Hawke

I’ve officially done it.

I’ve successfully gotten myself good and drunk while waiting for Hawke to return. He probably found some girls at the cabin and is currently banging them into oblivion. I don’t know why I’d agreed to wait for him. Why would I even? What is it exactly I’m waiting for?

I slump over on the couch after changing into a more comfortable tank top and shorts set. Grabbing my phone, I check to see if Patrick tried calling me. It’s late now, but I would assume he’d still be up if they went out after dinner.

No calls. No messages.

So I call him. I’m tipsy enough to tell him how I feel, so I wait as it rings. It rings and rings and rings. No answer.

I hang up, then call again. Ya know, in case I dialed the wrong number or something like that. Sure, that’s what I’ll say. Immediately after trying to dial him, the phone goes straight to voicemail.

One thing I know about Patrick is he’s a perfectionist. He’s a planner. He doesn’t allow his phone to die while he’s out. It would be considered irresponsible. There’s only one logical answer to this.

He blocked my call.

I try again. Straight to voicemail.

What the hell?!

Now I’m mad. I’m tipsy, I’m mad, and I never made my spaghetti, so now I’m even more mad because I’m hungry.

I hear the door creak open as Hawke walks in. He approaches where I’m laying back in my pool of drunken anger. His tall frame stands above me, and I get a whiff of cigarettes and mint.

He came back.

And he brought food.

“I bought us some food,” he says with a hint of excitement in his playful green eyes, his tatted-up forearm, flexing, holding out the rolled-up brown bags before me.

My eyes light up and I almost instantaneously forget that I was upset. Food is what I need right now, and those bags of burgers and fries are just the trick.

We eat our deliciously fattening food on the couch next to each other in communal silence, while Public Enemies plays in the background.

“Sorry about earlier,” he says, turning towards me, popping a cluster of fries into his mouth.

“What do you mean? I’m not upset.” I take a bite of burger, chewing gracefully as I talk. “I’m just sorry your friends pissed you off. Guess they don’t understand how your situation works.”

He drops his food, brushing the salt off his large, inked hands, then runs a hand through his dark tendrils.

“I don’t give a fuck about that,” he declares in all seriousness. “I just didn’t want that shit around you. Here.”

He kicked them out for me? I guess it makes sense. It’s not like he wasn’t around drugs and everything else at the cabin when we were there. He even made Kid put away his weed in the car when we were on our way out there. It wasn’t for him, like he made it seem. It was for me. I just find it odd that he wants to protect me from it. I’d assumed he didn’t think twice about anyone around him.

I gaze at him, trying to understand, trying to piece this together. He’s staring into me, doing that thing again, where he toys with his lip ring while looking from my eyes to my lips, then back. He blinks, closing his eyes tightly, looking away, then rolls up the food and sets it aside.

He gets comfortable, kicking off his boots and sliding his legs behind me on the couch. He lays down, grabbing the blanket and opening it up, nodding his head for me to join him like it’s the most casual and normal thing in the world.

Are we doing this again? Cuddling has become our friendly thing?

I shouldn’t. Don’t do it, Cole.

Look at me, using his nickname for me in my head. He’s infiltrating my intoxicated mind.

I crawl next to him, my body disobeying my brain, as I cuddle into his warmth. I’m facing him this time, as he wraps his large arm around my lower back and pulls me firmly into him, leaving no space between us. Releasing a little moan at the contact, I bravely look up at him through nervous lashes.

A chunk of hair falls into his eyes. I reach up with my loose hand and brush it back off his forehead, an intimate gesture that clearly catches him off guard. His chest is rising and falling between us as I slowly trail the hand from his forehead, past his ear, then down the side of his neck, tracing over the tattoos as it falls down between us.

The way he’s looking at me is fascinating. His expression is a combination of bewilderment and longing, as if he can’t believe I’m right here in front of him. With his brows knit closely together, he slowly leans his head down to rest his forehead against mine. His mouth is parted and I can feel his soft breath on my lips.

We’re close. Too close. Dangerously close. I can almost taste him from here. My senses are firing off. Everything feels amplified and surreal. Is it the wine? No, it’s the desire. The desire for this temptation dangling in front of me. The ache for him to please me and for me to do whatever I can to please him.

Why can’t I pull away? Why can’t I leave? Everything about this is wrong. I’m drawn to this sensation, this need I’ve never known.

“Cole,” he whispers softly.

This is different. It’s something I can tell we both feel. It isn’t normal what’s happening between us. Yet, with how we look at each other, it’s inevitable, knowing there’s nothing that will stop this.

He grabs my hand between us, holding it up to his lips, and kisses my knuckles softly while staring into my eyes. The feeling of his lips against my hand runs directly to my center, the cool metal of his lip ring brushing between each finger as he kisses every knuckle. My stomach turns, imagining those lips against mine. I’m breathless, and can’t control the rate at which my chest is rising and falling. I feel numb all over while my insides glow at the same time. I’m in a tailspin headed straight for the earth, bound to crash.

The friendship line has been crossed. It was crossed a long time ago, to be honest. I’m just great at making excuses.

Now, at this moment, I can’t seem to control myself anymore. His fingers trace along my cheek, along my jaw, then finally across my lips as he licks his bottom lip.

“You wreck me.” He studies my lips, as if memorizing the curve of my mouth. My eyes flutter up to his as we stare at each other. I swallow at his words as his eyes sear through me, reaching something I’d thought unreachable. “Wreck me, Cole.”

The words are my undoing. I slowly part my lips as we tease each other with the closeness. He makes the final move, pressing his lips onto mine softly, almost unsure of how it will affect him.

He pulls back, looking at me in almost disbelief, before the flood gates crash open and I pull the back of his neck into me, pressing my lips to his again.

The feeling is completely erotic. His tongue slips between my lips, deepening the kiss. The warmth of his tongue against mine sends shivers directly down my spine. I’m floating now, in a cloud of pure seduction, while the neurons fire away, trying to tell me to stop, trying to tell me that this is wrong. But I won’t stop. I can’t.

A groan reverberates through his throat into mine. He kisses me like I’ve never been kissed before. Softly, then with such hunger, then gentle, then out of this world passionate. His hands hold me to him, pressing my hips into his, as his body moves along with the kiss. I’ve never in my life been more turned on. He licks, then sucks, then massages my tongue with his in perfect synchrony. The sensation of his lip ring rubbing my lower lip as he sucks on it, then its placement between my lips as he sucks my top lip, is enticingly erotic.

This is the sort of kiss songs are made of. The earth-shaking, mind-numbing, cataclysmic eruption of two forces that aren’t meant to collide.

Hawke grabs the sides of my face with his hands now, almost pulling himself away so he can breathe. He parts from my lips, slowly opening his half-hooded eyes to mine. The way I feel his pulse through the air, the way his dilated eyes absorb my being, the way his hand shakes.

“You’re shaking,” I whisper, cupping his hand against my cheek.

He licks his lips, looking down, then back into my eyes. “You just…fuck.”

I chuckle lightly at the fact that he’s speechless, understanding the feeling entirely. This didn’t seem normal by any means. It felt far beyond that. It felt explosive. We will both get burnt by the end of whatever this is.

He leans forward slowly, eyeing my lips, then eyes, almost asking for permission to allow himself more. I don’t stop him; I let him indulge, just as I’m enjoying the indulgence as well.

We connect again and continue kissing on the couch together, lying on our sides under the blanket, until his hands explore. They run the length of my body, cupping my breast over my shirt, making me arch into him. He drags his hand down my abdomen, then further down my leg before he gently slides his fingers up the side of my thigh, leaving a trail of fire in their path.

I can’t help but lean into his touch. A soft moan escapes me while he sucks on my bottom lip, dragging his teeth lightly. His hand is on my thigh, slowly sliding his fingers up higher and higher, pausing just before he reaches the aching place between my thighs.

I’m on fire for him in a way I’ve never been before.

“Touch me.” I moan, losing all rational thought, all self-control.

He kisses me again, before running his long fingers along the waistband of my shorts. Dipping his hand in, I settle more onto my back, parting my thighs.

“Cole, tell me to stop,” he whispers into my mouth, his hand lingering.

“I won’t. I can’t,” I whisper back breathlessly.

“Please,” he begs again as he continues the motions, trailing his hand further south.

His fingers find my clit, slowly sliding down until he’s cupping me beneath my flimsy shorts. I moan at the contact, as his middle finger slides between my slit, touching me in my most sensitive place. I close my eyes tightly, my mouth dropping open.

He’s watching me, my face, his mouth reciprocating mine as if he’s feeling what I’m feeling. His middle finger glides up along my center, and I can feel just how wet I am. I’m aching, pooling for him to slide into me, to satisfy that deep urge that’s just waiting for him.

He pushes his middle finger into me, making me suck in a breath. He drops his head against mine, then slowly places kisses along my jaw as he moves his finger in and out of me at a slow, torturous rate.

“Oh, God,” I cry out with my eyes closed, face towards the ceiling.

His thumb rubs circles against my clit, a place that’s never been stimulated like this. The build up is overwhelming as he fingers me, slow and steady.

I feel this deep sexual urge that’s so close to overflowing; I spread my legs further so he can get deeper into me while my hips roll upwards.

He licks my ear, running his warm, wet tongue along the shell before gently sucking the earlobe, then dragging his teeth on it. He slowly eases another finger in, watching me take more of him.

It feels so good, so erotic, so wrong, but so needed.

My breathing is so rapid now, my chest billowing like a runner finishing a sprint in the Olympics as he continues pumping his fingers, then curling them gently inside of me. The sensation comes to a point, and as my eyes are rolling back in my head, I see explosions behind my lids. My whole body clenches up, tightening around his fingers. I gasp and hold my breath while the most pleasurable sensation runs through me. It starts at my center and travels out through my toes like lightning as I cry out. Tingles reverberate down my spine as I fully let go, embracing the feeling.

I take a few breaths, my eyes still closed, until I slowly blink them open, unaware of how that must’ve looked to Hawke. I find his eyes above me and his expression is unlike what I thought I’d see.

He looks confused.

“Has that—” He knits his brows. “Has that never happened?”

If I could feel my face, this might be embarrassing, but lucky for me, I’m completely numb all over.

I shake my head, still catching my breath.

His face is cautious now, and his frame is stiffer than it was before asking. The seriousness of what has happened is hitting me.

This was wrong on so many levels. I had my first orgasm with a man that wasn’t my boyfriend. I came with someone who isn’t the man I’m hoping to marry. He, unbeknownst to him, took that away from Patrick and, by the looks of it, he’s appalled.

With the erotic lust disappearing like smoke from the dying fire that was this moment, the room is becoming clearer and heavier than before.

“Oh, my God.” I cover my face with my hands, not wanting to be seen by him ever again.

“He’s never given you an orgasm?” he asks, his mouth hanging open, looking perplexed.

I’m mortified, embarrassed, hurt, sad, mad, and regretful all in the same breath.

I get up off the couch, getting as far away from him as I can, and run into the bathroom to hate myself for what I’ve done. Getting in there, I close and lock the door. I stare into the mirror at the face of a girl who looks flushed, confused, yet exhilarated. I wish I could relieve myself of this night, erase this horrible nightmare.

A nightmare that not only was my fault, but my ultimate undoing.