Sweet Ache by K. Bromberg
“Yeah, but we’re talking about Colton here.” She laughs with a raise of her eyebrows, garnering an eye roll from me in response. “So let me get this straight. You need to get laid. You agree to a date with a man who doesn’t light your fire, and I don’t understand why not … So what am I missing here?” I swear I can see the cogs turning in her mind and then click perfectly into place. “Who are you replacing Luke for?”
And bingo! That was in record time.
“Whatever do you mean?” I feign innocence knowing she’s going to freak out when I tell her who I’m trying to forget about.
She scoots forward to the edge of her chair while my cheeks heat. “Quinlan?”
“Well, there’s this guy….”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
“He made a move, we kissed some, brought it to his house where we kissed some more and then he up and said he had shit to do. Basically he told me to leave without saying those exact words.” I give her the short version of the story, trying to keep details to a minimum.
“And you’re wasting your time on him why, then? This isn’t like you. I thought we weren’t caring, doing the casual dating thing so we didn’t have to do the high hopes crashing to the floor thing. If a guy loses interest, so do we … so this must be a serious contender to knock all that to the wayside.” She sits forward, elbows on her knees as she studies me. “Who has your panties trapped around your thighs when you’d rather have them around your ankles?”
“It’s stupid,” I deflect, feeling like a teenager crushing on the popular kid in high school. “And that’s exactly why I agreed to go out with Luke. He called at the perfect time when I needed to feel wanted and I said yes.” I shrug as I take a sip, letting the wine slowly take the edge off the events of my day.
“The only man I’d probably give a pass on acting like that just because the Richter scale thing would be”—Layla’s eyes flash up to mine, awareness lighting them afire as she connects the dots—“Hawkin.”
Shit. Shit. Double shit.
It’s not like I wasn’t going to tell her. I was just hoping to downplay the situation first so I don’t feel like such an idiot for wanting someone who is exactly what I swore I didn’t want.
And of course it’s this moment that the advice my mom always gives me decides to resurface in my head. When you stop chasing all the wrong things, you give the right things a chance to catch you. Did I stop chasing the wrong things and could Hawkin be my chance at right?
“Quinlan?” Lay’s question brings me back from Hawkin-lost-in-thought-land and her eyes widen, her grin falters, and her mouth drops open. I finally meet her eyes but I can see that she knows the answer. “Holy fuck, Q!” She jumps to her feet, exactly the reaction I was hoping to avoid because I know she’s not going to stop now.
There’s never a way to stop her when she’s excited.
“Wow … So Professor Hottie, huh?”
“I wouldn’t exactly call him professor,” I correct. The man may be fine but he does not need someone to give him a bigger ego than he already has.
“Girl he can call me whatever he wants to call me and I’ll play the role,” she kids and then stops herself when she sees my uncomfortable expression. “C’mon, you feel the same way, so what’s the deal? He pushed you away but at least he tracked you down and apologized and asked for a phone number.”
I snort. “It was a rough apology … and both actions were done out of guilt. The man’s a player, plain and simple.”
“Ha. You’ve never complained about rough before.” She quirks her eyebrows and I can’t fight the laugh in response to her very true statement. “No, seriously though. Was it done out of guilt? Possibly, but a player doesn’t apologize, so tell me what’s really making you keep your distance.”
I look down at my finger tracing over the rim of my glass, the alcohol making the truths I don’t want to admit come a little quicker to my lips now. “He’s the one that I think can royally fuck me up.”
“Figuratively and literally,” she says, testing the waters to see if I chuckle or glare at her. I chuckle. And then glare. “But Q, why is that? Why him?”
I stare at her while I try to figure out the answer. “I don’t know. He’s like this big bad rocker with a sarcastic bite to him, but there’s something else, something underneath…. I can’t put my finger on it. It’s almost a sadness of some sort that makes me want to make sure he’s okay.”
“Uh-oh, you’re in momma-syndrome mode now?” she asks, eyebrows raised.
“No. It’s not like that,” I attempt to explain. “There just seems to be so much more beneath the surface than the image we all see … and it’s intriguing to me.”
“Bad boy, good heart. I can see that, but damn, that man is fine. I’m sure that doesn’t hurt either.”
The smile flashes quick on my lips. “No, but there’s more there. It’s like … everything about him pulls at me. The good, bad, all parts of me. I’ve never felt that from someone before. And, ugh …”
“And what? You don’t want to be pulled at because you’d rather be poked by him?” She laughs at herself and her witty comment.
“Well, that’s a given,” I admit, “but I don’t want to feel this way. I need casual desperately right now, because if I get burned one more time, Lay … I don’t know…. I just think it’s best to walk away. Damage control. Besides, my heart’s been bruised and battered enough, I don’t need to walk into another situation where I hand him the weapons to hurt me with.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, sister, because his actions are confusing. But I say give him another chance. The whole thing with his brother and then the fight with Vince obviously doused his flame.”
“This coming from the woman who moments ago told me to move on.”
“Um, Hawkin Play? No more words need to be said.” I have to laugh at her logic because lame as it may be, it’s starting to pull me toward her reasoning. “Did you really think dating Chasin’ Mason was going to sate that ache Hawkin created?” She shakes her head and the look on her face says I’ve lost my sanity. “Did Luke bust a nut when you accepted?”
I shrug in response. It’s all I can do because I said yes, but I know in the end, I’ll still tell Luke no.
“At least Luke is easy on the eyes as well as funny. Not a bad way to spend an evening,” she says.
“Yeah …”
“But he’s no rock god.” She purses her lips, hearing the hesitancy in my response. “I get it.”
I can’t really explain it, so I just shake my head. If this is the response he normally receives, no wonder Hawkin has an ego the size of Texas. “He is not a rock god.”
“If he’s not now, he’s well on his way to becoming one and fuck I’ll consider his dick my rock god as long as it’s rolling into me.”
There’s absolutely no response I can give to that comment except to take a long drink of my wine.
“You know you’re thinking it,” she chides me. “Hey, there’s no shame in trying to use Luke to make you forget about Hawkin, but let’s be serious here, there is no chance in hell you’re going to forget about him.”
“Thanks for your vote of confidence, Lay.”
My phone rings on the end table beside me, and I glance over at the unknown number and mute the call. When it starts ringing again before I can recall my train of thought, my distracted mind immediately thinks that something’s wrong with my family.
“Hello?”
“So is what you said the other day true?” And just like that, the voice that sounds like sex fills my ears and softens my resistance.
And I don’t want soft. No. When it comes to Hawkin Play, I want hard.
“Not sure what you mean, but why don’t we start with how did you get my phone number?” Irritation masks the rush of desire I feel just beneath the surface. I don’t know what it is about this man that makes me feel like a damn virgin anticipating what her first time will be like.
Because I am far from
“You’re my TA, remember? Carla was more than willing to get it for me when I told her I needed to discuss some things with you,” he says with victorious amusement.
“And then what? I don’t answer so you were going to keep calling me back until I did? Stalk much?”
His laugh sounds low and rich. “I’ve learned from the best, just don’t expect me to be throwing any bras at your feet.”
I stifle the laugh as my eyes meet Layla’s and she points to my phone and mouths Hawkin’s name. I nod my head, which earns an arms up in the air in a touchdown motion.
“It takes a lot more than clothing at my feet to make me like you.” Although the image of him naked is a mighty fine way to fill my thoughts.
“Well, Trixie, if my clothing is at your feet, that means you’re in my bed and we’re going to be doing a whole helluva lot more than liking each other.”
Touché. The suggestive arrogance in his tone alongside the quiet promise of his words has me squeezing my thighs together to try to block him out. It’s good in theory anyway. “Semantics,” I tell him, trying to feign nonchalance and get the conversation back toward a neutral topic that will afford me a few more moments of self-restraint. “So what is it that you’re asking me if it’s true or not?”
“If you really are a girl who enjoys easy sex.”
With you I’d be all kinds of easy.
“I don’t believe I said I did easy sex,” I refute. And then I think that if I really did say it, it’s further proof he gets me flustered because that’s not a comment a typical woman would say when trying to resist a man’s advances.
“Yeah, actually you did say it. A man doesn’t forget proclamations like that one.” I can hear the amusement in his voice, the smile on his lips.
“What business is it of yours?” The bitchiness in my tone is part reflex, part resistance, and a huge chunk of losing grip on my resolve.
Hawke’s chuckle again fills the line and saturates my senses among other places. “Well, I’m sitting here licking my ice-cream cone, and I can’t stop thinking how good you tasted the other day with it on my lips … and it makes me wonder how other parts of you taste. And that begs me to wonder how fast I can make you come, how many times I can make you scream my name, how tight and addictive that pussy of yours will feel.” His voice trails off and thank God it does because I don’t think I can handle any more of his wondering.
“Um …” I search for words to respond and pray when I actually speak that they don’t sound breathless and needy. And of course the sane part of my brain tells me I should be offended by both his assumption that I’ll be sleeping with him as well as his comments telling me that he’s even thinking about me that way.
I should be.
But I’m not.
I manage to pull together my thoughts while listening to the draw of his breath on the other end of the connection. I’m supposed to be resisting him, telling him to take a hike so I can forget him. Instead I taunt him.
“You’re eating ice cream again?” I use humor as my fallback, unwilling to let him know his words have unraveled my insides and at the same time coiled them so tight my body is vibrating with need.
“I’d rather be eating you out instead….” His line should sound corny, should make me roll my eyes, but has quite the opposite effect. I left the door right open for him to walk through. I shouldn’t have expected any less.
I fight the wanton smirk that wants to spread on my lips and emit a strained laugh instead. “This conversation is so not happening right now.”
“You sound strained. Do you need a little release, Quinlan? Do you need to be filled, stretched till it burns oh-so-good as I fuck you nice and slow and then pick up the pace and drive into you fast and hard?” His voice is as seductive as silk, wrapping around me, and sliding over my body. Words that I should be offended by turn me on—their explicitness only serves to intensify the desire he’s stirring within me. “Do you like to be tied up? Dominated? I told you you’re like unwrapping a present. I’m curious what other surprises I can discover.” He groans out a murmur of appreciation. “I can’t wait to see which of these flavors you opt for because believe me, I’ve tasted all thirty-one of them but can’t seem to get yours out of my head and off my lips.”
I’m pretty sure my mouth is lax, I know my nipples are hard, and I have to consciously remind myself to draw in air because I’m at a complete loss for words. Did he really just say all of that to me? I’m seriously turned on, want to give him the answers to all of the questions he just asked but I know how easily this man can shift gears and change his mind.
“Ah, you’re pulling out the dirty talk…. Must be feeling a little desperate, huh?” Irony at its finest considering I’m the one who feels desperate right now. “Look, I know you’re a rock star, so you think you can snap your fingers, and all women within a set radius will hop in the sack—”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk … I don’t think; I know.” He waits for me to fall silent before he speaks again. “You talk a hard game sweetness but you know all of your soft places want my hard places.”
“Now you’re just proving to be the arrogant ass I knew you were.” And fuck if it’s not turning me on something fierce right now. How am I going to play this game and not get burned by him? Better yet why does the burn not seem so daunting as long as my fire gets lit properly?
I’m pathetic.
“Hm. I know desire when I see it and damn it looks good on you, Q.”
“You can’t see me right now so how do you know what I look like?”
“Cute. But you forget, I’ve seen it on you before, felt it on your lips, and you can’t argue with desire. Care to prove me wrong?”
“Good-bye, Hawkin.” Hanging up is the best move right now seeing as I’m never one to back down from a dare, and yet at the same time I need to continually remind myself he’s trouble with a capital T.
“Hey, Quin?” I haven’t lowered the phone from my ear yet despite my brain telling my hand to do just that so I hear his comment.
“What?”
“You know you’re going to cave in the end. Wouldn’t you rather enjoy that time begging me to stop because it feels so good rather than fighting a losing battle?”
“You’re a cocky son of a bitch, aren’t you?”
“A man’s allowed to be confident when talking about what he does best.”
“What you do best? I thought what you did best was sing.”
His laugh lights the phone connection on fire. “I think you should be the judge of that. You’ve heard me sing, now it’s time you experience my skills in the bedroom.”
“Good night.” I hang up the phone while his seductive laugh rolls through the line. The problem is he most definitely got his point across, and now that’s all I can think about. The heat of his touch, the taste of his kiss, the firm press of his body against mine are all things I can recall from experience and damn if they don’t own my thoughts. I blow out an exasperated breath, toss my phone on the couch beside me, and look up to meet Layla’s eyes and knowing smirk.
“That sure was one long conversation for someone you’re not interested in,” she muses.
“Yep. I’m not interested at all.”
“Uh-huh. Make sure you remember that statement while you’re screaming his name at some point in the near future.”
Shit. I’m screwed.
Chapter 12
QUINLAN
On Saturday night I glance over at Luke as we drive, the lights of the city flashing across his face. I’ve had a good time so far—cocktails, dinner, and now off to some event he’s kept a secret but that he’s super excited about. I get the feeling that he thinks wherever our next destination is, it will be the coup de grâce in impressing me so that I fall madly in love with him.
I’m trying, I really am, to feel
Luke must sense my quiet observation because he glances over and smiles, hand reaching out to rest on my bare knee. I smile tightly and look out of the windshield, silently chastising myself for my indifference. I should feel something. Our skin-on-skin contact should make my blood hum and cause that delicious anticipatory ache in my core. I should be feeling that fluttery feeling in my stomach and be thankful I wore the lacy, barely there g-string panties with matching bra for him to gasp at later in the evening when he undresses me.
Or when he rips them off me.
But right now I’m thinking I could have worn my period panties and felt the same way as I do now. Not a good sign at all.
I mean he’s been a gentleman in all respects of the word: opening car doors, comfortable conversation, laughter, and flirty banter. He’s the guy you think you want, but hell if I can get into him.
And lamely I kind of resent him for it right now. Call my resentment being moody or estrogen-fueled misplaced anger but I need him to give me all of those feelings so that I can forget about Hawkin. Shit, I even played hooky and feigned an illness so I could skip the lecture on Thursday in an attempt to not sabotage my chances tonight.
And yet here I sit beside him, enjoying myself, having a good time, but I feel like I’m hanging out with a friend, not a potential horizontal cohabitant.
Luke squeezes my knee. “You figure it out yet?” he asks, all but bouncing with excitement.
“I have no clue.” I laugh because his enthusiasm is really adorable.
“Well, one of my sponsors this year is Verbz—the company that makes those high-end headphones. Anyway, there’s this big benefit tonight to raise money for Alzheimer’s research—a huge lineup of some of my favorite bands—and so they gave me tickets.”