Page 25 of Sweet Ache (Driven 6)
Axe leaves without a sound. I wait for Hawkin, and with each step he takes, I can see him shed whatever it is that’s bugging him bit by bit so that by the time he reaches me, he’s the same man from earlier. Arrogant, enigmatic, and sexy as hell.
He stands in front of me, tongue flicking out to wet his lower lip, and all I want regardless of what I’ve told myself is to kiss those lips again. Screw caution because I’m throwing it to the wind when it comes to Hawkin Play.
“Are you afraid to take a ride with me?” I ask, knowing full well how the question will be received.
A dimple deepens with his lopsided smile, eyes dancing with mirth. “I assure you, I’m not afraid of riding anything with you.” He gestures in front of him for me to lead the way. “Just be warned, I like to take shotgun.”
“Good thing I’m great at driving a stick,” I say over my shoulder as the welcome sound of laughter returns to his voice.
“I have to tell you I’m seriously turned on here.”
The subtle change of subject from my question about whether he and his brother were close does not go unnoticed. I mean we’ve driven for forty minutes through traffic filled with idle chitchat, but the constant glances at his phone for a text he told me he’s waiting for have caused the somber mood from earlier to settle back over him.
So I figured why keep dancing around it and instead I would just ask. And of course, he just delivered the comment that has my mind shifting gears faster than my car climbing up through the hills of Bel Air. So now I’m left to try to figure out what it is he’s turned on by, hoping like hell it’s by me.
It’s one thing to be in a large lecture hall where there is space to move about, to step away. It’s another to be in the close confines of a car where everything about him is mere inches away, causing my libido to go into overdrive.
I wet my bottom lip with my tongue and nod. “And …” I’ll let him lead this conversation, see where it takes us.
“Between your choice of car and the way you handle her … damn.” He lets the last word trail off and I smile smugly at his compliment. “Impressive and hot.”
“Yeah, well, when your brother is a professional race car driver, you can’t shame him by being a shitty driver.” I recall the numerous driving lessons from Colton as a teenager, the constant ribbing that he was going to teach me to not drive “like a woman.”
I catch his double take in my periphery. “Race car driver, huh?”
“Yeah. Indy.” I navigate a turn up the windy road.
“Should I know him?”
“Colton Donavan?” I say his name like a question, my lips pursed as I wait to see Hawkin’s reaction.
“No shit.” He says it so casually that he earns major brownie points with me. But it’s not like he’s a slouch in the fame department either so my brother’s public lifestyle shouldn’t faze him—make him suddenly fawn all over me—like it does so many others. He falls silent for a minute as he thinks. “I don’t follow racing but know who he is. So that’s your last name, huh? I was wondering. Quinlan Donavan,” he muses more to himself than me.
And here goes part two of the Quinlan checklist of whether a man can handle me.
“Actually, no it’s not.” I glance over to catch the perplexed look on his face. “Colton wanted to make it on his own accord, not on the family name.”
“Go on.” He draws the words out. I can hear the amusement in his voice as he tries to figure out what I’m going to say next. “What is your last name then?”
“Westin.”
“Hm,” he murmurs as I can all but hear the thoughts connecting in his mind. The ones telling him that my father is the renowned film director Andy Westin. His lack of a reaction is so refreshing compared to the usual barrage of questions and requests that follow someone finding out who my dad is. “You’re like unwrapping a present. So many surprises to discover.”
You can unwrap me all you like.
“The best parts of me are hidden,” I deadpan, a lopsided smirk playing over one corner of my mouth. I love seeing his jaw fall lax in my periphery. Gotta keep him on his toes.
“Good thing I like to take my time when I open a gift. Nice and slow.” He draws the words out, a whistle falling from his lips as the tingle begins anew deep in my core. “And I always take my time untying them when they’re knotted tight. Always open the box by sliding my fingers in the seam first before I dive right in …”
How in the hell has he just seduced me and all he’s describing is a damn birthday present?
It’s best I don’t respond right now because his cologne, his unaffected responses, his just being normal is causing things inside me to zig and zag when they should be going straight.
“I bet your brother got in a lot of fights growing up.”
His comment throws me. “Why do you say that?” He points for me to turn left on another street and I steal a glance at him from behind my sunglasses.
“Well, I’m sure he spent a lot of time protecting your virtue,” Hawkin says, and I fight back the laugh that threatens when I think of the scuffles he got in with guys talking in the locker room about his little sister, then and now—Luke Mason, case in point. “Any good older brother protects their younger sibling. No questions.”
