Sweet Ache

Stepping into the doorway, I chew the inside of my lip as I get the courage to meet Luke’s eyes now that we’re closer.

“I’m sorry about last night,” he says.

I snap my head up. What? “I’m the one who should be apologizing, Luke.” I step forward, the soother in me wanting to hug him to take the sting out of all of this and the other part of me knowing I can’t add insult to injury, comfort him with my body I won’t offer to him in other ways. “I … It kind of just happened…. I didn’t mean for … I’m sorry.”

I feel guilty for lying, for not telling him that Hawke and I already had a little something started because then it just makes him feel like the date I’d accepted was a consolation prize. I’m feeling about two inches tall right now, even though I know I made the right decision last night, because sometimes all kinds of right for me can still be all kinds of wrong for someone else.

“Nah,” he says with a shrug of his shoulder, trying to play off the disappointment and hurt flickering in his bloodshot eyes. “I let my ego get the best of me. Got plastered trying to prove I was the guy you wanted instead of Hawke—not exactly great behavior for a first date. Sorry for being an ass.”

The sadness in his voice kills me. “Luke …”

“No. Don’t.” He forces a smile as he steps in and places a kiss on my cheek, my own tears threatening because I feel so bad. “Thanks for … I’ve got to go.”

He nods again and turns to walk away. “Luke,” I call his name, remorse heavy in my voice.

He stops, his head hung down. “I’m here if you need me.” It’s all he says before he walks away.

Chapter 17

HAWKIN

Why am I still here?

Why the hell am I propped back on the pillows of her bed watching her through the partially obscured view I have of her as she applies her makeup in that close-up mirror thingy in her bathroom?

I’m usually long gone by now: do the deed, have some niceties, and then out the door. And yet with Quinlan, the deed has been done over and over and needs to be done a few more times today if I have my way.

I glance at the drawer in her dresser, the one that she surprised me with when she pulled it open to a minimart of protection, and wonder if we could work our way through the remainder of them throughout the rest of the afternoon and into the night.

It’s a pretty lofty challenge but one I’d rise to the occasion for.

And shouldn’t I be freaked by the fact she has so many condoms? What does that say about her? I laugh at myself and scrub a hand through my hair at my hypocrisy. Why is it that I can have a supply of them and she can’t or else it looks bad?

When I look up and watch her apply her lip gloss in the mirror, my hypocrisy is forgotten because all it means is that she wants to be safe, stay healthy. Can’t blame her for that and can’t blame my dick for already hardening at the sight of her.

She has on a yellow tank top, the blond curls of her hair pulled forward over one of her shoulders, and that delicate font tattooed between her shoulder blades. There’s something so damn sexy about it. The words and the simplicity of its placement, not for show, but solely for her just like my tattoos are for me.

When I read the words, Make it count, I can’t help the satisfied sigh that falls from my lips because we sure as fuck made it count last night. My dick pulses at the thought, wanting it again with her so damn close and so goddamn tempting. She shifts in her chair to grab something and the movement leads me to fixate on her sexy-ass lace panties that mold to the cheeks of her ass.

And that is exactly why I’m still sitting on her bed in my jeans, ignoring the bullshit texts from the guys asking if I fell in and got lost.

They can fuck off because I kind of think they’re right. I think I’m lost and not sure I want to find my way back.

But I look at her and can’t fathom how her independence, her strength, could make me weak if this were to continue. The idea, the notion, the possibilities begin to spiral out of control, beg me to question things and beliefs so ingrained in me that I’ve only ever questioned them in theory.

And yes, watching her, with the scent of her soap on my skin and taste of her pussy seared in my memory, I can’t help but wonder what it would be like. How is she making me … Shut it down, Hawke.

My chest constricts as I push the notion away, the haunted promises I’ve lived my life by, and opt to lose myself in thoughts of Quinlan instead. The woman is all kinds of contradictions balled up into one knockout punch. Shit, she’s playful and a dynamo in the sack, is feisty outside of it, and doesn’t get freaked out by my name or career.

But these feelings swirling around like a man after a fourth of Jack with the room spinning around me can’t be right. This is supposed to be easy, supposed to be uncomplicated, supposed to be casual.

Casual, my ass. From the get-go it’s been a challenge and so many things I’d usually walk away from. And yet here I am, relaxing on her bed, radio playing softly to a rock station, and actually relaxing.

Maybe I’m just enjoying the silence. Not being in a house with three other guys, people constantly coming in, is a relief. I thrum my thumb on my leg to the beat, laughing at my crazy surreal life when one of the D-Bags’ songs comes on. I don’t think this will ever become old hat, being a little starstruck, a little giddy when the person I was having a beer with last night is now singing on the radio.

Leaning my head back, I realize maybe my contentment comes from the lack of incessant talking that usually follows sex with the random women I’ve grown accustomed to. The ones that just want the notoriety they’ll get from bragging about hooking up with me. I don’t care if I disappoint those women because one, they’re crazy if they think I’m going to fall madly in love with them and let them have my babies. And secondly, I don’t let them get close enough for there to be any other expectations that I won’t deliver on.