, Hawkin? Are you going to play me like your guitar? All fingers strumming my strings till I react or are you going to use me like I’m your mic and use your mouth to make me scream like all the women in the crowd do?” As I whisper into his ear, my own words are turning me on. “Or am I the lucky one for the night? Will you let me watch as you part my thighs and slide your dick into my tight, wet pussy? Will you make me come with your kiss on my lips?”
I tug on the lobe of his ear with my lips, and he holds me at arm’s distance before I’m able to connect with his lips. His eyes blaze with lascivious need and yet his head shakes subtly back and forth. I’m not sure what he’s trying to tell me. His eyes say one thing and his body shows another right down to the expression on his handsome face.
“Go ahead, Hawke.” Vince’s words cut through the bemoaned silence of the bus. “I’ll just watch from over here … unless you want me to join in, that is,” he says with an amused chuckle.
I feel Hawkin’s body tense further if that’s even possible, and my mind begins to work overtime. Is that why he’s acting so weird? Is that what Hawke wants and he’s afraid to ask? Me and him and Vince together? I swallow the discomforting thrill of the idea, something I have never done before. This will be my first time with Hawke, no one else needs to be there while we memorize each other’s bodies and sounds.
“Maybe some other time,” I reply, hoping to add some levity and ease whatever tension remains. Fight fire with fire and all that. “Sorry, Vince, lead singer trumps bass player.”
Hawkin erupts in a fit of laughter at my comment and holds his stomach as the hysterics take over his whole body. “Oh God! That’s fucking classic!”
Chapter 15
QUINLAN
The walk to my front door feels like a mile, but at least we’re both sobering up some. Anticipation of what’s going to come next assaults us with every step forward. My nerves hum, my core burns with that sweet, delicious ache, and I tell myself to expect nothing more than the moment. I laugh softly knowing no matter what I tell myself I’m already too attached to Hawkin and nothing has really happened yet.
I fumble with the key in the lock, the expectation adding to the heady moment, until Hawke steps up behind me, my back to his front. He pulls my hair off my neck with one hand, fingertip tracing over my inked motto, and places a kiss on the curve of my shoulder that is so unexpected it heightens the fluttering sensations in my belly. Nerves and expectation ruin my dexterity so he reaches out and places his hand over mine so that we both unlock the front door together.
And I’m so far from the flowery, Hallmark moment girl, but there is something that touches me with the action, and I can only hope he’s unlocking more than just the front door and maybe opening up the possibility of letting me in.
&
nbsp; When the door swings open and he follows me in, the silence stretches so tautly it only enhances the desire as we make our way through my darkened house straight to my bedroom. I don’t think to ask if he wants another drink, a bottle of water—it never crosses my mind—because I’m driven by pure need at this point. Besides, we’ve had enough foreplay tonight that without even asking him, I know neither one of us wants to wait any longer.
So I step into my bedroom with confidence and when Hawkin’s hands immediately find my waist and pull me back into the muscled heat of his chest, I close my eyes and allow myself to memorize the feel of his embrace before he renders my body senseless and my thoughts incoherent. He’s already hard for me and I’m so turned on by the fact that I haven’t said a word to him, I haven’t shed my clothes, and yet he’s ready.
His hands begin to move over my torso. They snake under my tank top, and I gasp in a breath at the feeling of skin on skin, at the sensation of rough to smooth that tells me this is real, this is about to happen. He smooths his hands up my rib cage so that my tank pulls up with them, and he cups my breasts as he goes. We both moan in unison as his fingers brush over my nipples. I gasp out as sensation swamps me, my head rolling back onto his shoulder behind me as I surrender my body to his hands, my emotions to his manipulations, and absorb the pleasure he’s giving me.
He rubs my nipples between his fingers and thumbs through the lace of my bra before continuing to slide my tank up to my shoulders. He gestures for me to lean my head forward and he lifts my tank over my head but lowers it over my arms, stopping it so that they are held in place.
Chills race over my body; the ache he’s building inside me intensifies with each touch feeling like a pleasurable pain. My sex throbs with each beat of my pulse and my muscles tense to prevent myself from twisting around, ripping the tank top off and jumping him. God yes I want him with every fiber of my being, but there’s something innately arousing about turning yourself over to someone. Trusting someone with your body, your sexual pleasure, openly handing them your vulnerability—it’s all a very intoxicating feeling.
Add to that the lack of any words between us. Our only communication is the dance of his fingers over my sensitized flesh. Hands urging in silent command, minds running wild.
He draws in a ragged breath from behind me and I love the thought that he’s just as affected. Hawke’s hands begin to move back down my body now, sliding between my breasts where he unclasps my bra before moving to my back and down the length of my spine to unzip my skirt. It falls to the floor and pools around my feet so that I’m wearing nothing but a fuchsia lace thong with nude heels and a tank top holding my arms motionless.
My skin is hot, the air is cool, and his breath feathers over my neck in a whisper of a touch. My thoughts forget the notion of the casual sex I told myself I could have with him because I already know that there is no turning back now as he runs his palms back to my abdomen so that his fingers dip beneath the band of my panties. He lowers them to the top of my cleft, parting me slightly so that his fingertips graze the top of my clit, causing my pelvis to buck into his hand as I beg for more.
The chuckle he gives me in reaction spurs me on, tells me he likes a woman to react, and good thing because I’m not one to take my passion quietly. Then his lips press lightly to the curve of my shoulder in an unexpected action that feels surprisingly intimate and coaxes a soft moan from my lips.
The heat of his body against my back disappears as he takes a step away but his hands command me to stay still when I try to turn toward him. His calloused fingertips begin to trace over my body: up my rib cage, skimming the underside of my breasts before heading up the midline of my chest, and then tracing the line of my collarbone out to my shoulders.
There’s something about the way that he’s touching me, almost as if he’s learning the lines of my body like he would an instrument. It’s intimate, sensual, and languorous, like he wants to take the time getting to know me before he claims me. It’s surprisingly erotic and not what I’ve ever experienced in a first-time encounter with someone who hasn’t already professed his love for me.
I push the thought from my head, ignore the questions his actions evoke: Is he always like this? Is he like this because he wants more? Parts of my psyche hold on to the hope that I know I’ll need after tonight is over and decide to focus on the fact that he needs to fuck me soon. My body’s on fire and so attuned to his touch that when he finally does I’m going to come in a matter of seconds.
The scrape of strong fingers up the curves of my shoulders, featherlight touches up the base of my neck and into my hair, quiet my thoughts, tell me to shut it down and enjoy the moment. My head falls forward and I moan in ecstasy as he kneads my muscles softly. His hands begin a seductive descent down my shoulder blades to the swell above my butt before slipping his fingers into the fabric at my hips. He pushes my panties down the length of my legs—slow and purposeful—smooth and rough in a devastating one-two punch to my nerves. I lift my feet as they fall and then stand motionless, our excited breathing the only sound in the room.
I’m not sure at what point he silently requested that I not speak and I decided to comply, but the combination only adds to the sexual tension snapping through the air. The notion that I am at his every whim heightens the sensations.
I stand motionless, Hawkin still behind me, and yet he’s not touching me. Curiosity and desire wage a feudal war within me as I debate whether to turn around and take what I want or to play out this little game that has me willing to beg if he doesn’t touch me soon.
And I don’t beg.
His fingertips begin again, whispering a trail up my inseam, gentle pressure urging my legs farther apart. I suck in a breath as the cool air of the room bathes the heated skin between my thighs. He brushes his hands ever so slightly over me before they once again leave my body.
I close my eyes, wondering where to next, while goose bumps race over my skin in expectancy as I hear him move behind me. And I find out quick enough when I feel the warmth of his mouth on the nape of my neck again. Desire mainlines from everywhere within me as his fingertips touch the apex of my thighs, causing that sweet, pleasurable ache to burn with a heightened intensity.
He presses close against my back again, his erection thick against me. “Open your mouth,” he commands, his voice sending chills down my spine.
I part my lips without hesitancy and he murmurs in approval before slipping two fingers between my lips.
“Suck.”
How can that single word evoke such a visceral reaction from my body? Nipples hardening to the point of pain, my sex swelling, my mouth reacting. I respond, body vibrating with the desire that increases with each passing moment.
“Do you have any idea how bad I want you right now? I’m hard as a rock and it’s taking everything I have to not lay you down on your bed and fuck you into oblivion,” he says in a pained voice that only turns me on more knowing he’s suffering as desperately as I am. “You deserve better than that, Quinlan, and fuck if it’s not taking everything I have to give that to you…. I’ve never wanted to be more selfish than I do right now.”
His teeth nip my shoulder, which causes me to open my mouth where his fingers still remain. His words stoke the flames of desire even brighter knowing that I matter enough to him in whatever this is to try to give me what I deserve.
I begin to respond, to tell him Thanks but right now all I want is you in me, on me, pleasuring me, but he stops me. “Uh-uh, don’t talk.” His mouth brushes against my ear, that raspy rhythm an audible pheromone. “Right now I’m going to take these fingers and fuck you with them. I’m going to lick your clit and finger fuck you into a frenzy until you’re just about to climax. I’ll hold you there. Make you ride that fine line between frustration and desire. Make you beg, make you moan, make you scream my name. And then I’ll stop because I want to be in you when you come.”
I close my eyes and let his words sink in, allow my body the visceral r
eaction—the sudden tensing up and then slow release of muscles—as I wait in that suspended state of hazy desire for him to begin. He crosses his free arm over my chest, lower rib cage to opposite shoulder, and pulls me roughly against the front of him so that there is no mistaking his want of me. His chuckle reverberates against my back and into me. “Oh, believe me. I know you think you’ll come even if I stop but, sweetness, I assure you, you won’t until I’m in you. You’ll hate me, then love me and fuck if when you come it won’t be the strongest orgasm you’ll ever have.” He runs the tip of his tongue along the side of my neck, making me forget my thoughts of how he knew what I was thinking. “Now bend over and get ready to beg.”
He withdraws his fingers from my mouth, murmuring an approval as I obediently lean forward and place my chest onto the top of the mattress. And the funny thing is most of the time I’d tell a guy to screw off if he was going to give me orders, deny me my orgasm, and not let me touch—this girl likes to give just as good as she gets—but there is something about Hawkin that makes me want to earn the orgasm he gives me.
“Damn, woman,” he murmurs the moment the finger I’ve just wet with my mouth slides between the already slick lips of my sex. My body is so on edge from this foreplay that there is no way he’ll be able to stop my orgasm because the beginning of it is already bearing down on me like a freight train and he’s barely touched me.
I feel him against my knees and it takes me a minute and a glance down to realize that he sat down on the floor, his back against the foot of the bed I’m bent over so that his face is right where it needs to be. He positions his hands so that when he grabs the roundness of my ass and pulls gently, the tips of his fingers skim over the backside of my cleft. The sensation is strangely arousing but it’s taken to all new heights when his mouth closes over my pleasure. His tongue splits me and slides down to where his fingers have now pressed their way inside me.
The cry falls from my lips, my hands fist, and I work the tank top that’s still holding my arms hostage up some so that I can bend my arms and fist them in the top of his hair. Pleasure swamps me, owns me, and has me begging for more. “Oh God Hawke.” They’re the first words that I speak in I don’t know how long but they’re all I need to say because I’m swamped with sensations.