I know later I’ll recall how even at his worst, Hawkin is thinking of me, but right now, I can’t think. All I can do is feel: the rapturous sensations of his thickness sliding against my nerve-laden walls with each hammer of his hips, the movement of the washer, my own finger knowing just how to pleasure myself. Recognizing my body’s signs that tell me my orgasm is just within reach, I hold my breath as my legs tense and my feet flex. I look up to see Hawke’s face pulled tight with pleasure, the muscles in his neck and shoulders strained, his eyes squeezed tight as his body draws orgasms from the both of us.

I go first. His ability to give me the hard and fast I asked for earns me an explosive orgasm that has white-hot heat streaking down my spine and exploding in my core before ricocheting out to every single nerve in my body and holding them hostage.

I can’t recover fast enough to watch Hawkin reach his, so my eyes are closed, body slumped on the machine when his harsh shout of “Fuck!” fills the small room. His fingers tighten as he rides his out.

I can feel the tension leave his grip on my thighs and open my eyes just as his head falls forward for a second before he reaches out in a move so unexpected that I hesitate momentarily when he gathers me to him and wraps his arms around me.

Our bodies are still joined in all aspects and as he holds me tight in my confining laundry room, I can also feel our souls begin to intertwine, and my heart slip a little farther down the cliff toward the ocean of love below.


“This band’s got a good vibe about them,” Hawkin murmurs quietly as he taps his fingers to the beat on the bare skin of my back. It’s the first thing he’s said since we fell in the couch after moving from the laundry room what feels like forever ago. We’re a tangled mess of temporarily satisfied desire as I lie half on top of him.

“Mm-hm.” It’s all I murmur as our hearts beat against each other’s, and the warm night air teases our bare skin. Honestly, my mind’s still thinking about the evening’s unexpected turn of events. The sex that was tinged with greed and desperation on both of our parts but for different reasons.

And with the sex came the shift in my state of mind and emotions. I’m falling hardcore for Hawkin, no question. We may have walked into whatever this is between us without any suppositions to where it’s going, but I doubt either of us will be able to walk away unscathed.

Obviously something happened tonight to drive him to drink, something bad enough that led him to need me. It had to be more than his simple explanation that Hunter was behind me today to set this off. My thoughts race but all I can determine is that only he holds the secrets to reveal.

I feel like I’m an open door to him and yet he still seems like a hallway full of locked ones. Am I walking into a dead end? I just don’t know. I’m trying to keep my feelings on lockdown, trying to prevent the heartbreak I sense on the horizon because I need him to give me at least a few keys to unlock his past. It doesn’t mean I’ll use them, but they’re necessary to feel like we’re on an even playing field. And I just don’t know if he’s at a place in his life where he’s willing to share.

Because if he can’t, something like tonight is going to happen again. The silence wraps around us and I question myself, ponder whether I’ll be able to live with another tonight, especially if he doesn’t explain his actions any further. I wonder if letting him between my thighs when he hasn’t let me in his private life makes me seem like a pushover, or a woman willing to forgive at the drop of a dime. I let the thought settle and know that it doesn’t, it just makes me human.

But at the same time, I’m going to have to make sure he understands that the word “doormat” is the furthest thing from what is stamped on my forehead.

A small part of me revels in the fact that whatever he’s distraught over, he came to me tonight, needed me tonight. Not one of his other thirty flavors from his past. That’s a pretty heady feeling when you combine it with the emotional highs and lows of the day.

I’m so caught up in my thoughts I don’t even realize that I’m tracing the tattoos on the inside of his forearm, the treble clef and the symbol for strength, moving over them in a rhythmic movement. And something strikes me suddenly, so I shift my body so that I can look at the wrist of the arm Hawkin has resting on my back. He obliges my nonverbal request and lets me look at the skin sans tattoos on there.

“What?” he asks as I shift back over, curiosity now getting the better of me.

“You never explained the pink heart thing the other day. Do they all have them? You don’t?”

He stares at me a beat before he laughs. I welcome the sound after the heaviness of our exchange, and wait for his answer. “They’re … oh God.” He chuckles, his chest beneath my chin vibrating from it. “For as long as I can remember, the four of us made bets—about anything: songs, women, you name it. We did it so much that it became a habit, but at some point we realized that there was no recourse for losing.”

“Uh-oh,” I say, the smile on my lips contradicting the shake of my head.

“Yep. So one drunken night we decided that loser gets a tattoo, winner’s pick. More drinks, more decisions were made and we decided that it had to be a uniform image and location. We figured why not make it an image of what we love….” He pauses, the self-deprecation in his laugh humorous. “Ah, I can’t believe I’m telling you this…. Rocket said he loves the pink color of the inside of a woman’s pussy…. And, well, our decision was solidified. A pussy pink heart.”

“Well,” I say, but I’m so busy laughing it’s the only word I get out.

“Yeah, I know. Can you see why I make sure I can win any bet I take so I don’t ruin the significance of the ones I have?” I nod my head, envisioning each of the guys’ wrists and their permanent reminder, as he continues. “The guy has to get the heart outlined to make it bigger with each bet he loses … hence why Gizmo has the biggest one. Love the guy to death but he’ll bet on anything.”

“I’m afraid to ask what the bets are.”

“You should be.” He snickers.

“And you’re just that good, you’ve never lost?” I ask, immediately assuming he has to cheat the system somehow.

“Nope, I’m just that good,” he says, causing me to smile as he clears his throat. “It’s hard to explain…. Sounds stupid, really, but my tats have a meaning; they tell my story in a sense, and I refuse to lessen their significance by scarring myself with a pink heart.” His voice fades and a silence falls around us, so that even though we are lying on top of each other, I feel the distance.

“How long have you guys been together?” I ask, wanting to keep him engaged, learn more about him, and I figure this is a safe topic of conversation.

“Vince since sixth grade. Him, our other friend Benji, Hunter, and I used to be inseparable. We met Giz and Rocket in high school.”

He skims quickly over his brother’s name but I don’t miss it. So Hunter was a part of this close-knit group of guys who are now a band and now he isn’t? There’s obviously more there. I’ve seen the animosity between him and Vince firsthand. I want to ask, want to delve but choose a safer path.

“What happened to Benji?”

“He’s still around,” he says, voice laced in amusement. “Ben doesn’t have a musical bone in his body. He prefers being an asshole … so he became a lawyer.” I snap my head up at him, surprised by the comment but find him smiling so I know he’s teasing. “Nah, he’s a good guy. Always looking out for my best interest.”

I rest my head back down on his chest as the song changes. Hawke’s fingers keep tapping the beat on my back, but I still feel like there is a huge elephant in the room that we need to address. I’ve watched my brother go through some pretty serious shit, watched Rylee break down his walls, and learned that with men patience is a virtue you need to hold on to. And I’m patient, but I’m also curious.

“So is this how you deal with all of your problems?” I ask, causing his hand to stop momentarily from playing the beat before he continues again.

“Hmm?” he murmurs. “You mean putting the spin in your machine’s spin cycle?” He chuckles softly, his hand moving to tug the holder out of my ponytail and begin to play with my hair. “Because shit, that felt hella good. We might have to try that again sometime, minus the barge through the door thing.”

“It was kinda hot,” I tease, earning a tug on my hair that makes me laugh. “I’d hate to see what you do when it’s just you and the guys on a tour bus then,” I joke, wanting to lighten the mood some, give him room to breathe so that he can be comfortable enough to answer.

I love the laugh he emits; it’s free and sincere and tells me some of the weight on his mind has lifted. “I assure you the guys don’t get to see that side of me,” he muses. “And to answer your question, no, that’s not how I usually deal with shit. I take it out on Giz’s drums—pound the hell out of them for a good hour or so—but I think I’ve found my new substitute.”

“You have?”

“Yes. You.” His unexpected words cause a flutter in my stomach that I try to ignore. I’ll need to try harder with that because even though I’m sure he knows the right thing to say to make a woman swoon, the sincerity in his tone weaves its way into my soul and wraps around my heart. Gives me hope of possibilities that I realize I was fearing before but now really want to believe have a chance.

I don’t know what to say but his comment has made me feel a little more secure in this ever-revolving world around us, and I want to give him something in return. I press a kiss to his chest, his heart beating just beneath my lips, and rest my chin there on top of my hand. “You want to talk about tonight?”