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Hawke leans in to kiss me, brushing his lips against mine. I open my mouth, always eager to take as much as Hawke will give me. He plunges his tongue inside, dragging his piercing across the sensitive surfaces of my mouth. I shudder, the tremor rippling down my spine, sparking the embers of desire.
He hooks his other arm around my waist, tugging me up against the length of his body. Moaning, I reciprocate by hooking a leg up on his hip and grinding down on the growing thickness in his athletic pants. It’s not often Hawke wears something other than super-tight skinny jeans, so I take advantage of the loose, slippery material, sliding my hand inside the elastic waistband to grip his heavy erection.
“Fuuuuck.” Hawke tears away from my mouth to bite and lick my neck and throat. “Jesus, Abby. You feel so fucking good.”
“Mmmmmm, Henry.”
When I use his real name, Hawke bucks his hips, thrusting his smooth, hot length through my tight fist. He moves his lips to my ear, his breath coming in quick bursts across my skin.
“Shit.” He pulls back, gripping either side of my face to stare into my eyes. “I have to go.” I squeeze his cock and his eyes nearly roll up in his head. “Fuck it. I’ll just be late.”
Hawke throws me down on the bed and begins shucking clothes as fast as he can.
I know I just manipulated him to get a few more precious moments before he leaves to endanger his life by hanging on the side of a cliff, but the thought of letting him go scares me to death.
Hawke
I’m exhausted and my entire body hurts, but my mind is still thrumming with excitement from my three days of rock climbing at Joshua Tree National Park. I limp into the bedroom and toss my pack on the floor, collapsing onto my bed. I just need to close my eyes for a few minutes before getting ready for the show tonight in West Hollywood.
“Hawke!” My eyes fly open when Dax bursts into the room, shouting my name.
“What’s up, man?” I clear my throat and rub the heels of my hands into my eyes, groggy from sleep. When I shift in bed, my ankle throbs, a reminder of the past few blissful, adrenaline-filled days.
“Get up, lazy wanker.” Dax’s mouth turns down in the corners. “Did you forget about our gig?”
“No.” I sit up and notice it’s dark outside. “Shit. I must have fallen asleep. What time is it?”
“Seven. Get your bloody arse up and ready.” He kicks the end of my bed with his massive booted foot, rattling the frame.
“Okay, okay. I’m coming.” I swing my legs over the side of the mattress and hiss when my ankle protests the weight.
“What the fuck?” Dax’s eyes narrow, flicking down to my injured ankle and back up. “What the bloody hell did you do?”
“Fuck off, Davies.” I wave him away. “Get out so I can grab a shower.”
He crosses his arms over his wide chest, huge biceps straining at the sleeves of his T-shirt. His dark eyes bore accusatory holes into my head. “Are you going to be able to drum with that?” Dax points at my swollen, eggplant-purple foot.
“I said it’s fine,” I snap. “It’s not my bass foot, so stop nagging me like a bitchy wife.”
I snatch up a towel and push past my bandmate, ignoring the sharp spike of pain that shoots up my leg. Dax stops me with a massive hand to my chest. Even the most intimidating glare I can conjure up does nothing to affect Dax’s angry countenance, not that I thought it would. Before moving to LA with his friend and our other bandmate Adam, Dax was a very successful underground fighter in London. Not much will put him off, certainly not me. What with him having a good five inches and sixty or so pounds on my much smaller frame.
“What?” I snarl, mimicking Dax’s rigid posture. I must be eager to get the shit beat out of me if I’m going toe to toe with Dax.
He shakes his head, still frowning. “Nothing. Just get yer shit together, yeah? We’re off in ten.” Dax storms out of my bedroom, slamming the door as he goes.
Shit. It’s going to be a long-ass night.
* * *
Our set goes exactly as expected—perfect. Adam charms the audience with his good looks and smooth voice, Dax and Gavin rock out on their guitars, and since my injury is a non-issue with it being my non-drumming foot, my riffs are spot-on. I’ll admit, by the end of the show, my ankle is killing me. The effects of the euphoric high I achieved over the past few days are quickly tapering off, leaving me in my usual post-adrenaline funk.
I stagger to the dressing room to grab a bottle of water, wincing in pain, and am swept up in a flurry of concerned girlfriend.
“Oh my god, what happened?” Abby runs up, one hand covering her mouth, the other trembling at her side. Big blue eyes shine wetly as they flick from my foot to my face and back.
Fuck. The last thing I need when crashing is Abby freaking out and emotional. When I twisted my ankle, it never occurred to me how she would react. I was so focused on letting the pain and the danger take me away from myself that her response—and frankly, her feelings—completely slipped my mind.
“Abby—”
