Page 20 of Sweet Ache (Driven 6)
“Ice cream!” he says, eyes wide as he peruses the list of flavors.
“Ice cream?” Ice cream is what made this gruff rocker turn into an adolescent? “Sweet tooth much?” I ask.
“The sweeter, the better,” he says, giving me an appraising once-over.
“Guess that leaves me out,” I say with a smirk that causes him to laugh.
“I have a feeling you have a sweet spot beneath that tough exterior, Quinlan,” he says as he points to a flavor and motions for me to pick one myself.
“No thank you,” I reply, a little dumbfounded by this new development. I must still be staring, trying to figure him out as he waits for the vendor to press the scoop of cookies ’n’ cream on the cone because he glances over to me and feels the need to explain.
“It’s my vice … my habit.” He pays the vendor, takes the cone, and then brings the ice cream to his lips. Parts deep within me stir as I watch him close his eyes momentarily and savor his first taste. My thoughts automatically wonder if this is what he looks like when he goes down on a woman.
When I refocus after shaking off the image, he’s staring at me. My obscene thoughts must be written all over my face because a knowing smile spreads over his lips. His eyes tell me yes, it’s the same expression.
And now I have to wonder how exactly I’m going to get that look out of my mind.
“I thought rockers were supposed to prefer sex, drugs, and alcohol,” I stutter, trying to deflect his intense scrutiny. And then once the words are out, I see anger flash through his eyes and realize what a stupid comment it was on the heels of his drug charges.
But he pushes whatever it is aside and takes a step closer to me. He angles his head to the side, and licks around the ice-cream cone where it is starting to melt. “I do love the sex and the
alcohol … and let’s not mention the drug part,” he says with a strained laugh, “but my daily habit is sugar. My favorite is ice cream.”
“Seriously?”
He takes another lick and then starts to walk back toward where Axe stands guard but stops when we are shoulder to shoulder. He leans in so that his mouth is near my ear and I can feel his breath chilled by the ice cream as it hits my skin. “Are you really going to complain about a man who likes to use his tongue?”
And before I can regain my wits or the blood that has flooded to the delta of my thighs, he walks toward the auditorium’s entrance without another word. I feel like a groupie as I turn around and scramble after him, trying to tamp down the lust after he just knowingly lit the flame.
“Let’s get this over with,” I mutter to myself as Rylee’s have wild, reckless sex comment flickers through my mind.
Because damn it, Hawkin just threw me for an unexpected loop. The throw caution to the wind part of me stood to attention. The skeptical part of me flipped him the bird.
And despite myself, I know who I want to win.
Chapter 6
QUINLAN
Concentrating on teaching Hawkin how to operate the PA system is difficult with his comment running loops through my mind. Add to that, he’s taking his sweet-ass time savoring his treat while we’re both in the confines of the small alcove off to the side of the stage where the controller resides. The space is minimal so each time I demonstrate the switches on the board it causes him to lean in closer.
And with each brush up against my back—the thin cotton of my tank top does nothing to mute the feeling—I’m getting more turned on. And more irritated with him.
“Make it count,” he murmurs behind me, his breath feathering over the exposed skin and I immediately know what he’s talking about. I suck in a breath when his finger traces the small and delicately inked words in the space between my shoulder blades. The only tattoo I have. “What does it mean?”
“Pretty self-explanatory,” I bite out but when a sigh of disappointment falls from him, I relent and quickly elaborate, finding that I want to tell him the truth. “I … I think it’s important to make every moment count. Every friendship, every lover, every broken heart, every decision, every everything—they all need to count for something or else they’re pointless and when all is said and done and you look back at your life, you’ll have regrets.” I shrug, feeling a tad too philosophical over a damn tattoo but I’m being honest. “Regrets suck. Making it count lessens that for me.”
He’s silent behind me, mulling over my comments I assume, and I hate that I can’t see his face. Suddenly I feel extremely vulnerable both emotionally and physically so I finish flicking the switches over so that he can see what I’m doing. I need to get out of this small space and his proximity. Like pronto.
“See, simple,” I say, stepping back and into his chest. I expect him to move immediately, since the full contact of our bodies is anything but professional, but he doesn’t. And it’s his immobility that lets me know he’s doing this on purpose.
Irritation escalates to full-blown anger. I don’t like my hand being forced. He wants to flirt, fine.
No, it’s not fine.
God, he’s got me flustered when I never get flustered and now I can’t think straight. I just want to get this over with.
“Not simple, no,” he says, breaking through my internal debate, his mouth close to my ear so that his breath tickles my bare skin. “Is there a reason you’re trying to rush this?”
