Sweet Ache

“Rocker trumps racer every time,” Hawkin laughs, his eyes glancing over to Vince as Luke chugs the shot back.

“Fine by me,” he says, pointing his finger at Hawke, “because racer gets the girl in the end.”

The two men lock eyes—a nonverbal pissing match is waged between the two of them. I wonder what in the hell I’ve missed by going dancing and think maybe I don’t want to know the parameters of this little contest that’s going on.

“Just a little dick-dueling,” Rocket says into my ear as he slings an arm around my shoulder. I bite back the chuckle I want to emit when both Hawkin and Luke unbeknownst to the other narrow their eyes at Rocket for touching me.

“Looks more like a big dick contest,” I muse, my thoughts drifting back to Luke and his ten inch comment from weeks ago.

“Now, that? I’m not going to be the judge of,” he laughs with a shake of his head and plops down next to Luke, whose head is now resting on the back of the couch, not looking so well.

The night wears on a bit longer, the contest slows down, but as I watch from the sidelines, I notice that Hawke is not downing the shots like Luke is. He’s picking them up and then just moving them full to the table beside him where one of the others in the VIP room takes and downs them.

I cringe thinking what Luke is going to feel like in the morning—well, later in the morning—when he’s done being passed out because that sure as hell is the way he’s headed. And as much as I want to be pissed at the guys for whatever the bet is that’s going on, I can’t be because they continue to tell Luke the game’s done, and yet he still feels the need to play. I have a slight feeling I know what the prize is and just why he’s fighting so hard.

Last call comes and goes and it’s decided by someone in our group that Axe is going to drive all of our drunk asses home. Luke disagrees and wants to stay and drink some more despite being unable to stand up, but it’s closing time.

We are all zoned out in the limo bus, the evening’s adrenaline and alcohol high slowly fading into exhaustion. We’ve dropped Luke off at his hotel room where Axe and I made sure he made it safe and sound inside and onto his bed. I felt like shit for leaving him there like that but he passed out on the bed before I could even take his shoes off.

When it comes down to it, whatever testosterone-fueled game he was playing is only going to result in a lot of puking tonight, and I really don’t think he’s going to want to end our first date that way.

And call me coldhearted but this squeamish girl doesn’t really want to see it.

I left him a note to call me in the morning so that I can make sure that he’s okay, that I had a good time, and thanks for the invite. What else am I supposed to say? Thanks for making this easy on me, for passing out, so that I can go screw the man I really want?

At least for now his dignity remains intact in more ways than one…. Too bad I’m going to add to the wicked hangover he’s going to have in the morning when he wakes, calls, and I tell him thank you for the nice evening, but there’s nothing there on my end.

Axe is cautiously making his way through downtown LA traffic—present at all hours—toward my house. Gizmo went home with his raven-haired hottie and Rocket is currently making moaning noises a few rows behind us doing who knows what with one in a trio of women. Or maybe with all of them.

“Keep it down, Rock,” Hawkin scolds. “Lady present.” I can’t help but laugh at the comment and love it all at the same time because it’s cute. And then I wonder how offended I’d be if I were one of the trio but I figure their mouths are a bit too busy to pay attention to insults.

Sinking into Hawkin next to me, the alcohol hums through my blood and helps dull the guilt over abandoning Luke and leaves me charged with anticipation of how I want to spend the rest of the night.

I know Hawkin feels the same way because his body tenses up every time I rub against him, and I know it’s taking a strong hold on his restraint to prevent himself from taking me right here and now. And the idea sends a slight thrill through me, fills me with a wanton desire to see just how far I can push him.

Shifting in my seat, I watch the lights of the city play over his face as we move through the night, my mind trying to process how we got from a combative first encounter to here. I slide my hand across his thigh, notice the hitch of his breath and the snap of his eyes over to mine. Oh yeah, he wants this just as bad as I do. Hell if that notion isn’t a heady feeling.

The tips of my fingers graze the top of the crotch of his jeans, the seam already straining and begging me to relieve the pressure against it, soothe the ache with the warmth of my mouth. My sex throbs from the thought, and unsated need drives my actions.

As I lean into him, his eyes watch me all the while until I kiss the side of his neck before running the tip of my tongue up to just below his ear. The salt of his skin is on my tongue and the smell of his cologne is in my nose but it’s the pained groan of restraint that turns me on more than anything. I’m a girl who loves a good dare and I’ll be damned if I’m going to back down from this one.

I want a reaction from him right now—the fist in my hair, his mouth claiming mine, his hands parting me and dipping inside to ready me for the one thing I really want—to prove to myself that I can make this player lose his control.

“How hard are you going to fuck me, Hawkin? Are you going to play me like your guitar? All fingers strumming my strings till I react or are you going to use me like I’m your mic and use your mouth to make me scream like all the women in the crowd do?” As I whisper into his ear, my own words are turning me on. “Or am I the lucky one for the night? Will you let me watch as you part my thighs and slide your dick into my tight, wet pussy? Will you make me come with your kiss on my lips?”