Sweet Ache

I’ve done the sex-in-public thing before, done the drunken plunge on a couch without shame, but there’s something about Quinlan right now—the muted sensation of what could be between us, her fingers fisted in what she can grab of my hair, her tongue taking just as much as she’s giving to me—I don’t know what exactly holds me back but as much as every ounce of testosterone in my body is begging for me to unzip my fly and go for it, I can’t. Fuck yes, this is only a bet I reaffirm in my mind between her tongue obliterating my thoughts but I know a quick fuck on the couch won’t be enough for me.

Not with Quinlan.

From the pounding in my heart and the constriction in my chest I know I’ll just want more. I might only get one shot at her alone without Luke there and I’m sure as fuck going to enjoy every goddamn second of it: to watch her parted for me and take me all in, watch her eyes roll back in her head as I make her come, hear her voice yell my name as she loses control.

And fuck yes I want her—now, later, every which way possible—but not here. Not like this.

It takes everything I have to make my body respond to my brain’s request. To ignore the question running through my mind on why Quin’s different and that this—fucking on a couch—isn’t enough for me. To ignore the tightening of my sac as she grinds herself on me, to disregard her tits pressed against my chest or the taste of her on my tongue.

Every last ounce of restraint. But I do it.

My hand is fisted in the mass of her blond curls and I pull the strands just hard enough so that she notices and complies. A gasp falls from our mouths as our lips separate. Our faces are inches apart, eyes glazed with desire and searching each other’s for any explanation of how this attraction vibrating between us can be so strong.

I see the minute she understands that I’m not going to take this any further—fuck am I stupid—because her lips form a no and she tugs her head against my grip.

“Not here. Not like this,” I groan as she presses down against my lap, her body begging for what I’m withholding and fuck if she’s not making this harder than it already is. “Ditch him. Come home with me right now.” I grit the words out, pained to even have to ask.

She reaches down between her legs and rubs her hand over me. I grind my teeth, so amped up that I swear to God I feel like a damn teenager being touched for the first time. “Hawke,” she moans my name into my ear, and hell if it’s not the sexiest sound on the face of the earth. “I want you.”

How the fuck is a man supposed to resist when she says that?

Our mouths are back on each other’s, greed winning and hell if I’m going to repent for this sin because I plan on making a whole helluva lot more of them by the end of the night. We don’t bother to speak, since the music is so loud that even if we did, the only thing we’d be able to feel is the vibrations against each other’s chests and there’s something innately hot about the notion that we’re talking through actions only.

My hands slide under the back of her tank top and find purchase against her soft skin as she holds tight to my neck in what I take as a possessive show that she won’t let me pull away from her again.

And shit, I’m a guy who loves to be in control but this—right here, right now, with her taking the lead—is seriously hotter than fuck.

The music may be loud and my blood is hammering in my eardrums but I hear Axe’s warning whistle across the distance. It takes a moment for me to stop our kiss so that Quinlan can understand that Luke is on his way upstairs. A part of me doesn’t want to stop, wants him to walk up, see his date currently dry-humping my dick and consumed with an urgency to have me. I know it’s a bastard of a thought but it would mitigate the complications and choreographed dance we’re stepping to not hurt Luke’s feelings.

And why do I care? Why do I give a rat’s ass about the shock value of him seeing this when I’m going to end up with the girl in the end? I know the reason, and it bugs the shit out of me and causes me to tear my lips from Quin’s.

Because it’s something Hunter would do.

“Quin. Luke. Coming,” I pant into her ears as I physically lift her off my lap but have a hell of a time removing my hands from her arms and breaking the connection. I stare at her, her lips swollen, cheeks flushed, and those eyes of hers a dark storm of desire staring wide-eyed and inviting.

And something about the look on her face and the goddamn dub step of my heart tells me that this is so much more than a bet.

I shove up off the couch and walk away from our section toward the railing overlooking the floor below, my head spinning from the alcohol and the potency of her addictive fucking kiss. I catch Vince’s sly grin from his seat and he just shakes his head at me and taps the heart on the inside of his wrist. The fucker. Gizmo has his arm around a hottie as well from the meet and greet. Looks like he’s at least going to get lucky because by the way this shit is going tonight, my balls are going to be so goddamn blue I might as well pick up the sport of handball.

I brace myself on the railing, and blow out a breath as I try to figure what the hell it is about Quinlan Westin that’s reeling me in like no chick has before. Women come, women go in my life without much thought. I’ve had steady relationships, monogamy isn’t the problem, it’s when they start having feelings that I start shutting down. And yet right now I’m ready to raise the white flag before I’ve even parted her thighs.

Not gonna happen, Play.

But then when I look over my shoulder to where Luke is handing her a drink and raising mine up to me all I can think of is him out of the picture.