Hi ladies… I hope you don’t mind but I decided to stop in and spend a little time with Hawkin & Quinlan from Sweet Ache. Here’s you go:
Hawke’s voice floats down the hall, a mixed melody of curiosity and excitement in that velvet rasp of his. I shift in anticipation. My body already on fire for his touch.
It’s been eight long weeks. Fifty-six days worth of Skype chats, dirty talking over the buzz of my vibrator and his strained voice panting my name. One thousand three hundred forty four hours of missing him, wanting him, waiting for him to come home to me.
“In here,” I say at the same time the sounds of his boots stop outside the bedroom door.
I’ve envisioned the next few seconds in my head – how it’s going to play out, what his reaction will be – and as much as I want it to be absolutely perfect, I’m having a ridiculously hard time not running to the door, throwing it open, and jumping into his arms.
The handle turns. I hold my breath. The door swings open. My body stills as my bad boy rocker with the good guy heart slowly comes into view. I take in the black combat boots, the Eagles’ T-shirt, leather wrist cuffs – my body vibrating with excitement. And then I meet his eyes. Storm colored irises stare back with so many emotions swimming in them – happiness, relief, longing, and desire.
The moment holds. Two lovers kept apart by distance, now reconnecting yet savoring those final last seconds before libidinous hunger gives way to the clothes ripping, teeth nipping, hands digging kind of sex my body instantly craves at the sight of him.
“Hi.” My voice is breathless. Desperate. Needy.
And then his eyes leave mine and take in the rest of me. His quick intake of breath fills the room and even though he doesn’t speak, that singular sound is all I need to hear to know he feels the same way.
I watch his eyes scrape up the high heels, fishnet stockings, and leather cupless bustier before meeting my eyes. A slow, cocky grin pulls up one corner of his mouth the same time he drops bags with a thud to the floor.
“Hi.” A bob of his Adam’s apple. A twitch of his fingers as if he’s itching to touch. A quirk of his eyebrow. All a slow seduction themselves when I don’t need anything but him and me. Right here. Right now.
“Welcome home. Merry Christmas. Get undressed.” All three of my demands are equally important. Only one is urgent.
That tug of a smirk turns into a full-blown grin as Hawke casually makes his way toward me, drawing out his reaction in painstakingly slow fashion. “Welcome home. Merry Christmas. Get undressed,” he repeats with a raise of one eyebrow. “It’s time to unwrap my present.” The comment takes me back to that first time I drove him home three years ago.
You’re like unwrapping a present. So many surprises to discover.
He stops in front of me, our bodies a whisper apart, our breaths feathering over each others, and desire ricocheting in the space between us. His cologne, his energy, everything I’ve missed over the past few months assaults my senses and makes me want to take and ravage but I know he likes his foreplay. And his sugar.
Let’s see how long it takes him to find it.
With eyes intense, his hands come up to frame my face. Every part of me that wasn’t already standing to attention, sparks instantly to life. Unspoken words pass between us as his mouth slowly descends to meet mine. A soft brush of a kiss. A gentle touching of tongues. My hands sliding beneath the hem of his shirt to touch the corded muscle beneath. His fingers tensing on my jaw as he draws out this first meeting of lips in a tantalizing temptation of everything I want to devour but love that he’s savoring.
God, I missed him. Missed this. Can’t wait to drown myself in more than just the taste of his lips over the next three weeks he’s home and off tour. And completely mine.
“Now that’s a welcome home if I’ve ever seen one,” he murmurs as the kiss ends but our lips remain brushing against each others.
“There’s a lot more where that comes from.” Suggestion laces my tone but desire tinges the edges.
“I can see that,” he says as he runs his hands down my bare arms to link his hands with mine. He steps back and holds our arms out so that he can look at me once again. And the minute he sees it, I can tell. The dart of his tongue to wet his lips. The stutter in movement. The flash of gray up to meet my eyes. “My two biggest vices – you and sugar – all wrapped into one stellar package.”
I love the grate in his voice. The audible sound of his desire. It turns me on. Causes that sweet ache he always creates to intensify.
“Unwrap me, rocker boy.”
A strained chuckle falls from his lips. With eyes still on mine, he pushes me to sit back on the bed behind me as he drops to his knees on the floor before me. The spread of my legs apart is an instant reaction, my own reflection of need for him as he moves between them. His eyes flick down to my nipples and an appreciative groan rumbles deep in his throat before his gaze lifts back to mine.
He lifts a brow in question. “For me, sweetness?”
It takes everything I have to not throw my head back and laugh. Who else does he think I’d wet my nipples and dip them in pixie stick sugar for?
“You use instruments. I use sugar.” My last word falls off into a gasp when his lips close over the sugared peak of my breast. My head falls back, my legs fall open, and my body eases into the bliss of his tongue sweeping circles over the sensitive skin.
One of his hands finds its way between my thighs as his tongue continues its welcome assault on my senses. His other hand grabs my ass and scoots it closer to the edge of the bed and farther into the adept skill of his fingers waiting and wanting there.
“Hawke.” His name is on my lips while my taste is on his tongue as he switches from side to the other with a satisfied sigh. And when his lips close around my nipple this time, his guitar hardened fingers part the lips of my pussy and dip into my wetness.
“Fucking perfection,” he murmurs, the vibration of his voice, warmth of his mouth, and skill of his fingertips give me everything I’ve been missing, craving, and desperate for. With his thumb on my clit, he begins to slide his fingers in and out of me, scraping over right where I need it to me.
And while my vibrator may have taken care of business while he’s been gone, there is nothing – absolutely nothing – that equals the feeling of his hands on me. In me. Pleasuring me into that riotous orgasmic frenzy that only he can.
His teeth scrape over my nipple. My hands thread through his hair. His fingertips curve against my hub of nerves. My body tenses. He quickens the pace of his fingers, driving me harder and faster. Our breaths pant. Our hearts race. His absence has made my orgasm so much easier to summon.
A moan falls from my lips as I tighten around his fingers, my tell tale sign I’m so very close. He lifts his face to watch me: eyes locked, teeth biting into his bottom lip, sex personified.
“I’m coming,” I moan just as my body goes tight, the orgasm slamming into me with reckless abandon. My fingernails dig into his arms as he draws out the sensations: softer strokes, incendiary words, intense eyes.
“Goddamn. I’ve missed watching you come. Making you come,” he murmurs as he leans in and kisses me long and thoroughly, sugar and need a potent combination on his tongue. He withdraws his fingers, the sounds and smell of my desire fill the room, an aphrodisiac that only makes me want more of him.
When Hawke rises from the floor, his knees still between mine, he pulls his shirt over his head and balls it with one hand before tossing it aside. I take the moment to appreciate every single inch of him but stop to watch his hands, still glistening from my arousal, undo the buttons on his jeans.
“My turn, sweetness.”
My eyes flash up to his, sass on my lips and reignited desire in my eyes. “Play me, Hawkin.”