Sweet Ache by K. Bromberg
He shifts some, turning on his back and moving his arm opposite me behind his head. I watch his biceps flex and trace the line of his body to where I can see the symbol inked into his skin on the inside of his wrist. I don’t want to move too much and disrupt his sleep—this is my chance to memorize specifics about him—but I angle my head some to catch the tattoo.
The music note is clear as day sitting on the inside of his wrist but another symbol placed toward his elbow isn’t easy to decipher. I stare a bit longer and as much as I want to slide a little farther away so that I can see the markings on his upper bicep, I decide this feeling is way too heavenly to leave. I can look later, ask later.
I snuggle into him, nestling my face into the crook of his arm and torso, and return my hand to his abdomen so I can feel it rising and falling softly beneath my palm. I think of last night. Of the murmured words and how Hawke completely owned my body and every reaction he coaxed from me. How we lay spent and exhausted but riding that first-time high in comforting silence as I wondered what happens next. Was he going to call Axe to come get him or spend the night and awaken to that awkward silence?
And the best answer was neither.
After a few minutes where we let the sweat cool from our bodies and our labored breaths settle into a normal rhythm, the bed shifted some and the next thing I knew his hands were pulling me into the heat of his body.
“Hmm,” he murmured into the crown of my head, followed by a kiss. “I’m exhausted.”
My soul content and body satisfied, I trailed a finger over his chest and thought about how he had most definitely given me the toe-curling sex that I had been without. “Can’t imagine why … a show, drinking with the band, a pissing match with Luke, a—”
“Rocker trumps racer every time, sweetness,” he said and the smile returned, my heart swelling despite my conscience telling it not to at the endearment. “Besides, it wasn’t any of those things that made me sleepy. No,” he said, the pull of sleep thickening his voice, “it was you and the incredible sex we just had. And then again.”
“And then again,” I responded, happiness tingeing my tone and my ego preening with his compliment.
My mind drifts fleetingly to Luke and a surge of guilt riles my peace. I’m not sure what else I could have done last night. He was hell-bent on attending the after party and then the shot fest that followed was indirectly my doing but I have no claim on him and can’t control his actions. Still, whatever way I try to spin it, I feel like shit that he’s going to wake up sometime today nursing a wicked hangover while I’m waking up sexed and satisfied.
Hawkin stirs again beside me, mumbles softly, and I can feel the minute awareness jolts his body awake. He squeezes me tightly against him and says, “Good morning,” against the crown of my head. And I used to think there was nothing sexier than a man’s voice in the morning, sleepy and gravelly, but I was wrong. Way wrong.
Because Hawke’s voice in particular is sex personified in every way possible.
I close my eyes and enjoy the comfort between us as he wakes up and I realize I’m screwed here. Because if I thought I was going to be able to step back, then I was sadly mistaken. This—him—me—us—is just too damn good for me not to get wrapped up in it.
“I gotta pee like a racehorse,” he says with a soft chuckle as he releases me, then the sound of his feet shuffling over the floor fills the room. I scurry up and out of the bed when he shuts the door to my guest bathroom and scrub the alcohol from last night from my teeth and throw some water on my face. I meet my eyes in the mirror and even though it’s been hours since we fell asleep, my cheeks are still flushed and eyes still alive with desire.
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
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.”
Hawkin’s body stills momentarily before he throws his head back in a loud, hearty laugh. I’m not sure what is so funny but I’m glad whatever I said was the catalyst to disperse the somberness I’d created with my quest for more knowledge about him. When he lifts his face back up, he’s got a wide smile and his eyes appear much lighter than moments before.
“What?” I laugh.
“You’re sitting here, cold again,” he says, lowering his eyes down to my chest before glancing back up at me to meet my eyes. But this time his gaze reflects his salacious thoughts front and center. “In perfect position and fuck if I want to think about anything else but how incredible you felt last night.”
“Care to feel it again?” I lean forward and murmur against his lips, my body already ten steps ahead of him.
His fingers dance up my bare hips and under his shirt to grab the back of it. He fists his hand in it, pulling it tight, covering my breasts like a second skin. And this time the moan he admits is more of a swear from the sight of my nipples behind the veil of fabric.
“Goddamn, Quin,” he mutters as he dips his head down, and I savor the warmth of his mouth closing on my pebbled peak over the T-shirt. The muted feeling only causes me to grind my hips over the top of him. He looks up, eyes already darkening with need, dick pulsing, begging me to grant him entrance to my heat, and says, “You’re gorgeous, you know that?”
I murmur incoherently as he twists the shirt tighter, the dual sensations an unexpected turn-on. My hands sift through his hair on my way to grab on to the top of his shoulders as he begins to drug me once again with his adept skill.
Damn. I never imagined that addiction could feel so good.
My head falls back on the armrest of the couch when Hawkin’s thumbs firmly rub the instep of my foot. I’m still in his shirt and he’s shirtless in his jeans, top two buttons undone, and I have to remind myself every few minutes to take my eyes off him because he’s just visual porn for a one-handed spank bank.
“Talk about orgasmic,” I murmur, meaning more than just the foot rub, but however he takes it, the comment earns me a soft chuckle.
“No. I gave that to you earlier,” he says, aiming my way the lopsided, arrogant smirk that unravels me as he trails his fingers up and down my shin. And he sure as hell did. My thoughts flicker to the look on his face as I sank down onto him. “This is because I know I need to go, get shit done, but I don’t really feel like leaving yet and going back to the real world.”
“This isn’t real?” The comment is off my tongue before I can help it. And hell yes, cocooned in this little bubble of my house this feels real but what about the minute he steps foot outside? Will this all be a memory? I hate the insecurity popping up suddenly when he’s given me no indication that he’s ready to end whatever this is between us.
My stupid comment leaves an awkward silence. I’m just about to apologize when the doorbell rings.
“Shit.” I scramble up, unwilling to answer in just his shirt and my lacy boy-short panties.
“No, stay. I’ll get it,” Hawke offers as he rises to his feet and pushes my shoulders back down.
“Are you sure?” I’m racing to try to figure out who it can be at two in the afternoon. Whoever it is, they are going to be more than surprised at my butler and exactly how he’s dressed.
“Yeah. You got any candy?” he calls over his shoulder, making me laugh. Him and his damn sweet tooth.
“Let me think.”
But my thinking about candy gets derailed as I watch him walk toward the front door, loving the way his jeans hang low on his hips, the knowledge that he’s not wearing any underwear beneath them making him seem even sexier. Like that’s even needed. When he leaves my line of sight, I smile at the sound of his feet padding down the hall. It’s an oddly comforting sound and I’m glad for the interruption because it just saved me from a monumental screwup with the question I asked.
Realization hits me several seconds before I hear the slide of the dead bolt. I’m on my feet and scurrying down the hall, my first thought that it might be Colton and how ugly it might get if a random man opens my front door without a shirt on. I don’t care how old I am, Colton will always see me as the little girl that no guy should touch.
Unfortunately for my last date that ended up staying the night, his face met Colton’s fist when he told him to butt out. And I didn’t talk to my brother for a week because he needed to grow up.
I turn the corner just in time to see light framing Hawkin’s body and a rather rough-looking Luke looking at him with an expression of surprised displeasure, mouth lax, eyes glaring, shoulders square.
“Hey,” Hawke says with a shrug of his shoulders, hands jammed deep in his pockets. “Sorry, man.” He drops his head, awkwardness rising between them. And a part of me loses a tiny piece of my heart to Hawkin in the moment. He could be a royal asshole to Luke right now, be arrogant and gloat that he got the girl, but he doesn’t do any of it. Instead he is contrite and humble.
A disbelieving laugh falls from Luke’s mouth as he shakes his head when he looks over and sees me walking up behind Hawkin. His eyes take in my attire, the shirt Hawke had on last night not going unnoticed. Guilt pushes the contentment I’d felt this morning away because Luke is a good guy, and he definitely didn’t deserve to find out this way.
Hawke takes note of Luke’s change in focus and shifts sideways to spot me. I glance his way, tell him in the visual exchange that it’s okay. Hawke turns back and nods his head to Luke before walking past me with a quick brush of his hand against mine in reassurance before disappearing into the house.
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
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.