Sweet Ache
“What are you thinking about?” Hawke murmurs, his breath heated against my skin, pulling me from my sudden and unexpected analysis.
“The rain.”
Hawke leans back and looks at me with an amused expression and a lazy smirk on his lips. “I hate the rain,” he says, making it hard to form a coherent response. I know he doesn’t know my metaphor, but I can’t stop my breath from hitching nonetheless because now that I know he hates the rain, I kind of want it to pour. “But I can think of a helluva lot better ways to get you wet.”
My laugh comes freely as his fingers press with intent between the apex of my thighs, that tingling ache simmering in my lower belly at the feeling. A soft sigh falls from my lips as Hawke stands, sliding his chest all the way up my body in his ascent, making me forget all about the rain I want to fall until it falls. We stand face-to-face, lips inches apart, and senses on high alert in preparation for the wild frenzy we bring out in each other.
Your thesis, Westin. Step back and get some distance. Put this back on an even playing field.
I hear myself all right, know what I should do, but when Hawkin leans forward and presses those delectable lips to mine, tongue slipping between them to lead the seductive dance I know I can’t resist, my only thought is Later.
Much later.
I’m about to play in the rain.
Chapter 24
HAWKIN
“So things are looking good,” I muse as I tap my pencil on the counter. The lyrics have been coming on and off all day so my pad sits in front of me, scattered prose scrawled randomly across the page. When I glance down at them, I realize they all reflect a man infatuated with a woman.
How the hell did this happen?
“Thank fuck, because for a while, there, man …” Vince says, pulling me from my thoughts and from my lyrics that seem … happy somehow rather than the angst-ridden ones I usually write. What am I supposed to do with happy? Vince blows out a breath and runs his fingers through his hair. “… I was worried it was all going to fall to shit.”
“No way, man. The tour’s shaping up nicely, the new single is dropping in two weeks,” I say, feeling a little relief that the stress on the business side of things is under control. The front door slams from the front of the house; both of us glance at the clock, knowing it must be Gizmo going on his daily run.
“And …” Vince says, knowing there’s more on my mind. And of course there is, there always is, but am I going to jinx it by saying it out loud?
“Hunter followed through with his promise.”
“No shit.”
“Yeah.” I hate that my immediate thought right after I say the word is for now.
“Well, there’s that.” Vince lifts his eyebrows as we both fall silent for a moment. “So what does he want?”
“Vince.” I sigh knowing he’s right on target but Hunter’s my brother, only I can say shit like that about him and it be okay. The sad thing is Vince has been more of a brother than Hunter has and has earned the right to make the comment so I let it go.
“I’m not trying to be a dick man but tiger, stripes,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders. “There’s always a calm before he causes a fucking storm. Every damn time. A few nights ago he was blowing up your phone for money, and now, what? He’s behaving? Something’s off there. Just be careful is all I’m saying.”
“Duly noted,” I say knowing he speaks the truth. I’ve been burned enough by the damn calm. “But I’m trying to focus on the positives here: the band, Rocket stepping up and figuring out how to twist that last riff on ‘Twisted’ and killing it, the—”
“Quin rubbing your dick often enough you’d think it’s a genie’s lamp,” he says cutting me off and shifting the gears of the conversation. “I mean, if we’re talking about positives …”
I hang my head and laugh, surprised him fucking with me hasn’t started sooner. “Well, my dick does grant wishes,” I quip, earning me a snort and a “Bullshit” from his side of the room.
“Something that small’s not big enough to grant anything let alone an orgasm.”
“Fuck off,” I tell him, throwing my pen at him. He catches it and raises his eyebrows as in Not bad, huh? “You’re just jealous I’m getting nightly action when you’re not.”
“I am too!”
“Dude, barflies and groupies don’t count. If you can catch an STD standing within two feet of them, they don’t count.”
He shakes his head with a laugh. “Aren’t we all high-and-mighty now that we’re the ringmaster of her Quin-kitty.”
“It’s the lead singer thing,” I tell him, knowing how much it pisses him off. “We get all the Grade A.”
“Lead singer thing, my ass.” He grabs a beer from the refrigerator and holds it out. I nod and he grabs one for himself, pops the tops of both of them, and walks back and hands it to me.
“Thanks.”
“For the beer or for the push to go after Trixie?”
“Both.” I stare at him and try to gauge where he’s trying to direct this conversation.
“Hm … so your seminar ends when—this Thursday?”
“Yep.” I’m so distracted by the sudden bridge that just came to my thoughts I’m scrawling it out rather than picking up the bread crumbs he’s dropping.
“We should throw a party after it. A kind of thank fuck that’s over type of thing.”