Page 57 of Sweet Ache (Driven 6)
“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
in succession forming straight lines but making the appearance of a plate of armor from the top of his shoulder to about three inches down the top of his bicep. I lean forward to look closer, try to figure them all out without asking. I want to know their meaning but also don’t want him sad since they portray a tale I don’t think he wants to share with me just yet.
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.”
