The Hook Up
Page 15
“You don’t have to—”
“Sometimes it does,” he says in a low voice. “Sometimes…” He takes a deep breath. “I wake up on the verge of a scream. Like it’s all trying to bubble out of me when I let my guard down to sleep.”
I don’t know what to say, so I simply press the ball of my thumb deep into his palm and rub it in a small circle. The tension in his hand eases, as does his voice. “But you have to accept that as part of the life. Let it ride, then let it go.
“Every year, before the start of the season, my dad would ask, do you still want this?” Drew turns toward me. “Because he knew how hard it would be if I didn’t. He warned me that it would get to me, and that I’d have to find a way to deal with it.”
“Did your dad play?” I’m dying of curiosity about his parents.
He blinks, a slow sweep of his lashes. Maybe the Ibuprofen and massage are kicking in. Or maybe I’ve hurt him with the questions. I hope it’s the former. I keep rubbing his hand, stroking up to his wrist then along the hard plank of his forearm.
“Not football,” Drew answers, watching my fingers. “He played baseball. Pitcher. Was recruited by MLB straight out of college. A torn rotator cuff during his last season kept him from going pro.” He flashes a smile. “Dad was my little league coach.”
“And yet you chose football? What, no good at baseball?”
His lip curls as his eyes flutter closed. “I kick ass in baseball, Jones. I could have played that instead. But football was always the one.”
“If you were good at both, how did you know?”
Drew’s long fingers twine with mine, holding me in a warm, engulfing clasp. He doesn’t open his eyes as he speaks. “Some things are like that. You just know.”
I clear my throat. “I envy you. I’ve never been totally sure of anything.” Other than wanting Drew from the moment I laid eyes on him. But I’m not saying that. Instead, I untangle my hand from his, and he lets go as if he knows I need to get free.
“Don’t be too envious,” he says wryly. “Knowing what you want and having it are two different things.” His eyes lock onto mine with a punch that I feel deep in my belly. “I’d rather have what I want than just know.”
I look away first, then shift over to the end of the couch and turn to sit cross-legged. “Lie down.”
He squints at me with a slight frown as if he doesn’t really want to move. “There’s more?”
Grabbing my coat, I bunch it on my lap and slap the spot. “Head here.”
Drew’s brows rise, his expression a mixture of confusion and weariness, and I laugh. “What do think I’m going to do to you?”
“I don’t know,” he says, as he eases down, unfolding his long length on the couch. “But I’m hoping for the best.”
“Where’s the trust?” I say with a dramatic sigh.
His head settles in the lee of my crossed legs. “I just told you something about me that no one else alive knows, Jones. I don’t think my trust in you could be more clear.”
I lean over him, our faces upside down from each other’s. He’s humbled me. My palms settle on his shoulders, pressing there gently to warm him, and my fingers find the leather cord he wears around his neck. I trace it, watching his skin prickle as I go. When I get to the pendant, I run a thumb over the polished wood.
He’s watching me, his gaze guarded, vulnerable. But when he speaks, it’s as if he’s leaving himself wide-open. “It’s a chunk of wood from the lintel on the front door of my parent’s house.” His lashes sweep down, hiding his pain. “Figured that way I’d always carry a piece of my old home with me.”
Shit. He’s slowly carving his name into my heart. And it hurts. I want to curl over him and shelter him with my body. But his cheeks are flushed and his neck grows stiffer by the second, as if he’s regretting his confession.
I rest my palm over the pendant, holding the wood against hard wall of his chest. When I can speak without emotion clogging my words, I tell him, “I’m going to massage your face now.”
“My face?” he repeats as if I’ve offered to stick my finger up his nose.
I smother a laugh. “We hold even more tension in our face than our hands.” Keeping my hands on him, I rub the tops of his shoulders before doing the same to his neck. He likes this and sinks down further into the couch.
His eyes flutter as if he wants to shut them. My hands ease up to his jaw then settle on his brow. “It’s okay. Close your eyes.”
When he does, I simply run my fingertips over his face, taking in his strong, clean bone structure. Strangely, I’ve always attributed Drew’s attractiveness to his inner light, the way he carries himself, and how his emotions shine through. But, God, he really is beautifully made.
Whereas my face is all curves, his is like a diamond, made up of dramatic angles and cut lines. His nose is high and straight, widening a bit in the middle, which only gives him more character. Prominent cheekbones veer down sharply toward his mouth, that gloriously mobile mouth that is always quick to smile. Relaxed now, it’s as if he’s pouting. His jawline is defined and in perfect symmetry with his cheeks.
With steady, firm pressure, my fingers ride over the ridges of his sweeping brows, following the tension. The slow, undulating light of the lava lamp casts deep blues and grays over his skin.
“Keep talking to me,” he whispers.
I pause. “Doesn’t noise hurt your head?”
Thick lashes cast shadows at the tops of his cheeks. “Your voice isn’t noise. It’s a song I want to hear over and over.”
Oh. My.
Taking a deep breath, I pinch along the underside of his brows, moving outward. Drew groans low.
“Is your full name Andrew?” Not the most brilliant of conversational openings, but I’m curious.
The full curve of his lips lifts a little. “Nope. I’m just Drew.” He talks low, barely over a murmur. “Mom didn’t like nicknames. She figured they would name me what they wanted to call me. So just Drew Baylor. No middle name either.”
“I kind of love your mom for that,” I say softly.
His eyes open and lock onto me. Pain still lingers in them, but there’s also a warmth that has me flushing. “She would have loved you too.”
No, she wouldn’t have. What mother would like a girl that uses her precious son for sex? None. I palm his face, effectively blocking his view, and run my thumbs down the sides of his nose and over his cheeks, digging in deep.
“Christ,” he breaths out, “that’s good.”
“I know.” I smile a little.
“What about you?” he asks. “You have a middle name?”
“Marie.” I stroke along his jaw. So much tension there.
“Anna Marie,” he intones. “I like that.”
He goes silent, and I gently hum, not a song, really, just a lilt that fills the silence. He sighs, his body easing more under my touch.
“When’s your birthday, Anna Marie?”
“You’re going to make me regret telling you my middle name.”
His smile is wobbly, as if weakened by pain. “Just answer the question.”
“Why,” I slip my hands under his neck, finding the base of his skull. His muscles are so dense here that my fingers barely make a dent. “You going to give me a present?”
“You put it that way…oh, God, that’s a spot…” His brows furrow on a wince. “God, do that some more, Jones.”
Heat flushes my skin, but I comply. He shudders, his long body twitching as it releases pain.
“You put it that way,” he says returning to the topic of presents, “and I kind of have to, now don’t I?”
“Stop tensing,” I murmur, running my fingers along the back of his skull, before answering him. “You set me up for that one, Baylor. When’s your birthday, then?”
Drew lets out a breath and moans as I find the tension spots plaguing him. He’s now lax, lying heavy on the couch. I’ve had my hands all over his fine body, and yet touching him to take his pain away is a gratification that I never expected.
His voice slurs with drowsiness. “November nineteenth.”
I pause. “It is not.”
He cracks open one eye. “Why would I lie?” Both eyes open. “When’s yours?”
I bite my lip. “November twentieth.”
Drew grins, his whole expression lightening. “We’re birthday buddies.” His smile turns smug. “Only I’m older.”
A small laugh escapes me. “You can keep that victory. I don’t know any girl who wants to be older than her—” My voice dies.
But it’s too late, because it’s obvious what I was going to say. Her boyfriend.
Satisfaction steals over his expression, but there’s something more. Something that has my heart racing in my chest, and my mouth going dry. An acknowledgement. As if he’s been waiting for this very slip.
His lashes are long and thick, framing his light brown eyes. Beneath my fingertips, his throat lifts on a swallow. “Anna.”
My chest tightens to the point of pain. My mother always accused me of having an excess of pride. People think pride is something you ought to be able to control, that it’s something sinful, best used in small doses. And they’re right. But for most of my life, pride has been the only thing that’s kept my head up. Now it’s holding me back from Drew. I know this. Hell, I feel its hard hands upon me, clutching with a tightness that speaks of desperation. I know this, and yet I can’t break free. I’m not ready.
I snuggle back into its familiar hold. Safe there. And instead of acknowledging this growing thing between us, my hands move up to cup Drew’s cheeks. “Sleep,” I say, running a thumb along his bottom lip. “You need it.”
Protest darkens his expression.
“Sleep,” I insist as if my throat isn’t closing in on itself. “I’ll wake you.”
He resists for a moment, watching me with those eyes that reveal too much. But then he does as I ask, putting himself in my keeping. I run my fingers through his silky hair and watch over him while he sleeps.
11
IT’S GETTING WORSE, this addiction. I need Drew with greater frequency and with more urgency. At least there are rules. Rules to keep myself under control, safe. Rules that are somehow agreed upon and understood without having to say a word. We always meet at my place, never so late as to warrant a sleepover, never stay together more than an hour—or three if we are particularly… needy. And still no kissing on the mouth, though I’m starting to see more and more shadows of discontent from Drew regarding this rule. But he’s yet to vocalize it. And I do an admirable job of telling myself that it’s for the best. I need to protect myself. Because I’m never getting left behind again.
Now we’re na**d and on my bed, my favorite fleece throw covering our bodies. I draw the line at getting under the covers with him. That’s too personal, too much like making love verses hooking up. Not that getting under the sheets is an issue when, from the instant we close the door to my room, we think of nothing else but being skin to skin.
Even more concerning is that now that we’ve finished, he isn’t leaving. Nor am I hurrying him out. Sweat gives his golden skin a fine sheen, and he’s panting lightly as if he’s run miles.
The light is fading outside, the rays of the setting sun stealing through my blinds and spilling into my room until we are painted in glowing stripes of deep orange.
One of his hands rests lightly on the rippled wall of his abdomen. I focus on that as I lay half on my side, one hand caught beneath his shoulder, the other hand still gripping the bedpost. I’d held on so tight to that post when he pounded into me that I wonder if he’ll have to help pry my fingers free from the wood.
A luscious, little shiver runs over me. The things he does to me. The thoroughness in which he takes his pleasure and gives me mine. My ni**les tighten. Thankfully, Drew hasn’t noticed. He’s turning away to take long gulps of water from the bottle sitting on the bedside table. And that’s when I see it. The room is shadowed but not enough to hide some things.
“You have a tattoo.” There’s a sing-song quality about my observation that I can’t hide and don’t want to. Because I’m grinning. An evil grin.
And he turns back to glare at me properly. “Yeah.”
“It’s a battle axe,” I add with glee. A cute little cartoon style battle axe about the size of my thumb on the crest of his left butt cheek. Like something Papa Smurf might wield. How can I not have seen this before? Right, because normally he’d have hauled his pants up and would be headed out the door about now.
Drew’s high-cut cheeks go pink. “Fucking Cancun. Spring break, my sophomore year, I got so wasted one night. I vaguely remember a burning sensation on my butt cheek while my teammates chanted ‘Battle, Battle.’ That’s about it. I woke up na**d in a bed full of….” The blush returns with force, and he runs a hand through his hair, which makes it stand up on end on the right side. It’s kind of adorable. So is his embarrassment. “Full of girls and guys.”
I laugh, a crackling mad witch laugh that earns a pillow tossed at my face.
“It’s not funny,” he insists, though there’s a hint of humor in his voice. “I was in an orgy and don’t remember a thing. Imagine the horrors.” He mocks a shudder.
This only makes me laugh harder.
“Sometimes it does,” he says in a low voice. “Sometimes…” He takes a deep breath. “I wake up on the verge of a scream. Like it’s all trying to bubble out of me when I let my guard down to sleep.”
I don’t know what to say, so I simply press the ball of my thumb deep into his palm and rub it in a small circle. The tension in his hand eases, as does his voice. “But you have to accept that as part of the life. Let it ride, then let it go.
“Every year, before the start of the season, my dad would ask, do you still want this?” Drew turns toward me. “Because he knew how hard it would be if I didn’t. He warned me that it would get to me, and that I’d have to find a way to deal with it.”
“Did your dad play?” I’m dying of curiosity about his parents.
He blinks, a slow sweep of his lashes. Maybe the Ibuprofen and massage are kicking in. Or maybe I’ve hurt him with the questions. I hope it’s the former. I keep rubbing his hand, stroking up to his wrist then along the hard plank of his forearm.
“Not football,” Drew answers, watching my fingers. “He played baseball. Pitcher. Was recruited by MLB straight out of college. A torn rotator cuff during his last season kept him from going pro.” He flashes a smile. “Dad was my little league coach.”
“And yet you chose football? What, no good at baseball?”
His lip curls as his eyes flutter closed. “I kick ass in baseball, Jones. I could have played that instead. But football was always the one.”
“If you were good at both, how did you know?”
Drew’s long fingers twine with mine, holding me in a warm, engulfing clasp. He doesn’t open his eyes as he speaks. “Some things are like that. You just know.”
I clear my throat. “I envy you. I’ve never been totally sure of anything.” Other than wanting Drew from the moment I laid eyes on him. But I’m not saying that. Instead, I untangle my hand from his, and he lets go as if he knows I need to get free.
“Don’t be too envious,” he says wryly. “Knowing what you want and having it are two different things.” His eyes lock onto mine with a punch that I feel deep in my belly. “I’d rather have what I want than just know.”
I look away first, then shift over to the end of the couch and turn to sit cross-legged. “Lie down.”
He squints at me with a slight frown as if he doesn’t really want to move. “There’s more?”
Grabbing my coat, I bunch it on my lap and slap the spot. “Head here.”
Drew’s brows rise, his expression a mixture of confusion and weariness, and I laugh. “What do think I’m going to do to you?”
“I don’t know,” he says, as he eases down, unfolding his long length on the couch. “But I’m hoping for the best.”
“Where’s the trust?” I say with a dramatic sigh.
His head settles in the lee of my crossed legs. “I just told you something about me that no one else alive knows, Jones. I don’t think my trust in you could be more clear.”
I lean over him, our faces upside down from each other’s. He’s humbled me. My palms settle on his shoulders, pressing there gently to warm him, and my fingers find the leather cord he wears around his neck. I trace it, watching his skin prickle as I go. When I get to the pendant, I run a thumb over the polished wood.
He’s watching me, his gaze guarded, vulnerable. But when he speaks, it’s as if he’s leaving himself wide-open. “It’s a chunk of wood from the lintel on the front door of my parent’s house.” His lashes sweep down, hiding his pain. “Figured that way I’d always carry a piece of my old home with me.”
Shit. He’s slowly carving his name into my heart. And it hurts. I want to curl over him and shelter him with my body. But his cheeks are flushed and his neck grows stiffer by the second, as if he’s regretting his confession.
I rest my palm over the pendant, holding the wood against hard wall of his chest. When I can speak without emotion clogging my words, I tell him, “I’m going to massage your face now.”
“My face?” he repeats as if I’ve offered to stick my finger up his nose.
I smother a laugh. “We hold even more tension in our face than our hands.” Keeping my hands on him, I rub the tops of his shoulders before doing the same to his neck. He likes this and sinks down further into the couch.
His eyes flutter as if he wants to shut them. My hands ease up to his jaw then settle on his brow. “It’s okay. Close your eyes.”
When he does, I simply run my fingertips over his face, taking in his strong, clean bone structure. Strangely, I’ve always attributed Drew’s attractiveness to his inner light, the way he carries himself, and how his emotions shine through. But, God, he really is beautifully made.
Whereas my face is all curves, his is like a diamond, made up of dramatic angles and cut lines. His nose is high and straight, widening a bit in the middle, which only gives him more character. Prominent cheekbones veer down sharply toward his mouth, that gloriously mobile mouth that is always quick to smile. Relaxed now, it’s as if he’s pouting. His jawline is defined and in perfect symmetry with his cheeks.
With steady, firm pressure, my fingers ride over the ridges of his sweeping brows, following the tension. The slow, undulating light of the lava lamp casts deep blues and grays over his skin.
“Keep talking to me,” he whispers.
I pause. “Doesn’t noise hurt your head?”
Thick lashes cast shadows at the tops of his cheeks. “Your voice isn’t noise. It’s a song I want to hear over and over.”
Oh. My.
Taking a deep breath, I pinch along the underside of his brows, moving outward. Drew groans low.
“Is your full name Andrew?” Not the most brilliant of conversational openings, but I’m curious.
The full curve of his lips lifts a little. “Nope. I’m just Drew.” He talks low, barely over a murmur. “Mom didn’t like nicknames. She figured they would name me what they wanted to call me. So just Drew Baylor. No middle name either.”
“I kind of love your mom for that,” I say softly.
His eyes open and lock onto me. Pain still lingers in them, but there’s also a warmth that has me flushing. “She would have loved you too.”
No, she wouldn’t have. What mother would like a girl that uses her precious son for sex? None. I palm his face, effectively blocking his view, and run my thumbs down the sides of his nose and over his cheeks, digging in deep.
“Christ,” he breaths out, “that’s good.”
“I know.” I smile a little.
“What about you?” he asks. “You have a middle name?”
“Marie.” I stroke along his jaw. So much tension there.
“Anna Marie,” he intones. “I like that.”
He goes silent, and I gently hum, not a song, really, just a lilt that fills the silence. He sighs, his body easing more under my touch.
“When’s your birthday, Anna Marie?”
“You’re going to make me regret telling you my middle name.”
His smile is wobbly, as if weakened by pain. “Just answer the question.”
“Why,” I slip my hands under his neck, finding the base of his skull. His muscles are so dense here that my fingers barely make a dent. “You going to give me a present?”
“You put it that way…oh, God, that’s a spot…” His brows furrow on a wince. “God, do that some more, Jones.”
Heat flushes my skin, but I comply. He shudders, his long body twitching as it releases pain.
“You put it that way,” he says returning to the topic of presents, “and I kind of have to, now don’t I?”
“Stop tensing,” I murmur, running my fingers along the back of his skull, before answering him. “You set me up for that one, Baylor. When’s your birthday, then?”
Drew lets out a breath and moans as I find the tension spots plaguing him. He’s now lax, lying heavy on the couch. I’ve had my hands all over his fine body, and yet touching him to take his pain away is a gratification that I never expected.
His voice slurs with drowsiness. “November nineteenth.”
I pause. “It is not.”
He cracks open one eye. “Why would I lie?” Both eyes open. “When’s yours?”
I bite my lip. “November twentieth.”
Drew grins, his whole expression lightening. “We’re birthday buddies.” His smile turns smug. “Only I’m older.”
A small laugh escapes me. “You can keep that victory. I don’t know any girl who wants to be older than her—” My voice dies.
But it’s too late, because it’s obvious what I was going to say. Her boyfriend.
Satisfaction steals over his expression, but there’s something more. Something that has my heart racing in my chest, and my mouth going dry. An acknowledgement. As if he’s been waiting for this very slip.
His lashes are long and thick, framing his light brown eyes. Beneath my fingertips, his throat lifts on a swallow. “Anna.”
My chest tightens to the point of pain. My mother always accused me of having an excess of pride. People think pride is something you ought to be able to control, that it’s something sinful, best used in small doses. And they’re right. But for most of my life, pride has been the only thing that’s kept my head up. Now it’s holding me back from Drew. I know this. Hell, I feel its hard hands upon me, clutching with a tightness that speaks of desperation. I know this, and yet I can’t break free. I’m not ready.
I snuggle back into its familiar hold. Safe there. And instead of acknowledging this growing thing between us, my hands move up to cup Drew’s cheeks. “Sleep,” I say, running a thumb along his bottom lip. “You need it.”
Protest darkens his expression.
“Sleep,” I insist as if my throat isn’t closing in on itself. “I’ll wake you.”
He resists for a moment, watching me with those eyes that reveal too much. But then he does as I ask, putting himself in my keeping. I run my fingers through his silky hair and watch over him while he sleeps.
11
IT’S GETTING WORSE, this addiction. I need Drew with greater frequency and with more urgency. At least there are rules. Rules to keep myself under control, safe. Rules that are somehow agreed upon and understood without having to say a word. We always meet at my place, never so late as to warrant a sleepover, never stay together more than an hour—or three if we are particularly… needy. And still no kissing on the mouth, though I’m starting to see more and more shadows of discontent from Drew regarding this rule. But he’s yet to vocalize it. And I do an admirable job of telling myself that it’s for the best. I need to protect myself. Because I’m never getting left behind again.
Now we’re na**d and on my bed, my favorite fleece throw covering our bodies. I draw the line at getting under the covers with him. That’s too personal, too much like making love verses hooking up. Not that getting under the sheets is an issue when, from the instant we close the door to my room, we think of nothing else but being skin to skin.
Even more concerning is that now that we’ve finished, he isn’t leaving. Nor am I hurrying him out. Sweat gives his golden skin a fine sheen, and he’s panting lightly as if he’s run miles.
The light is fading outside, the rays of the setting sun stealing through my blinds and spilling into my room until we are painted in glowing stripes of deep orange.
One of his hands rests lightly on the rippled wall of his abdomen. I focus on that as I lay half on my side, one hand caught beneath his shoulder, the other hand still gripping the bedpost. I’d held on so tight to that post when he pounded into me that I wonder if he’ll have to help pry my fingers free from the wood.
A luscious, little shiver runs over me. The things he does to me. The thoroughness in which he takes his pleasure and gives me mine. My ni**les tighten. Thankfully, Drew hasn’t noticed. He’s turning away to take long gulps of water from the bottle sitting on the bedside table. And that’s when I see it. The room is shadowed but not enough to hide some things.
“You have a tattoo.” There’s a sing-song quality about my observation that I can’t hide and don’t want to. Because I’m grinning. An evil grin.
And he turns back to glare at me properly. “Yeah.”
“It’s a battle axe,” I add with glee. A cute little cartoon style battle axe about the size of my thumb on the crest of his left butt cheek. Like something Papa Smurf might wield. How can I not have seen this before? Right, because normally he’d have hauled his pants up and would be headed out the door about now.
Drew’s high-cut cheeks go pink. “Fucking Cancun. Spring break, my sophomore year, I got so wasted one night. I vaguely remember a burning sensation on my butt cheek while my teammates chanted ‘Battle, Battle.’ That’s about it. I woke up na**d in a bed full of….” The blush returns with force, and he runs a hand through his hair, which makes it stand up on end on the right side. It’s kind of adorable. So is his embarrassment. “Full of girls and guys.”
I laugh, a crackling mad witch laugh that earns a pillow tossed at my face.
“It’s not funny,” he insists, though there’s a hint of humor in his voice. “I was in an orgy and don’t remember a thing. Imagine the horrors.” He mocks a shudder.
This only makes me laugh harder.
