Sweet Ache

“Most people walk on eggshells around me, kiss my ass”—he shrugs without apology and offers up a smirk that tugs on every part of my body yet to be awakened by him—“or want to kiss other things … just because of the music, fame, whatever you want to call it.” He looks toward the house and flicks his hand in front of him in a gesture signifying irrelevance and indifference over the whole attention aspect of his job. He brings his eyes back to mine. “But you treat me like anyone else. Give as good as you get. The chaos around me doesn’t faze you because you grew up with it. It’s kind of nice…. I like it.”

I hate the little thrill that shoots through me at his ridiculous praise but it does nonetheless. Shit, he just praised me for not fan-girling over him but if he keeps making comments like that I just might start.

“Well, it’s not like you’re a big deal or anything,” I tease with a wink. “Billboard charts are so yesterday.” I roll my eyes, loving the flash of mirth in his eyes before he snickers.

His laugh continues longer than it should and he leans his head back on the headrest. I can sense his release from whatever was eating at him in the manic sound of it. When it finally abates he closes his eyes for a moment to regain his composure, and now my curiosity has been piqued even further about the secrets he holds.

“Thanks. I needed that.” He shakes his head and then tilts it toward the house. “Want to come in?”

Warning bells sound in my head, alerting me that this is one of those first steps you can’t take back while another side of me says I’m reading way too much into the invite and to hurry up and get out of the car. And of course, my body is reacting, hand on the door handle before my head can tell it to sit still.

We exit the car together and he explains that he and the guys are renting the house while they finish up the current album. He tells me that when they are all in the same place, they mesh better, write the music quicker, are more creative.

He leads me up the steps to the front door, his hand placed on my lower back. Just when his free hand touches the door handle, he pulls it back in what seems like a moment of indecision. I stand there waiting and am taken by surprise when within a beat Hawkin has my back against the wall, his body pressed close, and his mouth on mine.

I react. I don’t allow myself to question it or him this time, don’t worry myself about the ever-afters I envisioned earlier because he is here and this is now and I like to live in the moment. I don’t even think I could analyze anything if I wanted to because desire clouds my thoughts, need overwhelms my senses.

I throw myself into the embrace. Tongues dance, lips claim, and hands fist as we pour the strange emotions of the day into our kiss. There’s something different this time around and I’m not sure if it’s my willingness or whatever he’s struggling with internally but I can feel the desperation in him for some kind of connection, can taste the need as he skillfully knocks all of my senses out from beneath me.

His hands move from framing my face and slide down my rib cage, thumbs brushing over my nipples through the fabric of my shirt causing the lick of desire to inflame. I moan into his mouth as one of his hands squeezes my ass and presses me against his dick that’s begging to escape the confines of his jeans.

My body is on fire with need for this man to the point that this front porch is looking pretty damn good but I wouldn’t know for sure because my eyes are closed and already rolling back in rapture. Take me, I want to tell him, because shame is so overrated right now. I want to lose myself to him so that he has no option to be the only person that can pull me out of his fog.

“We have beds inside if you want to keep going. Or not … and I’ll grab some popcorn so I can enjoy the show. Or some lube.”

The voice shocks us apart, my heart hammering in my chest, my hands unwilling to loosen from the old-school Def Leppard logo fisted in them, but my eyes remain locked on Hawkin’s and the lascivious thoughts flickering in his gaze.

“Fuck off Gizmo,” Hawkin growls, his lips reconnecting with mine like there’s no one watching. The desperation is insatiable now on our parts—we both need to draw out the last of this kiss since we know we’re about to be interrupted.

“Popcorn it is then.” He laughs and yet doesn’t move because I can feel the weight of his presence still.

And shit, I’m all for exhibition, but for some reason, as hot and primed as I am right now from Hawkin’s complete consumption of my willpower, I tear my lips from his. Our faces are mere inches apart, our labored breaths pant over the other’s, and our eyes are locked—regret and desire a potent combination reflected back at each other.

But there’s something else buried in Hawke’s eyes. And I can’t quite place just what it is. “You okay?”

Those flecks of silver in his gray eyes darken momentarily because he knows I see the hint of the secret he wants to keep hidden. He nods with a sigh, hands still flexing into the flesh of my hips.

“Did you need something, Giz?” he asks with a glance over to the door, breaking our stare. Reluctantly I drag my eyes from him and follow his gaze. I take in the man leaning against the doorjamb, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans, bare chest covered in a dizzying array of intricate tattoos that I could probably spend a week studying and not see all of them. His dark hair is shaggy down to his nape, ice blue eyes a stark contrast to it, and a smile so warm and welcoming when he offers it to me that I immediately like him.

His eyes flick up and down my body before aiming an approving glance back to Hawkin. “Yeah,” he blows the word out and brings a hand up to tug on the back of his neck. The motion reveals a pink tattoo of a heart on the inside of his wrist that looks out of place and contradicts the coloring of his others but his words pull me from the observation. “Hunter called.” The disdain in his voice matches the sigh that falls from Hawke’s mouth when he releases me.