Sweet Ache

Chapter 36

QUINLAN

Our lips meet, and I expected the softness of the kiss, but not the tears that burn the back of my eyes as emotion overwhelms me that we’re going to try to work this out. I knew I was falling for him, hell I might even acknowledge that the L-word has crossed my mind in all of its ludicrousness, but I don’t think I understood how much I missed him until right now with his lips against mine, the warmth of his breath hitting my face, and possibility stretched out before us.

The kiss is gentle at first, the taste of alcohol on his tongue as it softly meets mine. I scoot farther into him, my knee now against his groin, and place my hands on his thighs. He reaches out and cups my chin, fingers directing the angle of the kiss in a way he hasn’t before, and I hate the fact that for a split instant I wonder if he’s been with someone else. That simple streak of feminine jealousy tarnishes this moment until I push it away, but I can’t help but feel that the way we are normally perfectly in sync with each other is slightly off.

I try to forget the thought, try to lose myself in the desire simmering in our kiss, and hate that the irrefutable chemistry that usually lights me on fire when we touch seems muted in a sense. And normally his bad-boy demeanor would be one helluva turn-on, but after the shit we’ve gone through the past couple of days, it’s not. Greed is a turn-on when it’s the hunger of a kiss overtaking you in your need for another, but when it’s used to overshadow the amends you need to make, it doesn’t do anything for me.

And I immediately wonder if I’ve ruined us, if learning about the bet has damaged how I feel about him and snuffed out our spark.

The fleeting thought scares the shit out of me. So I throw myself into the kiss, trying to force the feeling that I know we can find again. I try to gain some control, hands fisting in his shirt, tongue licking into his mouth, nipping his bottom lip, as I rise from my chair and straddle him.

His dick is already rock hard, straining against his slacks in a position that we always seem to find ourselves in, me sitting astride him, but there is no mistaking that Hawkin holds the control of the situation. His grip on my hair with one hand, his fingers twisting my shirt at my lower back, and the hunger on his lips tells me he wants this, and he’s taking what he came for.

I slide my hands up to the crisp collar of his shirt, hoping that the feeling of skin on skin will chase all of these ridiculous thoughts from my head and allow me to enjoy our first time back together. The first time since I’ve acknowledged the man has won over my bruised heart.

My fingertips play with the buttons at his neck and he has his hands on mine instantly. “Uh-uh, you first,” he murmurs against my lips before tightening his hand on my hair and pulling smartly on it. I yelp at the feeling and before I can react his mouth is on my neck, wet heat against chilled skin, drawing my focus from the pain.

When I grind my hips over him, a gasp falls from his mouth and his head falls back at the sensation. I do it again, loving the feeling of empowerment from hearing him want me, and I wonder if that’s what I need right now. To take the lead in this round of sex so that my own psyche regains the knowledge that I am in control and won’t be taken advantage of again. It’s a ridiculous thought but with a mind half lost to lust, I decide to go with it.

I circle my hips over him again and within a beat of emitting another groan, Hawkin stands with my thighs still circled around his hips and walks us the short distance through the family room. The minute he lays me down on my back on the couch, his hands start pulling my tank top over my head. As I lie in the glow of light from the hallway with Hawke obscured in the shadows of the darkened room, I can’t fully see the look in his eyes, but he stares at the whole of my body, covered in my shorts and bra, like it’s the first time he’s ever seen me. He’s on his knees on the cushion, but I can hear the sound of a man appreciating my body and that helps to push me through the lingering doubts.

“Hawkin.” I say his name softly, telling him so many things in that single word—take me, I forgive you, I want you, I need you—before fisting my hand in his shirt and yanking his mouth back down to mine. I feast off it, unexpectedly using the hurt and anger and shame I’ve had weighing me down the past five days to fuel my own greed for him.

“Fuck yeah, baby,” he murmurs against my lips, and a part of me takes note that he’s never called me that before, always called me sweetness, but the thought vanishes as he pushes apart my knees with his and grinds his own trouser-clad dick against the open and willing apex of my thighs.

My cell phone rings but all sense is lost as the friction hits me. My hands pull on his shirt, buttons popping off and scattering on the coffee table and floor. He tries to pull away but I keep his shirt as my need reigns, loving the knowledge that his bare flesh is exposed and mine for the taking. No way is he going to shrug out of my grip; instead I hold him close. He’s not getting away from me again.

He resists momentarily and then gives in, hands over his control to me so that I can annihilate his. Our mouths brand and bruise, moans fill the air and I can scent the sex we’re about to have. Then it’s my hands on his button fly. His lips on my nipple through the lace of my bra. My hips pushing up into his. Instinct becoming reaction, desire becoming need.

“Take them off,” I encourage, wanting him naked, wanting him in me. Desperately. Needing to feel the completeness again that I didn’t even realize I was feeling until he wasn’t around.

Hawkin pulls on my nipple as he sits up, my soft mewl filling the silence of the room. I drown in the sensation but force myself to look up as he shifts on his knees on the couch to reposition us. He’s in the sliver of hall light now, his body casting mine in shadow. I slide my eyes up his sexy as hell torso where that V I love is visible just above the waistband of his pants and my entire body freezes when I reach the intricate tattoo on his right pec that covers his skin to just below his collar bone.

A tattoo he didn’t have five days ago and one way too detailed to have been completed in that short amount of time.

The realization takes me a split second, and the signs I’ve been pushing away come flooding back with validation riding the tsunami of disbelief. And fear.

What the fuck is Hunter doing here? Panic and alarms ring so loudly inside my head I’m deafened by them in the vulnerable state I’m in. This has got to be a mistake. I must be out of my mind. And the words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

“What instrument tonight …?” My voice fades off, hoping and not hoping that he can answer the question. If he does then it’s Hawkin and I’m seeing tattoos that don’t exist. If he doesn’t answer then I’m in a world of fucking trouble—and the anxiety mixed with adrenaline racing through my system right now is clouding my thought process on what I should do because screaming like bloody murder isn’t going to do shit in my own house with all of the windows closed. I fist my hands to prevent them from trembling as I wait for the answer, dread prematurely dropping through me like a lead weight.

“What?” he asks, confusion thick in the huskiness of his voice as the phone begins to ring again.

And I know for sure now, know that Hawkin would laugh at the comment, answer it for me, and then begin to work his way up my body.

Hunter eyes me through the shadows, sweat beads on my forehead, and my heart hammers in my ears. I wonder if I’m overreacting, telling myself that I am, but deep down I know that Hunter is going to do just what Hawke has warned me of: Take what is Hawkin’s at all costs.

I begin to scoot myself into the corner of the couch, trying to contain the panic bubbling up inside, but my feet slip as I try to gain traction. Hunter’s hand flashes out to grab my ankle before I can fully find my footing and yanks me back down the length of the couch.

He knows that I know.

The reaction is instantaneous, the fight-or-flight instinct so ingrained it’s not even a thought as I try to scramble away from him. My free leg kicks out wildly, trying to connect and at the same time prevent itself from being pinned captive like my other leg. My pulse is pounding erratically, the blood rushing through my veins sounds like a freight train bearing down on me.

The sob falls from my mouth, and I almost can’t believe that a man made of the same flesh and blood as the one that I love could be about to do this to me. I’m so scared and panicked that I don’t even have a second to think through the truth that this whole situation has just squeezed loose from the depths of my heart. That I’m in love with Hawkin Play.

His amused and nonchalant laugh hits me like a punch as I use every ounce of strength I have to try to gain freedom: writhing, attempting to flip over and off the couch so he’s forced to release my ankle, kicking, punching. Nothing works.

“Trixie,” he sneers, “I’m gonna take what I want anyway, fight or not, so why not just accept it. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.” The calm, even tone of his voice sends chills up my spine and even though it knocks me motionless momentarily, it makes me resist harder once that second is over.

“Get off me!” I scream at the top of my lungs, fear ruling my every reaction. Sense has been lost to fear and you can’t reason with insane so all I have left is my determination and fuck if I’m going to let that fail me now.

I can hear the shouting and even though it’s my voice, I don’t remember thinking to yell. I lash out again in a fury of fists and my free foot that he’s trying to grab on to. I know if he finds purchase around that ankle I’m screwed, so I fight with every ounce of resistance in me, finding the focus needed to quiet the panic ruling my thoughts. But this time I connect somehow with his lower torso and am granted a small reprieve when he releases his grip temporarily.

I’m up in a flash, uncoordinated and all over the place. I bang my shin on the table but I don’t care. All I can think about is the front door, that there are people outside who might hear me or be able to help. I take a few steps and then his body slams into my back, him hitting me, me hitting the hallway wall face-first. My arm is wrenched behind my back, the weight of his body holding me still, my bare flesh against the chilled paint on the wall, and I try to jerk my head back and forth as his chin comes over my shoulder.

His maniacal laugh fills my ear, the tone of it telling me he is so far over the edge of reason that no matter what I do, how I reason, I won’t be able to pull him back. The thought scares the shit out of me and yet I refuse to succumb to that fate.

He grinds his body against mine, a grunt of approval as his pelvis presses against my ass. I struggle against him, earning me another laugh as we stand there body to body, both of us panting with exertion, mine mixed with fear, his mixed with excitement, and the thought sickens me.

“What’s wrong, Q? You don’t want to double your pleasure, double your fun? Every whore wants a chance at twins, right?”

I grit my teeth, reject the taste of bile that wants to evacuate from the confines of my stomach, and squeeze my eyes shut. Thoughts, prayers, pleas run through my mind, giving me something to focus on rather than the sickening feel of his body against mine, the smell of fear in my nostrils, and the sheen of sweat coating my skin.