Sweet Ache

Chapter 14

QUINLAN

I’m listening to Luke but secretly watching Hawkin under the cover of the club’s darkness. His drinks have been coming at a steady pace for the past hour.

I don’t know what it is that Hawke does to me, but it took every ounce of restraint I had not to mount him right then and there on the damn couch. His dick was so hard and felt so good rubbing between my thighs, never mind the way he kisses—the complete obliteration of senses and thoughts—all of the sensations made it so difficult to pull away even though I knew Luke was coming.

Now I’m in such a clusterfuck of a position—seems like a constant since Hawke’s come into my life—of hurting Luke in order to take what I want … but denying how I feel, how Hawkin Play makes me feel, is not an option.

My mind’s been running scenarios all night long and I just can’t seem to find a way to make this all play out without anyone getting hurt and that’s a shitty feeling all around. I’ve been in his shoes before and it sucks, it hurts, but I try to rationalize that I’ve been there after months of fidelity rather than a single date. But it doesn’t matter, I still feel guilty.

So I’ve had a few more drinks than normal, laughed a little too loud more times than I care to count to feign like I’m having a blast instead of sitting with damp panties and wondering just how Hawkin fucks. He’s a contradiction in so many ways—the cocky asshole, the rock star player, the protective brother, the consummate band member, and yet underneath all of that I can’t get a read on the side of him that he lets slip every so often. The side I want to know, intimately.

Luke leans in again to kiss me and while I’ve tolerated it several times, I can’t do it anymore. To not feel is to be dead and this girl likes to be made to feel alive. I’m sure it’s the alcohol bolstering my actions but instead of kissing him back dispassionately as I have the other times, I push up out of my seat and wiggle my hips.

“I want to dance! You want to come with me?” I ask, knowing damn well he won’t after catching snippets of his conversation with Rocket earlier about his two left feet.

“No. Nah. Not me,” he slurs, his alcohol intake making its presence noted as he holds his hands up in front of him despite the resignation in his eyes that tells me he wants to be the one grinding up against me on the floor.

I scrunch my nose up in apology and wish that Layla was here—a little girl time on the dance floor is always fun, especially to protect your backside from drunk bastards trying to make advances you don’t want. For when I have to use the name Trixie.

The music changes as I hit the floor, completely ignoring the several male hands that have already touched my arms asking for me to have a drink with them, and a David Guetta remix beat slams through the speakers. The alcohol, the unrequited sexual tension that’s controlled my body the past three hours, leaves me with each step that I push through the throng of people. I claim a small space in the middle of the floor and begin to move amid the undulating mass of club-goers. The lights play over the people around me and I let myself get lost in the beat and from my thoughts.

I dance a few more songs, glad I’ve pushed far enough into the crowd that I’ve been left alone by the guys trolling for action on the fringe of the floor, when I become too hot, my feet too sore in my heels, and decide I’m done. The beat of the music, the energy vibrating through my body, has only served to reinforce that I have to take this chance with him.

Making my way back up the stairs, Axe nods his head in greeting when I clear the landing. I walk on steadier feet toward the crowd of guys around the table where we’ve been sitting all evening.

Hawkin’s eyes find me first and a shameful smirk tugs up one corner of his mouth. The sight of his reaction to me does funny things to my insides. As I approach, I hear Luke groan out while the rest of the guys begin a chant I can’t quite make out. I swear to God it sounds like make it count—the irony of the saying Hawkin no doubt put to their game is not lost on me—but I’m unsure because they stop as I get closer.

“A bet’s a bet, man,” Hawkin says, shifting his attention toward Luke, who is obviously on his way to getting plastered right now, judging by the glaze of his eyes and the ridiculous amount of empty shot glasses lined up on the table in front of the band.

“Fffuuuccckkkk!” Luke slurs and lifts the glass to his lips with a defeated laugh. “Remind me never to challenge you to this again.”

Gizmo erupts into laughter. “Dude. You never challenge musicians to a shot contest. We have hours on tour buses to build up tolerance to this shit—we’ll win hands down every time. Especially that fucker!” he says, pointing at Hawkin, who just leans back with his half-empty Jack and Coke in one hand and an empty shot glass in his other and watches with amusement.

“Rocker trumps racer every time,” Hawkin laughs, his eyes glancing over to Vince as Luke chugs the shot back.

“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!”