Sweet Ache

“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.