by K. Bromberg
Even though I can’t see his eyes, I know they are boring into mine. I can feel the anger vibrating off him from the nerve I’ve hit. I don’t say a word because I’ve pushed the buttons—and right or wrong—for no other purpose than to keep him at arm’s length from me.
“What the fuck is your problem?” He finally breaks his silence and asks.
“Who says there’s a problem? Just because you’re intimidated by a strong woman doesn’t mean there’s a problem,” I snip, trying to push this off on him when I know damn well that I’m carrying the chip handily on my shoulder.
“Sweetness, only boys are intimidated by strong women. Men find it attractive, a challenge, so why don’t you pull another excuse out of thin air and see if it sticks.”
I shrug my arm out of his grasp and step back, hating that he’s right in every sense of the word. It’s not like I’m going to let him know it though. “I know your type Hawkin. I know the games you play.” I look across the campus for a moment before looking back to him.
“Who said I’m playing any games?”
“Ha.” I laugh. “Your type always does, don’t they?”
He pulls a hand out of his pocket and runs it through his chocolate-colored hair, jaw clenched in frustration at the bitchiness I’m directing his way. “If anyone’s playing games, I’m pretty sure it’s you considering you go back and forth between hot and cold quicker than a faucet. So like I asked, what’s your deal?” He repeats himself, irritation laced with a trace of sadness in his soothing voice. “You can’t handle me?”
I swallow over the lump of confusion in my throat; the blatant conflict between lust and obstinacy runs rampant within me whenever I’m near him. “I’m not handling anything on you, no worries.”
“That’s what you say now, but I’m patient…. You’ll come around.” He licks his lips, and unless it’s my imagination, I can tell he’s fighting back a smirk.
And I have to give it to him—he’s as relentless as Luke. Almost. But the difference is he has my blood pumping whereas I’ve never felt overly attracted to Luke. I shake my head in an effort to clear my thoughts.
“I just don’t understand why you’re here. Why you agreed to do this seminar … One and one doesn’t exactly equal two on this one.”
He works his tongue in his cheek as he processes my statement. “I thought it would be fun. A change of pace to help me work around some issues I’m having … with a few songs on the new album. A new perspective …” He nods his head and glances over to where someone yells out on the grassy quad area.
The way his voice drifts off, combined with the shifting of his body, tells me something’s off and as much as I know I should leave well enough alone, I’m not buying it. He wants to call me on the carpet, I’m going to match him, challenge for challenge.
“That’s too perfect of an answer, Hawkin,” I say, recalling the image of the Delta Sig girls from the other day and his hand on her ass. “I know your type and if there’s not easy sex, fast crowds, or loose women to get lost in, you lose interest so—”
“What’s wrong with easy sex?” he asks as he falls into step beside me.
“Nothing.” I turn and start walking again toward the lecture hall. “Easy sex is most definitely fun, but why—”
“Whoa!” He reaches out to touch my arm, and I ignore his subtle request to turn and face him. In my periphery, I see him scrub a hand over his shaven jaw and shake his head. “You can’t say shit like that to a guy like me and expect me to gloss over it.”
“Shit like what?” I glance over at him. “Easy sex? Why deny it? Sex is great; sex is fun. You just won’t be the lucky one…. Now, tell me what’s in this lecture for you.”
He laughs aloud, producing a sound that’s laced with strained desire and disbelief. “Fuck Quin. With statements like that, you’re making me hope it’s you I’m in it for.”
“Keep dreaming, rocker boy.” I roll my eyes even though he can’t see them, although a small thrill surges through me from his comment. What girl wouldn’t want to hear that? Then I have to control my runaway thoughts, reminding myself over and over again that this man wears an I’m going to break your heart warning like a tattoo. “You still haven’t answered my question—why the seminar?”
I’m not backing down on this because something tells me the truthful answer is going to divulge “the something” about him that I need to know. And hell no, I don’t deserve the honest truth from him considering our shaky start, but I know if I keep him on his toes, then he’ll spend less time trying to get me off mine.
“I told you—I’m struggling on the album…. Never got the chance to go to college and the opportunity arose for the lecture so I took it.” I hear the disconnect beneath the words he speaks more.
“My bullshit-o-meter is zinging here.”
“Are you always this combative, trying to be the bad-ass?” He shakes his head. “Lips like an angel, body made for sin, and feisty enough to rival the devil’s fire?”
My step falters momentarily as his depiction knocks any coherent thoughts from my head. And I’m not sure what it is about his assessment that causes that ache within me to begin to coil again. “You like to play with fire, huh?”
This time his laugh is free and suggestive. “Oh Quin, the hotter the better.”
I don’t respond, just keep walking as the air between us thickens with unspoken and yet undeniable chemistry. I can feel the heat of the glances he steals my way but I ignore them, focusing instead on the murmured whispers in the groups of students we pass. And it must be the look on his face or our defensive posture but no one approaches us as we walk the last few feet toward the auditorium where Axe stands, arms crossed over his chest and back against the doors.
We’re just about to enter when Hawkin says, “Hold up,” and walks to the right of the building toward a food vendor cart.
I follow out of curiosity, wondering what could have caught his attention in the midst of our discussion. “What are you …?” My voice trails off as I see the little-boy grin light up his handsome features. Something about the look on his face, pure joy mixed with the hint of shadow on his jaw, has me staring a bit longer than I should.
“Ice cream!” he says, eyes wide as he peruses the list of flavors.
“Ice cream?” Ice cream is what made this gruff rocker turn into an adolescent? “Sweet tooth much?” I ask.
“The sweeter, the better,” he says, giving me an appraising once-over.
“Guess that leaves me out,” I say with a smirk that causes him to laugh.
“I have a feeling you have a sweet spot beneath that tough exterior, Quinlan,” he says as he points to a flavor and motions for me to pick one myself.
“No thank you,” I reply, a little dumbfounded by this new development. I must still be staring, trying to figure him out as he waits for the vendor to press the scoop of cookies ’n’ cream on the cone because he glances over to me and feels the need to explain.
“It’s my vice … my habit.” He pays the vendor, takes the cone, and then brings the ice cream to his lips. Parts deep within me stir as I watch him close his eyes momentarily and savor his first taste. My thoughts automatically wonder if this is what he looks like when he goes down on a woman.
When I refocus after shaking off the image, he’s staring at me. My obscene thoughts must be written all over my face because a knowing smile spreads over his lips. His eyes tell me yes, it’s the same expression.
And now I have to wonder how exactly I’m going to get that look out of my mind.
“I thought rockers were supposed to prefer sex, drugs, and alcohol,” I stutter, trying to deflect his intense scrutiny. And then once the words are out, I see anger flash through his eyes and realize what a stupid comment it was on the heels of his drug charges.
But he pushes whatever it is aside and takes a step closer to me. He angles his head to the side, and licks around the ice-cream cone where it is starting to melt. “I do love the sex and the
alcohol … and let’s not mention the drug part,” he says with a strained laugh, “but my daily habit is sugar. My favorite is ice cream.”
“Seriously?”
He takes another lick and then starts to walk back toward where Axe stands guard but stops when we are shoulder to shoulder. He leans in so that his mouth is near my ear and I can feel his breath chilled by the ice cream as it hits my skin. “Are you really going to complain about a man who likes to use his tongue?”
And before I can regain my wits or the blood that has flooded to the delta of my thighs, he walks toward the auditorium’s entrance without another word. I feel like a groupie as I turn around and scramble after him, trying to tamp down the lust after he just knowingly lit the flame.
“Let’s get this over with,” I mutter to myself as Rylee’s have wild, reckless sex comment flickers through my mind.
Because damn it, Hawkin just threw me for an unexpected loop. The throw caution to the wind part of me stood to attention. The skeptical part of me flipped him the bird.
And despite myself, I know who I want to win.
Chapter 6
QUINLAN
Concentrating on teaching Hawkin how to operate the PA system is difficult with his comment running loops through my mind. Add to that, he’s taking his sweet-ass time savoring his treat while we’re both in the confines of the small alcove off to the side of the stage where the controller resides. The space is minimal so each time I demonstrate the switches on the board it causes him to lean in closer.
And with each brush up against my back—the thin cotton of my tank top does nothing to mute the feeling—I’m getting more turned on. And more irritated with him.
“Make it count,” he murmurs behind me, his breath feathering over the exposed skin and I immediately know what he’s talking about. I suck in a breath when his finger traces the small and delicately inked words in the space between my shoulder blades. The only tattoo I have. “What does it mean?”
“Pretty self-explanatory,” I bite out but when a sigh of disappointment falls from him, I relent and quickly elaborate, finding that I want to tell him the truth. “I … I think it’s important to make every moment count. Every friendship, every lover, every broken heart, every decision, every everything—they all need to count for something or else they’re pointless and when all is said and done and you look back at your life, you’ll have regrets.” I shrug, feeling a tad too philosophical over a damn tattoo but I’m being honest. “Regrets suck. Making it count lessens that for me.”
He’s silent behind me, mulling over my comments I assume, and I hate that I can’t see his face. Suddenly I feel extremely vulnerable both emotionally and physically so I finish flicking the switches over so that he can see what I’m doing. I need to get out of this small space and his proximity. Like pronto.
“See, simple,” I say, stepping back and into his chest. I expect him to move immediately, since the full contact of our bodies is anything but professional, but he doesn’t. And it’s his immobility that lets me know he’s doing this on purpose.
Irritation escalates to full-blown anger. I don’t like my hand being forced. He wants to flirt, fine.
No, it’s not fine.
God, he’s got me flustered when I never get flustered and now I can’t think straight. I just want to get this over with.
“Not simple, no,” he says, breaking through my internal debate, his mouth close to my ear so that his breath tickles my bare skin. “Is there a reason you’re trying to rush this?”
So many words fill my head but I know I need distance from the heat of his body clouding my thoughts. I step back again, aiming to free myself from the small space but only succeed in pressing my ass further against his groin.
I sidestep immediately, our bodies separating as I bump my back against the wall behind me in an ungraceful escape. “I’m not rushing,” I lie. “Just making sure I show you everything you need to know before class starts. I can slow it down some if you’d like?” I ramble the words out, choosing to focus on the Def Leppard logo on his black shirt instead of meet his eyes.
“Nice and slow is always good—don’t you think, Quinlan?”
I snort out a laugh, nerves front and center so that the quip is off my lips without thought. “Guys like you wouldn’t know slow if it hit you in the face.” The comment gives me a little better bearing, and I arch a brow at him, daring him to respond and grant me the argument I’m pushing for. A confrontation that will piss him off so he’ll steer clear of me and the trouble we’d cause each other.
“You think you have me pegged, don’t you? I assure you, square or round, I don’t fit in any predetermined hole.” With our sunglasses off, I can’t deny the question in his eyes like I could on the way here. Just as I can’t hide the truth in mine.
But I’m damn well going to try.
“You don’t have to fit in any hole for me to be right. My brother used to be just like you…. Hell, I probably know your game better than you do.” I quirk an eyebrow, waiting for the comment I can see on the tip of his tongue.
“Maybe I only want to fit in one hole,” he says softly as he takes a step into me, our bodies close, eyes locked, and libidos begging for the physical connection that we’re both fighting. I should be pissed at his comment, should think it sounds corny, but holy hell that melodic tone to his voice makes it sound anything but. “Go out on a date with me.”
My breath hitches and mind consents but my feet step back, reminding me I have nowhere to run. I falter against the wall behind me, emotions whirling and warring at a breakneck pace.
“Bet you didn’t guess I was going to ask that now, did you?”
I hope he doesn’t notice the slight hesitation before I respond with a laugh. “Smooth, but uh, no thanks.” Despite the words, my mind says yes.
He angles his head and his eyes lock onto mine—daring me to look away. “Then why do I make you so nervous?”
I can’t help but glance down at his lips and then back up to his eyes as every part of me wonders what they’d feel like on mine. My tongue darts out and wets my bottom lip in reflex and the slow curl of his mouth tells me he notices it.
The grip I have on logic weakens in the confined space, my fingers restless to reach out and draw him into me.
“You don’t.” I murmur the words, captivated by the proximity of his lips and the hunger in his eyes. I close mine to break the connection for a moment before opening them, resolve firmly back in place.
“Mm-hm, and yet earlier I asked you why you didn’t like me and you ignored it. Your lack of an answer leads me to believe just the opposite. Why fight it? You do like me don’t you?”
“Like I said, I’ve been surrounded by guys like you my whole life. No thank you.”
“I bet none of them have done this.”
His moves into me at such a slow pace that he grants me every chance to reject his advance. But I don’t. My quick inhale fills my lungs but nothing else fazes me because I’m completely focused on the descent of his mouth.
He brushes his lips against mine. Once. Twice. I’m so lost in the feeling that I don’t even realize his hands are gently cradling my face. Fingertips calloused by guitar strings angle my head to the side the same time my lips part, and the need to taste him is my only focus.
Our tongues meet in a gentle caress of heat and desire. A mixture of curiosity and lust, need and hesitancy. My hands are on his biceps, fingernails digging into muscular flesh as he deepens the kiss.
My body reacts instantly to his subtle claiming of my mouth. It might be light brushes of lips and licks of tongues but the ache deep within me burns so strong I emit a pained moan. There is just something about Hawkin that has me wanting so much more than a stolen kiss.
His thumb brushes over the line of my jaw as his other hand runs down the length of my back, pulling me into him. Our bodies battle the desire, wanting more but not taking it.
“Stop!” I cry out when something in me sparks to
life. I can’t explain the feeling but it scares the hell out of me and has me pushing him away with a half-assed protest that sounds less than convincing. But how can it sound otherwise when my thoughts, my senses, my lips are consumed by the taste of him.
He leans back, lips parted and eyes wide with confusion. All I can do is shake my head back and forth to express my rejection. “I just … We can’t.” I fumble for the right words to say and then just say screw it. I turn on my heel and run up the stairs of the auditorium as he shouts my name behind me.
I push open the doors, needing the fresh air to clear my head and help with what I can only describe as a mini panic attack. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me, but I wave away Axe as he starts to approach me and walk a few more feet to a bench near the shade of a tree.
I sit down, lean my elbows on my knees, and hang my head down to try to calm myself. I close my eyes, welcoming the cool breeze on my face, when it hits me why I’m so freaked out.
I’ve kissed a lot of men. But never have I been so lost in a kiss that when I closed my eyes I saw tomorrows and ever-afters. Certainly not with Rick, and not with any man I’ve been with. Shit, I’m the last one on the planet to believe in the fairy-tale crap and yet there they were, vivid and in my face.
Frustrated and confused, I blow out an exhale and lift my eyes. Everything around me—students, buildings, bikes—blends together as I try to wrap my head around the irony of it all. I don’t usually think this way, don’t want these type of things—marriage, monogamy, kids, the death of spontaneity—at this point in my life, if ever. It’s just not my driving force. I’ve been in school forever, am about to graduate and dive headfirst into my dream career in film production, so they aren’t even a blip on my radar.
So why was I thinking them? And more important, why was I envisioning Hawkin Play as being the center of my universe when we butt heads like siblings and verbally spar like enemies?
It has to be because of his goddamn kiss.
