Sweet Ache

I’m sitting up in bed when he returns, his white T-shirt slipped over my head. I know it’s presumptuous but if I’m wearing it then that means he’s not and hell if that’s not a fine sight to take in first thing in the morning. He saunters toward the bed, completely unashamed of his nakedness, and fuck if my body isn’t already responding to his.

This is going to be a serious problem. I can already tell.

He bends over at the side of the bed and tosses my covers back onto the mattress. “Here, you look cold.”

“No, I’m good,” I reply as I notice his eyes wandering down to my chest and when I follow his gaze I find my nipples hard and visible against the flimsy white cotton of his shirt. I look back up to meet the amusement in his eyes.

“Well, if you’re not cold,” he says, crawling back onto the bed and leaning against the headboard behind him, “I think I need to inspect what exactly the problem seems to be beneath my shirt.” He reaches his hands out to grab my hips and shift me so that I sit astride his lap.

We both emit a groan at the exquisite pain of my pussy centering over his hardening dick. And yes I’m a tad sore from last night, but the havoc he can wreak on my system is worth the momentary discomfort I know he’ll take away with his mind-numbing pleasure.

We stare at each other for a moment as we control the urge even though sleepy sex—hell any kind of sex—with Hawke is top priority on my agenda. My eyes are drawn to the symbols decorating his left shoulder and top part of his bicep. With his eyes on me, I reach out to touch them, trace their lines, and I’m a tad surprised when I look back to see the flush staining his cheeks.

The man is adored, scrutinized, objectified daily by women everywhere but in the small confines of my bedroom, he’s shy in front of me. There’s something about that juxtaposition that’s beyond endearing to me. Makes me wonder what he was like as a little boy with those storm cloud–colored eyes of his.

“So many symbols but so different from Gizmo’s,” I murmur more to myself than to him. Hawkin’s are denoted symbols, lone and unattached, while Gizmo’s are continuous drawings flowing from one into another. Giz’s are like art in a sense and his are more like a statement, and I wonder what story they tell. I trace my finger down the inside of his arm to the ink I noticed on his wrist earlier but can now study. “What does it mean?”

“It’s a treble clef,” he answers, to which I glance up before rolling my eyes.

“I know that. What’s this one?” I ask, pointing to the one lined up behind it.

“It’s the Adinkra symbol for strength,” he says quietly, flexing his fist so that his forearm tightens and I can look at it closer. I follow the swirl of the loops with my fingertips.

“Why this? Why Adinkra?” For some reason I know the question is going to strike a nerve, and yet I ask it regardless because I want to know more about him. Need to. I look back up at him in time to see the pain pass through his eyes before he tucks it away. We hold our gaze steady as he battles whatever it is he doesn’t want me to see, silence suddenly heavy in our first morning together.

“They all have a specific meaning to me. My dad died when I was young.”

“I’m so sorry.” The emotion in his eyes is heartbreaking and pulls at me, makes me want to pull him into my arms.

“My mom didn’t handle it well. When she looked at us, she saw him and that made it hard for her to stay in reality for a while. So my grandparents helped her pay for a nanny to help take care of Hunter and me for a bit.” He stops for a moment, staring down at my hands holding his arm, his own fingers beginning to trace the lines. “Aya was from West Africa and was our mom in a sense for over a year. I was …” His voice trails off, his Adam’s apple bobbing with emotion, and I immediately feel guilty for asking, for casting a shadow on our morning.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.” I squeeze his hand and he returns the action.

“No, it’s okay. It was a long time ago.” He nods his head a few times like he’s trying to tell himself to believe the statement. “Anyway, she taught us about her culture, the symbols that represented so many things. I was so lost, so alone, so I clung to her, to them … so …” He shrugs lightly as my eyes leave his and scan back over to his biceps.

Their positioning is hard to explain except for a series of symbols stacked in succession forming straight lines but making the appearance of a plate of armor from the top of his shoulder to about three inches down the top of his bicep. I lean forward to look closer, try to figure them all out without asking. I want to know their meaning but also don’t want him sad since they portray a tale I don’t think he wants to share with me just yet.

And I think of Colton, of his Celtic tattoos representing his journey from his childhood hell of abuse to the new beginning he’s found with Rylee. So I hold back the part of me that wants to learn more, accept it’s for another time, another place, when he speaks.

“Each one represents something different, a virtue. The fern is for Aya since that’s the name of the symbol. Mortality,” he says, pointing to another. “Bravery and strength. Hope. Change. Guardianship. Responsibility, weakness … a few more, but you get the gist.”

“They’re incredible. Thank you for sharing.” I’m mesmerized as I stare at them, appreciating the strange beauty of them when I’d expect something totally different from him. And then something rings in my head about meeting Gizmo the other day. “At least yours fit you. I laughed the other day when I saw all of Gizmo’s intricate designs and then that bright pink heart on the inside of his wrist.”