Hawkin’s eyes find me first and a shameful smirk tugs up one corner of his mouth. The sight of his reaction to me does funny things to my insides. As I approach, I hear Luke groan out while the rest of the guys begin a chant I can’t quite make out. I swear to God it sounds like make it count—the irony of the saying Hawkin no doubt put to their game is not lost on me—but I’m unsure because they stop as I get closer.

“A bet’s a bet, man,” Hawkin says, shifting his attention toward Luke, who is obviously on his way to getting plastered right now, judging by the glaze of his eyes and the ridiculous amount of empty shot glasses lined up on the table in front of the band.

“Fffuuuccckkkk!” Luke slurs and lifts the glass to his lips with a defeated laugh. “Remind me never to challenge you to this again.”

Gizmo erupts into laughter. “Dude. You never challenge musicians to a shot contest. We have hours on tour buses to build up tolerance to this shit—we’ll win hands down every time. Especially that fucker!” he says, pointing at Hawkin, who just leans back with his half-empty Jack and Coke in one hand and an empty shot glass in his other and watches with amusement.

“Rocker trumps racer every time,” Hawkin laughs, his eyes glancing over to Vince as Luke chugs the shot back.

“Fine by me,” he says, pointing his finger at Hawke, “because racer gets the girl in the end.”

The two men lock eyes—a nonverbal pissing match is waged between the two of them. I wonder what in the hell I’ve missed by going dancing and think maybe I don’t want to know the parameters of this little contest that’s going on.

“Just a little dick-dueling,” Rocket says into my ear as he slings an arm around my shoulder. I bite back the chuckle I want to emit when both Hawkin and Luke unbeknownst to the other narrow their eyes at Rocket for touching me.

“Looks more like a big dick contest,” I muse, my thoughts drifting back to Luke and his ten inch comment from weeks ago.

“Now, that? I’m not going to be the judge of,” he laughs with a shake of his head and plops down next to Luke, whose head is now resting on the back of the couch, not looking so well.

The night wears on a bit longer, the contest slows down, but as I watch from the sidelines, I notice that Hawke is not downing the shots like Luke is. He’s picking them up and then just moving them full to the table beside him where one of the others in the VIP room takes and downs them.

I cringe thinking what Luke is going to feel like in the morning—well, later in the morning—when he’s done being passed out because that sure as hell is the way he’s headed. And as much as I want to be pissed at the guys for whatever the bet is that’s going on, I can’t be because they continue to tell Luke the game’s done, and yet he still feels the need to play. I have a slight feeling I know what the prize is and just why he’s fighting so hard.

Last call comes and goes and it’s decided by someone in our group that Axe is going to drive all of our drunk asses home. Luke disagrees and wants to stay and drink some more despite being unable to stand up, but it’s closing time.


We are all zoned out in the limo bus, the evening’s adrenaline and alcohol high slowly fading into exhaustion. We’ve dropped Luke off at his hotel room where Axe and I made sure he made it safe and sound inside and onto his bed. I felt like shit for leaving him there like that but he passed out on the bed before I could even take his shoes off.

When it comes down to it, whatever testosterone-fueled game he was playing is only going to result in a lot of puking tonight, and I really don’t think he’s going to want to end our first date that way.

And call me coldhearted but this squeamish girl doesn’t really want to see it.

I left him a note to call me in the morning so that I can make sure that he’s okay, that I had a good time, and thanks for the invite. What else am I supposed to say? Thanks for making this easy on me, for passing out, so that I can go screw the man I really want?

At least for now his dignity remains intact in more ways than one…. Too bad I’m going to add to the wicked hangover he’s going to have in the morning when he wakes, calls, and I tell him thank you for the nice evening, but there’s nothing there on my end.

Axe is cautiously making his way through downtown LA traffic—present at all hours—toward my house. Gizmo went home with his raven-haired hottie and Rocket is currently making moaning noises a few rows behind us doing who knows what with one in a trio of women. Or maybe with all of them.

“Keep it down, Rock,” Hawkin scolds. “Lady present.” I can’t help but laugh at the comment and love it all at the same time because it’s cute. And then I wonder how offended I’d be if I were one of the trio but I figure their mouths are a bit too busy to pay attention to insults.

Sinking into Hawkin next to me, the alcohol hums through my blood and helps dull the guilt over abandoning Luke and leaves me charged with anticipation of how I want to spend the rest of the night.

I know Hawkin feels the same way because his body tenses up every time I rub against him, and I know it’s taking a strong hold on his restraint to prevent himself from taking me right here and now. And the idea sends a slight thrill through me, fills me with a wanton desire to see just how far I can push him.

Shifting in my seat, I watch the lights of the city play over his face as we move through the night, my mind trying to process how we got from a combative first encounter to here. I slide my hand across his thigh, notice the hitch of his breath and the snap of his eyes over to mine. Oh yeah, he wants this just as bad as I do. Hell if that notion isn’t a heady feeling.

The tips of my fingers graze the top of the crotch of his jeans, the seam already straining and begging me to relieve the pressure against it, soothe the ache with the warmth of my mouth. My sex throbs from the thought, and unsated need drives my actions.

As I lean into him, his eyes watch me all the while until I kiss the side of his neck before running the tip of my tongue up to just below his ear. The salt of his skin is on my tongue and the smell of his cologne is in my nose but it’s the pained groan of restraint that turns me on more than anything. I’m a girl who loves a good dare and I’ll be damned if I’m going to back down from this one.

I want a reaction from him right now—the fist in my hair, his mouth claiming mine, his hands parting me and dipping inside to ready me for the one thing I really want—to prove to myself that I can make this player lose his control.

“How hard are you going to fuck me, Hawkin? Are you going to play me like your guitar? All fingers strumming my strings till I react or are you going to use me like I’m your mic and use your mouth to make me scream like all the women in the crowd do?” As I whisper into his ear, my own words are turning me on. “Or am I the lucky one for the night? Will you let me watch as you part my thighs and slide your dick into my tight, wet pussy? Will you make me come with your kiss on my lips?”

I tug on the lobe of his ear with my lips, and he holds me at arm’s distance before I’m able to connect with his lips. His eyes blaze with lascivious need and yet his head shakes subtly back and forth. I’m not sure what he’s trying to tell me. His eyes say one thing and his body shows another right down to the expression on his handsome face.

“Go ahead, Hawke.” Vince’s words cut through the bemoaned silence of the bus. “I’ll just watch from over here … unless you want me to join in, that is,” he says with an amused chuckle.

I feel Hawkin’s body tense further if that’s even possible, and my mind begins to work overtime. Is that why he’s acting so weird? Is that what Hawke wants and he’s afraid to ask? Me and him and Vince together? I swallow the discomforting thrill of the idea, something I have never done before. This will be my first time with Hawke, no one else needs to be there while we memorize each other’s bodies and sounds.

“Maybe some other time,” I reply, hoping to add some levity and ease whatever tension remains. Fight fire with fire and all that. “Sorry, Vince, lead singer trumps bass player.”

Hawkin erupts in a fit of laughter at my comment and holds his stomach as the hysterics take over his whole body. “Oh God! That’s fucking classic!”



Chapter 15


QUINLAN

The walk to my front door feels like a mile, but at least we’re both sobering up some. Anticipation of what’s going to come next assaults us with every step forward. My nerves hum, my core burns with that sweet, delicious ache, and I tell myself to expect nothing more than the moment. I laugh softly knowing no matter what I tell myself I’m already too attached to Hawkin and nothing has really happened yet.

I fumble with the key in the lock, the expectation adding to the heady moment, until Hawke steps up behind me, my back to his front. He pulls my hair off my neck with one hand, fingertip tracing over my inked motto, and places a kiss on the curve of my shoulder that is so unexpected it heightens the fluttering sensations in my belly. Nerves and expectation ruin my dexterity so he reaches out and places his hand over mine so that we both unlock the front door together.

And I’m so far from the flowery, Hallmark moment girl, but there is something that touches me with the action, and I can only hope he’s unlocking more than just the front door and maybe opening up the possibility of letting me in.

When the door swings open and he follows me in, the silence stretches so tautly it only enhances the desire as we make our way through my darkened house straight to my bedroom. I don’t think to ask if he wants another drink, a bottle of water—it never crosses my mind—because I’m driven by pure need at this point. Besides, we’ve had enough foreplay tonight that without even asking him, I know neither one of us wants to wait any longer.

So I step into my bedroom with confidence and when Hawkin’s hands immediately find my waist and pull me back into the muscled heat of his chest, I close my eyes and allow myself to memorize the feel of his embrace before he renders my body senseless and my thoughts incoherent. He’s already hard for me and I’m so turned on by the fact that I haven’t said a word to him, I haven’t shed my clothes, and yet he’s ready.

His hands begin to move over my torso. They snake under my tank top, and I gasp in a breath at the feeling of skin on skin, at the sensation of rough to smooth that tells me this is real, this is about to happen. He smooths his hands up my rib cage so that my tank pulls up with them, and he cups my breasts as he goes. We both moan in unison as his fingers brush over my nipples. I gasp out as sensation swamps me, my head rolling back onto his shoulder behind me as I surrender my body to his hands, my emotions to his manipulations, and absorb the pleasure he’s giving me.

He rubs my nipples between his fingers and thumbs through the lace of my bra before continuing to slide my tank up to my shoulders. He gestures for me to lean my head forward and he lifts my tank over my head but lowers it over my arms, stopping it so that they are held in place.

Chills race over my body; the ache he’s building inside me intensifies with each touch feeling like a pleasurable pain. My sex throbs with each beat of my pulse and my muscles tense to prevent myself from twisting around, ripping the tank top off and jumping him. God yes I want him with every fiber of my being, but there’s something innately arousing about turning yourself over to someone. Trusting someone with your body, your sexual pleasure, openly handing them your vulnerability—it’s all a very intoxicating feeling.

Add to that the lack of any words between us. Our only communication is the dance of his fingers over my sensitized flesh. Hands urging in silent command, minds running wild.

He draws in a ragged breath from behind me and I love the thought that he’s just as affected. Hawke’s hands begin to move back down my body now, sliding between my breasts where he unclasps my bra before moving to my back and down the length of my spine to unzip my skirt. It falls to the floor and pools around my feet so that I’m wearing nothing but a fuchsia lace thong with nude heels and a tank top holding my arms motionless.

My skin is hot, the air is cool, and his breath feathers over my neck in a whisper of a touch. My thoughts forget the notion of the casual sex I told myself I could have with him because I already know that there is no turning back now as he runs his palms back to my abdomen so that his fingers dip beneath the band of my panties. He lowers them to the top of my cleft, parting me slightly so that his fingertips graze the top of my clit, causing my pelvis to buck into his hand as I beg for more.