Summer Love by Piper Rayne
Chapter Two
My palms are sweaty, my heart is racing, and every single sense of mine is hyperfocused on the back hall where Hawthorne disappeared a few minutes ago.
What is wrong with me?
How can a ten-minute conversation with a person evoke such a strong physical response, let alone the emotional rollercoaster I’m on? I don’t act this way. I don’t get flustered. I don’t get hung up on guys. It just isn’t me.
So, why am I anxious to see him walk back in here and fulfill his promise to take me out?
Drying a cup with a white towel, my attention darts over to the back hall again.
“You okay, there?” Ashton, my manager slash cousin asks.
Nearly dropping the small cup, I clutch my chest and turn to him. “Oh. Hey.”
“Hey,” he returns. “You doing okay?”
“Yup.”
“You sure?”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, Ashton, I’m just dandy, thank you very much. Although, now that you mention it, how generous are you feeling tonight?”
“Are you wanting to take off early for another exam?”
“Maaaaybe?” I lie. I should be asking to get off work so I can study tonight, but going on a date with Silver Fox sounds like a hell of a lot more fun.
“Fine, I’ll have Gibson cover for you––”
“Oh.” I cringe. “You don’t have to do that––”
“We got this. When do you want to leave?”
“Um…” My voice trails off as a certain silver fox rounds the corner from the back hall. “Maybe in fifteen minutes or so? I need to close out a few tabs, but then I’ll be ready.”
“Sounds good. The sooner you get your degree, the better.”
Again, I roll my eyes. “Yeah, yeah. The fate of SeaBird depends on it. You’re starting to sound like my dad.”
“That’s ‘cause Chuck’s a genius who built this business from the ground up and wants to have someone to pass it down to when he retires,” he reminds me before one of the bouncers waves at him from the front. “Look, I gotta go, but head out whenever you’re ready. I’ll chat with Gibbs as soon as I take care of this and fill him in.”
“Thanks, Ash. I owe you one.”
“You owe me a hundred,” he calls over his shoulder as he saunters away.
“Should I be jealous?” a deep, familiar voice questions from my right.
I turn back to Hawthorne in all his gorgeous glory.
“Of my cousin?” I ask. “Hardly.”
Scratching his jaw, he gives me an amused smile. “Are you ready to go?”
My attention flashes from Ashton back to Hawthorne. “You go first. I’ll meet you at the back door.”
His brows furrow. “Something else to hide, Sam?”
“Not sure it would look very good for me to walk out with a customer when I told my cousin that I had to go home and study for a test.”
“You’re still in school?”
“Getting my master’s in business so I can take over this place once my dad retires. Why?”
With a new sense of appreciation, he looks around my family’s pride and joy and tosses a couple of fifties onto the counter.
“Hawthorne, I said I was buying––”
He grabs my wrist to stop me from shoving the bills back at him and steps closer until the heat radiating from him brands me from head to toe.
Then he drops his voice low so only I can hear. “While I’m all for feminism and shit, when I’m interested in a girl, I treat her like a princess, and that includes paying for everything when we’re together. We clear?”
“I’m not a princess,” I argue.
“And I’m no Prince Charming, but this isn’t up for debate.” He lets my wrist go, and it falls limply at my side. “I’ll meet you out back.”
He leaves, and I’m left gaping at the man who’s completely thrown my evening off-kilter, yet I’m too intrigued to put him in his place.
Biting my lower lip, I watch him exit through the front, tugging at the lapel of his soft gray suit before disappearing from sight.
I count to ten and head to the breakroom, trying to keep my steps steady when my heart is racing a million beats per minute. Once I’ve gathered my purse from my locker, I head out the backdoor and find a very suave, very sexy man leaning against the brick wall.
“Fancy seeing you again,” I quip.
He dips his chin. “Hey, Princess.”
“That nickname isn’t sticking.”
“It is for the night.”
For the night.
The words act like a wet blanket, though I have no idea why. A one-night stand is exactly what I was looking for. The idea of anything else usually gives me hives, but for some reason, hearing him say it out loud feels…off-putting.
I shake it off and fold my arms as the cool night seeps into my bones. It isn’t cold by any means, but in a tank top and cut-off shorts, it’s a little chilly.
“So… Shall we?” I ask.
He slips off his designer jacket and hangs it over my shoulders. The scents of orange and sandalwood envelope me, nearly knocking me on my ass all over again.
How can he smell so damn good?
“Thanks,” I murmur, peeking up at him.
“Don’t mention it.” He steps back and puts some space between us again. “Do you want to take my car, or should we take yours since you’re supposed to be studying?”
“I actually live on the top floor of this building, so I don’t exactly have to drive to work.”
“Ah.” He nods his understanding. “Got it. Follow me.”
He tangles his fingers with mine and leads me across the parking lot to my freaking dream car––a 1967 Shelby GT 500.
My mouth gapes. “I-is this your car?”
Head cocked, he answers, “Yes?”
“How?”
He laughs. “I like to drive.”
“Well, yeah. When it’s a beauty like this, I don’t blame you. Hello, Eleanor,” I purr, running my hand along the charcoal gray curves of the gorgeous vehicle.
“Pardon?”
“It’s from Gone in Sixty Seconds. My dad’s favorite movie. There’s a car––”
“Named Eleanor,” he finishes for me. “Yeah. I know. It’s why I bought her. You’ve seen that movie?”
“What? You think I’m too young for that one, Cradle Robber?” I tease.
He opens the passenger door for me and helps me inside. “Oh, so now, I’m Cradle Robber?”
“Only if I’m Princess. How old are you, anyway?”
“Younger than you’d probably think.”
My gaze flicks toward the white streaks in his slicked-back hair.
“It’s called Poliosis,” he explains, reading my mind. “I quit dying it by the time I reached middle school.”
“Oh.” My fingers itch to reach out and touch it, but I restrain myself. It’s kind of sexy. Sophisticated, almost. And it only makes me like him more. “You still didn’t answer my question, though.”
“About my age?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m thirty-eight, Sam.”
Thirty-eight? I can do thirty-eight.
“Is that a problem?” he challenges.
“Not at all,” I answer vaguely.
With a dark chuckle, he leans over me and buckles my seatbelt, his hand softly grazing between my breasts as he stretches the nylon strap around me. That same familiar scent hits me at full force, making my mouth water before his low voice vibrates next to my ear. “Does that still make me a cradle robber?”
His eyes meet mine, but he doesn’t give me the much-needed space to breathe. To think clearly. To not kiss the crap out of him when he’s this close and is looking at me like he could devour me whole.
I lick my lips, then shake my head. “I haven’t decided yet.”
“Is that right?”
“Mm-hmm.” The sound vibrates up my throat in the otherwise silent car, acting like a siren if the heat in his eyes is anything to go by. He steps back and closes the door quietly. Like he didn’t just rock my world with a single heated look. A simple touch. A decadent scent that’s already tattooed itself in my mind. Oh, that smell. It’s like an aphrodisiac all on its own. Lifting my shoulder that’s still shrouded in his suit jacket, I sniff softly.
I’m in so much trouble.
My heart pounds against my ribcage as he rounds the front of the car before slipping behind the wheel with a finesse that’s damn near hypnotizing. He squeezes the steering wheel, making the veins in his hands and upper wrists pop as he backs out of the parking spot.
I gulp.
“So, tell me. What’s wrong with being a princess?” he asks.
“I dunno? I guess it makes me feel like a damsel in distress or something. What’s wrong with being a cradle robber?”
“Because it makes me feel like I’m way too old for you when I’m hoping I’m not.” He gives me the side-eye. “How old are you, anyway?”
“Twenty-six. I know, I know. It makes me feel like a grandma, going to school and hanging out with a bunch of twenty-year-olds. But my mom got sick during my freshman year, and I put my schooling on hold to help take care of her. And once she was officially cancer-free again a couple of years later, I was able to go back to school.”
“So you can take over SeaBird,” he surmises.
“Exactly. And what do you do, mister No-First-Name Music Man?”
His mouth quirks up on one side. “A little bit of everything.”
“That’s not vague at all.”
He laughs. “Let’s just say that I’m a good judge of character.”
“Because that’s less vague,” I tease, loving our banter way more than I should.
Another laugh slips out of him. ”All right, Smarty Pants, this is what I do. I find and assess diamonds in the rough.”
“Like Aladdin?”
He rolls his eyes. “Sure. Like Aladdin. I help get them in touch with the people who can take them to the next level. Sometimes, that means scouting an up-and-coming band before hooking them up with an opportunity to tour with someone who could share the same audience. Sometimes, that means stumbling upon raw, untapped talent and setting them up with a manager who can get the ball rolling. And sometimes, that means salvaging said talented individuals by covering up an incident that could lead to bad PR. It just depends on the day.”
“Sounds like you’re a jack-of-all-trades. Is that why you were hesitant to work with Broken Vows?”
Giving me the side-eye, he asks, “Am I talking to the bartender I’m interested in sleeping with tonight or the sleuth that was sent to distract me and is digging for information?”
His casualness makes me blush as I untuck my hair to cover my cheeks before staring out the passenger window like the winding road is the most fascinating thing I’ve ever seen.
“The, uh, the first one,” I mutter.
“Then, yes,” he returns. I can still hear his amusement. The slight lilt of his voice. The husky undertone as if he’s holding back another laugh. My insides tighten.
“That’s why I won’t be working with Broken Vows,” he continues.
“Wait, you’ve already decided?”
“The lead singer fucked up tonight––”
“Aren’t we all allowed to make mistakes?”
“Is it the first one he’s ever made?” he challenges.
“Well…no, but––”
“I have a reputation, Sammie. I work with people who are serious about their craft, and they should be rewarded for it. I’m not saying Broken Vows isn’t talented, but there are enough diamonds in the rough who take their shit seriously that I don’t need to waste my time on a ticking time bomb.”
I jerk back with pinched brows. “But they’re not a ticking time bomb, and they do take their music seriously.”
“It’s not enough for the majority of them to take it seriously, Princess. That’s my point. What happens when the lead singer––”
“Fen,” I clarify for him.
“What happens when Fen doesn’t show up to a performance? It doesn’t just look bad for him. Hell, it doesn’t just look bad for the entire band. It looks bad for me, too, if I’m the one who recommends them for a gig. I can’t let that happen.”
Annoyed, I fold my arms and rest my head against the passenger window.
He sighs, his tone softening as a glimpse of the non-cutthroat Hawthorne decides to make an appearance. “Why do you care so much, anyway?”
Glancing over at him, I take a deep breath and shrug one shoulder. “I guess I like cheering for the underdog. Besides, they’re practically family. Broken Vows has been performing at SeaBird for almost two years now. And they rock it every time. The idea of them missing out on this huge opportunity sucks.”
He nods. “It does.”
“Are you sure there isn’t anything you can do?”
His knuckles tighten around the steering wheel before he tears his gaze from mine and mutters, “Are you hungry?”
“Gee, subtle subject change, Cradle Robber.”
With a smirk, he asks, “Never gonna let me live that down, are you?”
“Like I said, not if Princess is on the table. And yes, I’m hungry,” I admit. “Do you like tacos?”
“What’s wrong with Princess? What’s wrong with someone wanting to take care of you or treat you like royalty? Even if it’s just for one night,” he clarifies. “And yes, I like tacos.”
“Perfect. Turn right at the light. Burrito Bandito will be on the left. Their tacos are to die for. And nothing is wrong with someone taking care of someone else or being treated like royalty. I guess my dad taught me to be a strong, independent woman.”
Flicking on his blinker, he follows my directions before asking, “And being worshipped and cared for takes away your independence?”
I shrug. “I dunno? Maybe? I guess I’ve never thought of it that way. And since when does one worship a princess?”
“Hmm,” he hums. “Would you prefer Goddess?”
“I would prefer Sammie,” I quip.
He shakes his head, his mouth curled with amusement. “Nah, I don’t think so.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because I’m getting under your skin.”
“And you like getting under people’s skin?” I challenge.
He grins. “Just yours. But it’s a moot point, anyway.”
“Oh really? Why’s that?”
“Because I think you’re taking out your frustration on me when the real villains are all the boys you’ve wasted your time with that've been doing it wrong.”
“Doing what wrong?”
“Worshipping you. Taking care of you. Making you feel like royalty without taking your independence.”
I purse my lips, trying to rein in the butterflies assaulting my stomach, but it’s no use. They’re in full-blown attack mode, and I’m seconds from swooning. What girl doesn’t want to be worshipped? To be shown what it’s like to be appreciated, both physically and emotionally. And he’s right. I’ve never bothered to give any guy the time of day because I thought that if I did, I’d be giving up my independence.
However, with how Hawthorne is putting it, it sounds like it can be the opposite. But only when you’re with the right guy, and I’m afraid I haven’t met him yet. Or at least, not before tonight.
When I realize he’s still waiting for my reply, I shrug and lie, “Meh. I get by.”
“I’m sure you do. You’re a resourceful little princess, aren’t you.” It isn’t a question.
“I guess you could say that. Tell me, do you call all your one-night stands Princess?”
“Only if they fit the bill.”
“Oh.”
Ouch.
I turn toward the side window, praying he can’t see my frown or feel my jealousy that’s simmering just beneath the surface. I shouldn’t care. I barely know this guy. And I’ve never been the jealous type. But the idea of someone else being his princess for the night?
It kinda stings.
“But,” he adds, “I’ve yet to meet someone who’s fit the bill before tonight.”
“Oh,” I repeat, tucking my hair behind my ear.
Swoon.
I glance back at him. “So…how long are you planning on sticking around?”
“I guess it depends on how tonight goes.”
“I thought this was a one-night-only gig?”
“I thought so, too, but like I said, you’ve intrigued me, Princess, and I’m not one to let diamonds in the rough stay buried.”
“Always was a sucker for Aladdin,” I remind him.
“Was it the dark hair, olive skin, and snarky attitude?” he quips, bouncing his eyebrows up and down.
Tilting my head to one side, I check off each proverbial box in my head as I shamelessly scan him from head to toe. Dark hair–albeit salted with white streaks. Check. Olive skin. Check. And snarky attitude? Double-check. All of these traits combined with his icy blue eyes? Jasmine wouldn’t know what hit her.
“Apparently,” I admit after a few seconds. “Where are you from, anyway?”
“I was raised here, but my father’s mother is from Greece, which is where I’m told I get the tan skin from, and my mother’s from Bulgaria, hence my first name being…” His voice trails off before he flicks on his blinker and checks his blind spot even though the roads are empty at this time of night.
“Your first name being…?” I prod.
With a wicked smirk, he pulls into the parking lot of Burrito Bandito. “Nice try, Princess.”
I bite my lip to keep from grinning back at him, refusing to acknowledge the way his pet name is slowly growing on me or the fact that I haven’t had this much fun being teased in forever.
“Come on,” I beg. “You’re killing me, Hawthorne. I wanna know your––”
“It’s a drive-thru,” he realizes, stating the obvious. You’d think I was inviting him to eat off a toilet seat as he inspects the little sombrero sign hanging crookedly on the cracked stucco.
“Sure is, Fancy Pants. Is that a problem?” I ask.
He hesitates.
“Don’t let the outside fool you. It’s a hidden gem. I promise. Do you trust me?”
He tears his gaze away from the building and quirks his brow. “Did you just quote Aladdin?”
I open my mouth to argue before replaying my comment inside my head. Then I laugh and cover my face. “Oh my gosh, I didn’t even realize it.”
“Mm-hmm, sure you didn’t.”
“I really didn’t!” I argue through another bout of laughter. “But seriously, it’s delicious. And besides, it’s good to try new things. You might even surprise yourself and end up addicted like the rest of us small-town hooligans.”
“And what do I get out of the deal?” he asks.
“A really good taco?” I quip.
“Like, your taco or––”
“Hawthorne!” I smack his shoulder, my face the color of a freaking cherry tomato.
He laughs. “I’m kidding. I’m kidding.”
“Mm-hmm, sure you are.”
“But I mean, if it’s on the menu––”
“Will you stop?” I screech, my embarrassment warring with my amusement the longer this conversation prevails.
Pretty sure if you could die from embarrassment, I’d be a goner. But what a way to go.
That wicked grin? With those eyes? And that deep voice?
Is it hot in here?
“Fiiiine,” he finally gives in, throwing me a bone. “Do you want to go in or do the”––he clears his throat and points at the giant neon sign with an arrow on it––“drive-thru?”
“Drive-thru, please.”
I’m pretty sure he’d have a heart attack if he stepped one foot inside the dinky restaurant, and I wanna see the look on his face when he finally tastes the amazingness that Burrito Bandito has to offer.
Hawthorne follows my order and pulls up to the microphone before scanning the options on the billboard to his left.
“What do you like from here?” he asks.
“The chips and salsa are to die for, and so are their fish…tacos. As for their burritos, you can’t go wrong.”
“Alright, then.” He scans the menu one more time before rattling off his order. Then he turns to me. “What do you want?”
“I’ll take the same, please.”
“Make that two of everything,” he adds to the intercom.
“Perfect,” a voice crackles in return. “We’ll have your total at the window.”
I reach for my purse, but he puts his hand on mine and stops me. “No deal, Princess.”
“But––”
With a pointed stare, he orders, “I’m serious. Put it away. Let me treat you.”
The warmth from his touch makes me melt as I give him a nod.
“Thank you,” he murmurs before tearing his gaze from mine to pull the car forward.
When we get to the next window, he digs out his credit card and hands it to the cashier before grabbing two paper bags filled with greasy goodness. My mouth waters as the scent wafts through his beautiful car.
Which is when I realize there’s greasy goodness in his immaculately clean car.
“Um,” I hum.
He looks over at me. “Is there a problem?”
“I changed my mind. We should go in.”
With a dry laugh, he challenges, “Why do you look like you just got caught skipping school?”
“Because I didn’t think about how eating in your car might dirty it up a bit.”
“So?”
“So, have you seen Eleanor? She’s a beaut.”
“And you’re a beaut, so I think it’s worth the risk.”
“But I’m a mess, and she’s so pretty and clean.” I pet the dashboard lovingly.
Another dry laugh escapes him. “Maybe she could use a little dirtying up.”
“And maybe you and I have different versions of dirty that’s acceptable in the back of a car.”
His earlier amusement vanishes, and his gaze darkens, rolling over me like warm honey that leaves me a sticky mess beside him. “Pretty sure you and I have very similar versions of acceptable ways to dirty up cars, and if I knew you’d be up for it, I’d be all in.”
My cheeks redden as an image of us dirtying up his car in all the right ways flashes through my mind. I clear my throat and point toward the dark road ahead of us. “There’s a park across the street. If you want to eat there.”
“Okay.” He turns onto the main road before pulling into the empty parking lot in front of a large, grassy slope that leads to a baseball field and a swing set. Once the car is parked, I grab the bags of greasy goodness and reach for the door handle when he puts his hand on my thigh, squeezing softly.
“Sorry, Princess. I’m going to have to insist you wait for me to open your door.”
“Seriously?”
“Rules are rules.”
“Maybe I don’t like to follow rules.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t tempt me to show you what happens when someone disobeys them.” With a wink, he gets out of the car, that same confidence oozing out of every pore. My eyes narrow into tiny slits as I debate whether or not to push his buttons before deciding against it.
For now, anyway.
The passenger door opens without so much as a tiny squeak before he offers his hand.
“You listened,” he notes.
“You’re surprised?”
“Actually, yeah,” he admits with a crooked smirk. “Come on.”
Side by side, we walk down the slanted slope before sitting down on the freshly trimmed lawn. The cool grass tickles my bare thighs as I open the brown paper sacks and hand him a fish taco. “One for you.” I reach into the bag again and pull out a second taco. “And one for me.”
Tilting his head to one side, Hawthorne takes a bite of fishy goodness before his tongue darts out to catch a bit of the juice from the side of his mouth. The moon glints off his Rolex, making him look like a damn alien. In a fancy suit. In the middle of a dark park. On the grass, where he’ll probably get grass stains.
Pretty sure I couldn’t make up a more foreign scenario for the guy, but he’s handling it like a champ and looks sexy as hell while doing it. When he catches me staring, he grins but doesn’t comment on it before taking another bite of his dinner, which happens to be takeout.
The horror.
“Why are you staring at me like that?” he asks.
“Like what?”
“Like I belong on another planet.”
“Well,” I scan him up and down with wide eyes to prove my point. “Look at you.”
“What about me?”
“When was the last time you had takeout?”
He pauses before wiping the side of his mouth with the back of his hand. “Honestly? I have no idea.”
“Exactly. And you’re sitting on damp grass in a fancy suit, wearing your fancy watch with your fancy car parked a few feet away. I mean, it’s a little out of the ordinary for you, don’t you think?”
With a shrug, he takes another bite, chewing thoughtfully as he digests my remarks. He swallows and mutters, “Maybe lately, but I didn’t always own the fancy suits and car.”
“Oh really? And where did you come from, Mister No-First-Name?”
“A small town like this one.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I’m sorry, it’s just…”
“Just what?”
Grimacing, I admit, “You kinda stick out like a sore thumb.”
“It’s the fancy suit and watch,” he quips.
Tilting my head to the side, I study him. Again. But I can’t help it. The guy’s an enigma. “Maybe. Do you miss it, though? Living in a small town?”
He stares thoughtfully out in the distance, scanning the horizon as if it holds all the answers. “I didn’t think I did.”
“And now?”
He turns to me, scanning my face the same way he studied the empty ballpark. “Now, I’m not so sure.”
The air turns electric as his cool gaze bounces around my face with staggering intensity. It’s charged with an energy that’s so heavy, so full, that I have a feeling the tiniest of sparks will turn it into an inferno.
And I’m not ready to be consumed yet.
“Hmm,” I hum, tucking my knees to my chest.
“Hmm,” he mimics, his gaze dropping to my lips. My tongue darts out and moistens them, but I don’t lean closer. I feel like we’re walking a tightrope, and at any second, we could fall. But not yet.
Not yet.
He shoves the last bite of taco into his mouth, breaking the spell in the blink of an eye. His strong jaw flexes with every chew, making him look chiseled from granite. I shake off the urge to lean forward and nibble on his five o’clock shadow before lifting my barely touched taco and waving it back and forth.
“So?” I prod. “What do you think?”
“I think these are the best damn fish tacos I’ve ever had.”
“Told ya.” I take a bite, barely holding in the moan as the flavors of cumin and paprika explode across my tastebuds.
So. Damn. Good.
I swallow the deliciousness, then ask, “So, Hawthorne. You ready to tell me your first name yet?”
He laughs and leans back on the grass, using his elbows to keep from fully lying down as he looks up at the stars above us. “Not gonna let that one go, are you?”
“Nope. I’m a stubborn one.”
“I can see that.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“That’s because I haven’t decided if I’m intrigued enough to divulge it yet.”
I quirk my brow and scoot a little closer. “Come on, I’m very intriguing, Mr. Hawthorne.”
“That you are, Sammie Norris.” His gaze heats slightly as it rolls over me with appreciation. “Maybe with a bit more effort, you could intrigue me even more. You know, push me over the edge.”
“Are you leveraging your first name for some free action in the middle of an empty park at close to midnight, Mr. Hawthorne?”
“I’d hardly call it free if I have to give you my first name in return,” he counters.
Throwing my head back, I laugh. Hard. “And you think your first name is worth the action I’m willing to exchange? What if it’s something generic like Tom or John?”
“I did mention my mother’s from Bulgaria, didn’t I? I assure you, it’s not Tom or John and that you’d hang it over my head for the rest of my life.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Maybe.” He shrugs and sits up before resting his elbow on his bent knee.
Yup. The guy’s definitely gonna have grass stains tomorrow.
“Maybe not,” he adds. “But you’ll never know unless…” The words get lost in his throat as I lean closer to him, bursting his little bubble one tiny movement at a time. My breast brushes against his bicep, causing my nipples to tighten on contact.
But I like games. I like Truth or Dare. I like Spin the Bottle. I like pushing my own boundaries and teasing men until they’re begging for me to put us both out of our misery. And even though I’m pretty sure I’m the prey in this scenario, I like that he’s willing to let me believe I’m the lion for just a minute. Giving up his control when it’s obvious he thrives off it.
“What were you saying again?” I breathe, my words kissing the shell of his ear before I drag the tip of my tongue against him. Then I bite it playfully.
He tilts his chin to give me better access, the light five-o’clock shadow tickling my lips as I suck just beneath his ear until a husky groan escapes him.
“Sam.” His hand cups my waist, slipping between his suit jacket that’s still swallowing me whole and my black tank top. He squeezes softly. Desperately. As if my innocent teasing is already driving him mad, and it only spurs me on.
“What’s your name?” I whisper before sucking on a fresh patch of skin. The slight scruff scrapes against my tongue but only makes me crave him more.
“Hawthorne.”
With a glare, I lift my leg and swing it over his waist before tangling my fingers in his soft, salt and pepper hair. “I’m sorry, what was that?”
He smirks. “You're gonna have to work harder than that, Princess.”
I tug roughly on the roots of his hair, forcing his head back a few inches before pressing my mouth to his in hopes of wiping away his arrogance when I’m afraid it only ignites it. The kiss is hard. And messy. And filled with so much lust that I’m afraid I might drown in it as he forces his tongue into my mouth.
Yes, please.
With a soft moan, I suck his tongue hard, my hips slowly rolling into a figure eight as I fight for friction. Or pressure. Or anything that’ll soothe the ache in my sex that’s desperate to be filled. But I only want one thing.
Him.
“Hawthorne,” I breathe out, his name a plea on my lips.
He pushes his suit jacket off my shoulders, desperate to bring me closer the same way I’m dying to be closer to him. It lands in a crumpled heap around my waist before his fingers toy with the hem of my shirt, silently asking for permission.
With a nod, I tilt my head to the side and go in for another kiss, convinced I’m making up how good he tastes. How good he feels. And that my attraction to him will vanish as soon as I get off in his lap. Slowly, his hands inch beneath my shirt, squeezing my lower waist once more before traveling to my breast. He cups my flesh roughly.
Yes, please.
A slight whimper escapes me, and I drop my head back, looking toward the sky, savoring the moment and the feel of his hands on my body like a damn addict. He rolls me onto my back, being careful not to jostle me too much. As if I’m precious. Cherished.
So this is what it’s like to be worshipped.
My hips roll against him as I fight with his stupid button-up shirt, desperate to feel his heated skin against mine. His husky laughter vibrates against my ear before he unbuttons it slowly. Inch by inch. And even though it’s dark as hell out here, the moonlight still causes shadows along his toned chest and abs, making my mouth water. My hands itch to reach out and touch him, so I do. Because I can. Because in this moment, he’s all mine, and I’m not going to waste a single second of it.
“Not bad for an old man,” I tease, rubbing my hands along his heated skin, my heart racing faster with each passing moment as his abs bunch and flex against my fingertips.
“More experience to worship you with,” he returns before he shoves my shirt and bra up the rest of the way to reveal my stomach and chest, his mouth exploring every inch of exposed skin. From my collar bone to the flesh just above the button on my shorts. Not a single piece is left untouched. Unworshipped. Again, my hips buck up to meet his mouth as I weave my fingers through his thick hair.
“Please,” I whisper.
Worship me. Make me feel alive, even if it’s just for one night.
With a swift tug, he yanks off my shorts and underwear, spreads my thighs with his calloused palms, and sucks my lips into his mouth. My back arches, and stars erupt as my jaw opens wide in a silent scream.
“Right there,” I whimper, my heels digging into his shoulders for leverage. “Right fucking there.”
I can feel him smile against me before slipping his fingers inside of me, crooking them to the perfect angle as he sucks my clit into his mouth. Nibbling on the tiny bundle of nerves until all I can see, smell, feel is him––my one-night stand who’s starting to feel like a hell of a lot more than that.
“Hawthorne…”
He pumps his fingers in and out of me.
“Shiiiiiit.” I come with the force of a damn sledgehammer, shattering into a million pieces as he laps at me, giving me time to come down from the orgasm that just wrecked me. Hard.
When my legs fall limply open, he climbs up my torso and licks his lips before pressing his mouth to mine. I smile against him, my body feeling like Jell-O in the best possible way.
“It’s Boris, by the way,” he murmurs.
My brows furrow as the euphoric fog slowly dissipates from my brain. “Wait. Your name’s Boris?”
He nods.
A loud laugh bubbles out of me as I press my face into the crook of his neck.
Oh my hell, there’s no way he’s telling me the truth.
“You’re finding way too much amusement in this,” he mutters.
With a very unladylike snort, I shake my head back and forth, tears rolling down my cheeks as I try to catch my breath. Maybe it’s the fact that I just got down and dirty in the middle of a freaking park. Maybe it’s because I feel more at home with this man than I’ve ever felt in my entire life. Or maybe it’s because his name is freaking Boris. Who names their baby that?
I laugh even harder.
Poor baby Boris.
“Okay, okay,” I reply between bouts of laughter. “I get it now.”
My breathing calms slightly before he rests on his elbows, caging me in on both sides with his strong arms while keeping his massive frame from crushing me further into the grass.
“You get what now?” he asks, his head cocked to the side.
“Why you’re against feminism and all that. If we get married, and you take my name? Can you imagine?” I gasp. “Boris Norris? The horror!”
Fed up, Hawthorne digs his fingers into my sides, tickling the shit out of me until I’m a squirming mess beneath him.
“No!” I laugh, pleading, begging him to stop his playful torture when I’d give anything to stay in this moment forever. “Stop!”
“Not until you take it back.”
“What? Your name?” I cry, trying to twist away from him. But it’s no use. He’s too strong. Too quick. And too damn sexy that I can’t think straight. “Too bad, so sad. Can’t help you with that one.”
“Then maybe you can help me with this.” He stops tickling me and presses his hard cock against my bare core.
Oh.
My sex clenches with anticipation before I peek up at him and give him a smile that’s so wide, so free, it almost hurts.
“That, I can do,” I quip before pushing him onto his back. My fingers make short work of his slacks, and I push them down to his knees as he lifts his hips to help me tug them back. And that’s when I see it. His very hard, very large erection. It glistens in the moonlight, precum dripping from the mushroom head as I run my thumb up and down the slit.
Why, hello there.
“You’re killing me, Sam,” he groans.
“Says the guy who just wrecked me.” I rub my hand up and down his shaft, slowly. Almost lazily. Like I have all the time in the world when I’m just as anxious as he is to take this to the next level. To feel him inside of me. To connect with him physically, the same way we’ve managed to connect emotionally in such a short period of time.
“Sam,” he warns, his gaze glued to my hand stroking him rhythmically.
I bite my lip and line us up before his hands dig into my waist to keep me from sinking down onto him.
“You clean?” he rasps, the last of his restraint seconds from snapping.
I blink away the lust-induced fog in my brain and try to register his question.
Shit.
I never forget to have men wrap up.
What is wrong with me?
“Oh.” I shake my head and try to focus. “Yeah. Um, I swear I never forget to use a––”
“It’s fine. I almost spaced it, too.” Reaching for his slacks, he pulls out a condom from his wallet, handing it to me. ”Here.”
“Thanks.” After ripping it open, I roll the condom onto his very hard, very ready cock, as I bite my lip. The sudden dose of reality hits me square in the chest. This guy is affecting me. He’s affecting me on a level that I didn’t even think was possible, especially since we’ve only known each other for a solid three hours. It’s just a one-night stand. It’s exactly what I was hoping for when I saw him sitting at the bar. It’s a solid orgasm and a few good laughs. That’s what he was signing up for. That’s what I was signing up for.
But if that’s the case, why does the idea of having a condom separating us feel so…jarring? And why did I forget to use one in the first place?
“Hey.” His warm hand encompasses my wrist as I stare blankly at the grass beneath us. “We don’t have to––”
“I know,” I murmur, refusing to meet his gaze.
“Then, what’s wrong?”
I shake my head, barely understanding my feelings myself, let alone being expected to explain them to someone else.
He sits up and grabs my chin, forcing me to look at him. “Seriously, Sam. No pressure. We can call it a night, go grab some ice cream––”
“I’m fine. Really,” I argue. “I’ve just never forgotten something that important before, and that’s…not good.”
“Neither have I.” Cupping my cheek, he presses a slow, needy kiss against me. It’s sweet. And patient. And filled with a tenderness that damn near breaks me.
When I pull away, I keep my eyes closed and soak up the sweet sentiment in a simple kiss before admitting, “But this feels good.”
“Yeah, Sammie,” he sighs, pressing his forehead to mine. “This feels really good.”
His still-ready erection bobs between us, teasing my inner thighs as I sit in his lap. Without any pressure to finish what we’ve started. Without any malice if I don’t. Just acceptance. And trust. And an overall connection that’s deeper than getting off. It’s more, somehow. And it reminds me that we only have tonight, and if I don’t take advantage of every single moment, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.
Pressing my mouth to his again, I grab his shaft in my hand, lifting up a few inches onto my knees before using the head to toy with my entrance. That same slow build of tension starts to resurface as Hawthorne cups my breast, rolling my nipple between his fingers as his other arm snakes around my lower back. Holding me. Guiding me. Before I slowly sink down onto him.
A low moan slips out of me, my mouth open wide as he stretches me fully.
Ouch.
Pushing my hair away from my face, he murmurs, “You okay?”
“Uh…” I wiggle my hips carefully, letting myself get accustomed to his size before forcing out all the oxygen from my lungs. “Uh-huh.”
So…Boris is a big guy. Noted.
Once I’m fully seated, I open my eyes and look down at him. “And you? You okay down there, Boris?”
He chuckles dryly. “Just dandy, Princess.”
“Brilliant.”
I roll my hips slightly before pressing my hand to his shoulder to steady me. Then I lift myself up again and push down a little harder.
Up.
Down.
Up.
Down.
The friction slowly builds as another orgasm rises to the surface, and I ride him in nothing but the moonlight and the cool summer air. It feels good. Great, actually. Better than I could’ve ever imagined. And freeing. Like it’s more than a connection of bodies. It’s a connection of souls too. It’s a moment when I don’t have to worry about SeaBird, or my family’s health, or even Broken Vows and whether or not they’ll ever get their chance in the limelight. It’s about me. And Hawthorne. And living in the moment.
With another low growl, Hawthorne grabs the back of my neck and pulls me closer. Our chests press together, and our breaths mingle in the cool night air as we each race toward the elusive euphoria.
Up.
Down.
Up.
Down.
Thrust for thrust.
Kiss for kiss.
Faster and faster until he crashes over the edge beneath me, and the feel of him pulsing inside of me is the final push I need to explode into oblivion.
It’s perfect.
I almost feel sorry for any guy who has to follow Hawthorne’s performance because it’s officially been tattooed into my memory for the rest of my life. Not just the sex. But the entire night. And the realization that it’s almost over is…
I shake my head.
Enough souring a perfect moment with what-ifs and why-nots. I’m going to enjoy my time with him. However little of it I have left.
As we catch our breath, a dry laugh bubbles out of me.
“Something funny?” he asks.
“I changed my mind.”
“About what?”
“About you calling me Princess. If you can do that, you can call me whatever you want.”
He chuckles, pushing the hair away from my sweaty forehead before running his thumb against my flushed cheek. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Mm-hmm. I bet you will.”
His smile softens. “I had fun tonight, Sammie.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Me too.” I dive in for another peck across his lips, committing his taste to memory for the lonely nights in my foreseeable future. Without him to spend them with, they kind of seem…dim.
As if he can read my mind, he tilts my head to the side and deepens the kiss, dragging his tongue along the seam of my lips before letting out another low groan. When he pulls away, he mutters, “I’m not sure that I’m ready for our night to end.”
“Me, either,” I admit. “Would you maybe want to come sleep at my place tonight? We could eat our chips and salsa. Maybe watch a show or something? How long are you planning on staying?”
“I’m allowed to make my own schedule,” he returns. Cryptically. Evasively. Like he knows a secret that only he’s privy to.
“Hmm,” I hum. “And what does your schedule look like for the foreseeable future?”
“I dunno. What does your schedule look like for the foreseeable future?” he challenges.
“Well, I did offer to let you come stay with me. Unless that seems too forward,” I rush out, my cheeks heating.
He leans closer, kissing my collar bone. “I’d love to stay.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
