by K. Bromberg
“Hawke?” Axe’s muted voice breaks through our libidinous haze.
Hawkin swears out a curse, his forehead against mine. He removes his hand from where it was wrapped in my hair and forces my chin up as we separate.
“In the head,” he yells out, irritated at being interrupted.
“You okay? Vince is asking. They need you back at the meet and greet.”
“Yeah man, just zipping up. Tell him to hold his fucking horses, I’ll be right out.”
Hawke drops his head forward, eyes squeezed shut, hand still holding my hair hostage as we stand here in this suspended state of time. It’s not long but just enough for reason to start seeping through the haze of what I’m doing.
And the women from earlier flash in my mind, but then Hawkin does something so unexpected and yet seemingly intimate that the images dissipate. He takes the tip of his nose and runs it from my collar bone up the column of my throat and to beneath my ear.
“You’re coming to the after party. I don’t care how, I don’t care why, but I need more of you than this. You want me and then you don’t want me and frankly I don’t give a flying fuck anymore what your reasons are, because I want you. And I guarantee that once I have you, there will be no more back-and-forth because I’ll leave your body so fucking high on me there will be no other option but to want more of me again.”
I draw in a ragged breath as I try to take in his words that are erotic and possessive and downright assuming all at once but holy hell am I a trembling ball of need. And yet I say nothing.
He gently pulls my hair so that when he leans back he’s looking straight into my eyes with unfettered intensity and unbridled desire expressed in his stormy irises. “It’s taking everything I have right now not to tell Axe to fuck off, to tell them to wait so I can lift up this sexy skirt of yours, pull aside the panties you wore for him to discover, and finger-fuck you breathless. Claim you first. Show you just a taste of what we could be like together.” He leans forward and tugs on my bottom lip gently with his teeth until they scrape along it and it falls free. “But I want to take my time with you Quinlan, edge you out so that by the time you come the only sound on your lips is my name, the only thought in your head is me, and the only thing you want filling you is this.” He presses his dick that’s hard and straining against the denim of his jeans into my hip.
My heart is pounding, and I gasp out when he roughly yanks down the neckline of my tank so that the lace of my bra is exposed. The possessive growl in the back of his throat is seductive and arousing and hotter than hell in so many ways. His eyes meet mine, then he lowers his head, fingers pulling the lace down farther before his mouth dips to the top part of my breast. I open my mouth again, the soft mewl of need falling from my lips as the warmth of his mouth glides over my skin.
His mouth sucks gently at first and then a little harder. I lean my head back against the door, my body zinging with so many different definitions of need that I can’t focus on any one part at once. I’m losing myself under the haze of desire when all of a sudden he releases me, all contact lost so that a gasp escapes from my lips at the sudden loss of his warmth.
The electricity remains though.
I stare at him, his jaw tight in physical restraint, biceps tense as his fists clench, and I see so many things that contradict one another I’m not sure what to think.
But thinking is overrated when desire can be in control.
“That’s so he knows that you’re mine,” he says, glancing down to my chest, intensity etched in his eyes. “And so you don’t forget it.” He takes another step back and turns to place his hand on the doorknob. “Wait a minute before you head back,” he says with his head down, “and don’t look so surprised. You knew this was coming.” He opens the door.
“Hawke.” His name tumbles brokenly from my mouth, a sound of desperation.
He looks at me, that devil-may-care smirk lighting up his face in triumph. “That just proved me right,” he says with a shake of his head, and then leaves me behind with my mouth lax, cheeks flushed, and the knowledge that I just showed him I want him as much as he wants me.
I startle when the door shuts and the sound echoes around the tiled bathroom. But nothing rivals the pounding of my heart in my ears—or the juncture of my thighs—because the man just lit my fuse with his words and walked out without helping it catch flame.
I brace my hands on the counter next to me, needing a minute to catch my breath and collect myself. My mind whirls while my body still burns from his touch. I lift my head up and catch sight of myself in the mirror and can’t tear my eyes away from what I see.
My tank is still pulled down below my boob, a dark red mark at the edge of my bra’s lace from his mouth, but it’s the look on my face that holds my attention. My cheeks are flush, my lips are swollen, and my eyes are more alive than I’ve ever seen them. I stare at my reflection for a moment, feeling like I’m looking at a stranger. Hawkin is the reason I look like this. The attraction between us is irresistible and combustible.
I force myself to look away, to straighten myself up—my shirt, my smeared lipstick, my disheveled hair—before taking a deep breath to steady the parts of me that feel alive for the first time in way too long.
And as I make my way back to Luke, I know. I know that I won’t be able to resist Hawkin’s pull on me any longer, that it’s stupid to deny myself. To not take the chance to see where this may lead us because when all is said and done, we regret only the chances we didn’t take, not the ones we did and failed at.
Make it count. My motto runs through my head and makes me question my morality between what is right and what I want.
I reenter the meet and greet with that resolve in the forefront of my mind and smile softly at Luke, suddenly cognizant of the length of time I’ve been gone.
“You okay?” Concern blankets Luke’s face as guilt lances through me. Can he tell that I’ve been kissed senseless? I don’t think so but I swear to God I feel like my hidden hickey is as visible as a scarlet letter.
“Yeah. Sorry. Got lost,” I ramble and force myself to stop so that my lie isn’t over-the-top obvious. I keep my eyes focused on him although I swear I can feel the weight of Hawkin’s stare as Luke puts his arm around my waist and pulls me into him. My immediate reaction is to wriggle from his touch but I know I can’t do it.
“It’s okay. Perfect timing,” he says. “We’re next.”
If he only knew.
I make a noncommittal sound and give him a forced smile. I feel his body vibrate with excitement even before I hear the voice over my shoulder.
“Hey, man, how are you doing tonight? Thanks for coming out!”
“Great show, Hawkin. You guys were incredible. That new song was killer.” Luke falls all over himself as he tries to connect with Hawkin, and I wonder if I’m the only one who notices the tightness in his smile and arrogant lift of his eyebrows as he assesses Luke.
“Thanks. And you are?” Hawkin asks, reaching his left hand out to Luke. And it hits me. Hawkin’s trying to get his arm off my waist.
“Sorry.” Luke releases me to shake Hawke’s hand eagerly. I watch that smirk return to Hawke’s face as he gets the reaction he wanted from him. “Luke Mason, and this here is—”
“Luke Mason?” Hawke says, head tilting, eyes narrowing as Luke nods his head. “As in Indy Luke Mason?”
What the …? He told me he didn’t follow racing and yet he knows Luke’s name?
In my periphery I can see Luke’s smile widen to epic proportions at the notion that Hawkin knows who he is but I’m watching Hawke and not sure I like the predatory look he has in his eyes. “Yeah man, you follow racing?” The hope in Luke’s voice is endearing.
“Not much,” Hawke says with a shake of his head, “but I was just recently checking it out. Met someone that loves it … so Google was my friend.”
The admission surprises me. So while I’ve been cyberstalking him, he’s been finding out more about what, my brothe
r or my family? At least I know that he’s curious enough to look.
“Well, if you ever want to check out a race …”
“Thanks.” Hawke’s eyes shift ever so subtly to mine. “And you are?”
“Qui—”
“Oh! I’m so rude. Sorry. This is Quinlan Westin.” Luke shakes his head and places his hand on my back again, which doesn’t go unnoticed.
Hawke reaches out to shake my hand, eyes lingering and hands held a beat longer than needed. “Hi, Quinlan,” he says, rolling my name over his tongue. “Unique name. So you’re into racers over rockers huh?” He raises his eyebrows in challenge causing me to shift uncomfortably but ready to play the game.
“It takes quite a lot to impress me.” It’s the only answer I can think of and I mean it as a warning, to back off in front of Luke, but all I get in response is that arrogant raise of an eyebrow.
He flashes me that lightning-quick grin. “I assure you rockers know how to leave their mark with more than just their music.” He lifts his eyes to mine, reinforcing the innuendo in case I didn’t catch it. A moment of awkward silence passes between the three of us.
“Hey, Luke,” Hawke says, shifting gears and patting him on the shoulder as I try to figure out what kind of game he’s playing now. “We’re about to go to an after party at a club—the bands and a few others—do you guys want to come along?”
The devil inside me sags in respite knowing I’ve just been given the door to walk through to claim the pleasurable promise Hawkin threatened in the bathroom, while the angel cringes knowing if Luke accepts, he’s walking us into a lion’s den of disappointment that I don’t want to be the culprit of.
And yet I don’t think there’s any way to prevent either thing from happening.
“No way! Really?” Luke’s fingers tighten on my hip, and my eyes immediately flash to see if Hawkin notices. He doesn’t. He’s too busy whipping out his testosterone-laced gauntlet to throw down at Luke’s feet.
“Yep,” he says. “Axe, my security, will get you all the info. I’ve got to finish up here.” He lifts his chin, indicating the next set of people in line to greet him. “We’ll see you there though.”
“Definitely,” Luke says.
Hawkin starts to walk away and I’m far from oblivious to the look shared between Hawke and Vince before he turns back and looks at the both of us again, eyes shifting back and forth between us. “So you guys are a couple, right?”
“First date,” Luke says proudly.
Hawke nods his head slowly as if he’s mulling something over. “Well, you should definitely head on over to the club, have some drinks, relax, and party a bit, and you just might win her over.” Hawke flashes a knowing grin at Luke that I sense means something more.
“Thanks man, we will.”
Hawke chuckles as he turns his back to walk away, and I swear I hear him say, “Then again you might just lose her to a rock star.”
“What?” Obviously Luke hears it too. His body stiffens beside me and I can tell by the condescending tilt of Hawke’s head as he looks back at us that he meant every word he said.
“Sorry man, we’re big on bets here within the band,” Hawke says, waving over to Vince and Gizmo before turning back to us. “Making them is just kind of a habit. No harm, no foul.”
So why am I screaming foul?
Chapter 13
HAWKIN
The bass thumps in my chest, a constant drum of vibration, and out of habit I tap my fingers on the glass in my hand like I do my mic on stage. I glance around to where dark lights reflect off glass-littered tables, and take in the fact that there’s enough talent between the four bands partying here to sell out any house.
Then I lock eyes with Jake, lead singer of the Mighty Storm, and tip my beer to him. He nods with a slow smile and by the look on his face, alcohol is his friend tonight. He relaxes with one arm around his wife and the other thrumming the beat on his leg. Like minds.
The song switches on the floor below, one that has a wicked beat, and I sink back into the cushion behind me, closing my eyes for a moment. The couch is comfortable enough but it’s not like I’d want to pass out on it—no, not here with the rumors of what happens on the VIP floor of Scandalous—although I’m well on my way to doing just that.
Especially because she’s not here. But why should she be? Why would she choose me over him? Yeah, I talk a good fucking game but when it comes right down to it, he can offer her so many things that I can’t.
Sex I can do—I’ve certainly imagined long, sweat-inducing sessions of our bodies engaged every which way. Love on the other hand—the stability, the longevity—no fucking way.
So why do I keep looking at the stairway for her?
Talk about an unexpected surprise to look up from the quick-and-easy twins who I had a unique and interesting time with last month to find Quinlan standing there in the meet and greet room. With his arm around her.
And his lips on hers.
Her fucking perfect tits in that tight tank top and her sexy as hell legs, bare and long, beneath the short skirt that begged for me to yank it up around her waist while I discovered her perfection beneath. Goddamn. Talk about wanting to go over there and rip his hands off her, let him know where things stand between us, but shit, a make-out session on the porch and a one-sided phone call doesn’t make her mine.
Yet.
Then she gave me the chance, rabbiting down the hall to escape after displaying the tiny flash of emotion in her eyes that I didn’t have enough time to read. And I couldn’t resist, had to follow her even with the opportunity for the twins again—shit, with any of the females in that room—sitting right in front of me, because I want only her.
I wanted to ask her so many things, most important what the fuck she was doing with that guy, but there was no stopping me from sampling her mouth the minute I pressed up against that ridiculous body of hers. Fucking hell, the woman kisses with every part of herself, like an R&B song that demands you to think of making slow, sweet love to someone. The kind of sex you can’t shake long after the condom’s tied off and your sheets fall cold.
I groan, the sound lost in the noise of the club, as I think of how fucking hard she made me with that selfish desperation she responded with. Nothing wrong with a woman going for what she wants. Talk about adding to her sex appeal and then some.
Take me. The thought has been on constant repeat since our first kiss. Pathetic, maybe. A necessary one, definitely.
And of course to make matters worse, I had to leave the sweetness of her in the bathroom to go back and watch that fucker’s arm go around her. I’m not a possessive guy—shit, in my business chicks come and go in and out of our lives like on a constant lazy Susan—so it’s not a feeling I’m too familiar with.
I sure as shit felt her react, tasted the need in our kiss, heard the way she called out my name, so where the fuck is she? Rocker trumps racer every time. Hands down.
What is it about her that has me wanting more? Ice cream is ice cream, so you need to keep sampling flavors so you don’t get sick of the one you like the most, and yet she seems like a new flavor that I can’t get enough of.
Addictive and has me craving more each time I get a taste.
You’re so fucked in the head, I tell myself, comparing her to ice cream, all the while thinking of just where I want my tongue to lick her. Damn.
I lean forward and set my empty beer bottle down to pick up the glass where my Jack and Coke sits half gone. And fuck if I know what causes me to take note of my tats, the symbols telling the sordid story of my life when my shirt pulls up my bicep, but I do. To others they’re just permanent ink on my skin; to me they are symbolic of everything churning inside me, past and present. All of them have their meaning, all of them tell of my hurt, my heartbreak, my motivation to move forward, to prove that I’m worthy of the things he robbed me of.
I draw in a deep breath, and try to shake the memories, the images that have forever left their indelible mar
k in my mind. It must be the mixture of alcohol that has me so contemplative. Quinlan not showing up.
It’s all eating at me, spurring on the self-doubt that always lingers just beneath the surface. Singles hitting number one on the charts, more money than I can spend, fame … They do nothing to replace the emptiness or the need to prove to everyone that I’m worthy of it all. If I can’t win over the one girl I want, then I sure as fuck am not enough to save the two people left in my life.
Fuck this. I down the rest of the drink, resign myself to the thought that I’ll go find my own fun for the night. Get lost in someone else or call up the girls from earlier, I think I have their number somewhere. Fuck, or find a fangirl who’ll be thrilled to be with me so that I can close my eyes and think of Quinlan.
I toss back the shot of Jäger on the table in front of me and when I slam the glass back down, I resolve that I need to take this back to where it all started, get my head on straight and simplify the situation. This is a bet, a challenge. Nothing more. Nothing less. A bet I have to win because fuck if I’m getting a tattoo of a pink damn heart.
Vince plops down on the other end of the couch and jars me from the shit fucking up my head and just eyes me up and down. “She show?”
“Who?” I play dumb even though I know he can see right through it.
“Your only hope at not getting a pussy pink heart tattooed on that wrist of yours.” He throws his head back and laughs.
I’m about to tell him, fuck you, because hell no, I don’t want to lose the bet. Won’t lose. But immediately the thoughts about after I do sneak in, the ones that give possibility to the things I’ll never allow in my life because they’ll make you weak. Jesus Christ, I haven’t even fucked her. Talk about a pussy predicament. Griff from the D-Bags beats me to it. “Fuck you, Vinny boy. The only pussy pink my man, Hawkin, here wears is on his lips.”
I double over in laughter momentarily before I fist bump Griff. “Classic,” I tell him. “Hey, Kellan,” I say over his shoulder when I notice their band’s lead singer on the other side of him. “You guys heading out?”
