The Hook Up (Game On Book 1) (14 page)

“No shit? I remember reading about that concert in my History of Rock and Roll class.”

“God, if my dad had heard you say that. He considered that concert the highlight of his young life.”

I’m smiling as I study the picture. But my heart aches. I can almost feel their joy, and their absence. “They look so young and happy. Beautiful, too.” Because they are. Drew has his mom’s nose and eyes, and his Dad’s sharp jaw line and smile.

I give him the picture, handling it with the care that it deserves. He doesn’t look at it as he tucks it away. “They met in college.” His voice goes quiet, and he turns to stare back up at the ceiling. “And they were happy.”

His profile is tight, the corners of his mouth hard. “I don’t know, I guess… I guess I feel closer to them by listening to what they listened to.”

The pain, that sharp, dark pain buried deep in his words, the pain that he’s fighting to hide, hits me straight through the middle. I clear my throat, find my voice. “And who doesn’t love Queen?” I give him a little nudge, just the barest move of my elbow against his arm. “I mean, isn’t
We Will Rock You
like every jock’s anthem?”

My reward is his grin, and the way the corners of his eyes crinkle. A soft laugh leaves him. “Yeah,” he says quietly, and then with more lightness, “Yeah, suppose it is.”

I don’t know what else to say. I’m comforting Drew Baylor when I’m supposed to be fucking him. An uncomfortable knot begins to writhe in my stomach. I don’t deserve to hear about his parents. To even look upon their smiling faces. Suddenly I want him out of here. I can’t breathe.

I’m about to ask him to go when he talks again.

“So I guess you like those Emo type of guys.” He turns his head slightly, and our eyes meet. There it is, that low, hot hum within me that happens every time, as if his eyes have some freaking super power with a direct line to my sex. The bed groans beneath him as he rolls to his side. He props a hand under his head, and now he’s looming over me.

His voice slows, gets richer, lower, as if he too feels the hum. “Guys who dress in black and pluck out half-ass tunes on their guitars to show their inner torment.”

There’s a guitar in my room. A Gibson acoustic that my mom gave me on my eighteenth birthday. I’d seen his gaze land on it when he first entered my room.

“Maybe I’m the one who plucks half-assed tunes.”

Baylor’s grin is lazy, and those little lines that bracket his mouth deepen. There’s a knowing look in his eyes, as if he can read my mind. And maybe he can. Because his next words are, “I bet it pisses you off that you can’t play a whole song.”

I glare at him, but I can’t be properly pissed off. He’s right, after all. I wanted so badly to play, but I suck. My fingers are like drunken frat boys stumbling all over each other on the frets. A disgrace. “It does.”

As if my honesty needs a reward, his smile grows wider. That smile. It takes my breath, then gives it back. But now my breath is too fast and too light. His golden gaze slides down to where my breasts are rising and falling in sudden agitation, and his expression turns serious, almost stern, as if he’s contemplating doing dark things to them. I’m up for it. I’m pretty sure he could bite me there, and I’d like it.

But he slowly looks back up at me. Color darkens his high cheeks, and though his voice is a bit rougher, he’s still in control. The bastard. “I can play,” he says. It isn’t a brag. It’s a statement.

“You? The guitar?” Skepticism stretches out my words.

White teeth flash. “Me. The big, dumb jock.” He says it mockingly, but not in anger. As if he knows that most people assume jocks are dumb, but he doesn’t really give a fuck.

“I don’t think you’re dumb,” I blurt out. It’s as close to a real compliment as I’ve ever given him. And we both know it.

He stills. And then his massive body, all that flat-packed muscle leans into me, pausing inches away, close enough so I feel the heat of his breath against my cheek when he whispers, “I don’t think you’re dumb either.”

Then, in that quick, effortless way of his, he rolls away and goes for the guitar.

I sit up, curling my feet under me, as he settles on my bedroom chair and fiddles with the strings to tune the guitar. It looks good in his hand. No, he isn’t reed thin or wearing skinny jeans—the mere idea of which makes me want to laugh; Drew Baylor was made for low-slung Levis and t-shirts that strain against defined muscles. But he holds the Gibson with authority.

“Mom said that I couldn’t just be about sports. So, if I wanted to play them, I had to learn an instrument too.”

“What a slave driver,” I tease.

“That was the gist of my protest.”

When he gets the guitar the way he wants it, he begins to play. The melody is complex and familiar. It takes me a moment to place it.
Norwegian Wood
.

“Now my mom,” he says as he plays, his attention on the strings, “she might have liked Madonna, but she freaking loved The Beatles.”

He plays on and a flush rises to my face. After all, it’s a song about a woman using a man for sex. Did he pick it specifically for me? Or was it just to show off his skill? I’m not going to ask and, all too soon, it’s over. His eyes meet mine, and there’s a playful glint in his. “Or maybe an old open-mic standard?” He eases into Dave Matthews’
Crash Into Me
. “Emo guys love playing this one.”

The blush of annoyance within me rises. Hayden, my old boyfriend, used to play this song. On open-mic night. All the fucking time. But he never achieved the quick, flowing ease with which Drew’s fingers coax the melody from the guitar.

Worse, Drew sings. He isn’t perfect, his voice drifts off key and is rough, but it doesn’t matter because he sells the song. I can hear my Grandpa Joe’s voice in my head telling me that this boy could sell ice in Antarctica.

Drew doesn’t finish the song, and I know it isn’t because he can’t, it’s because he’s not trying to show off. He’s just messing around. He proves this when he catches my eye and grins wide. I’m in his thrall. I grin back when he stops and begins to thump on the side of the guitar and belt out the words to
We Will Rock You
.

And I laugh. Because he gives it his all. Makes an ass of himself, and clearly doesn’t care. And suddenly I don’t care either. I join him, shouting out the words along with him.

“You dork,” I say when we finish.

“Look who’s talking.” Drew begins to laugh, and I do too. We feed off each other, laughing until I’m holding my side. It isn’t really that funny, what we’re laughing over. Maybe it’s just a way to break the tension that always pulls tight between us. Or maybe it’s because he, like me, hasn’t really laughed just for the hell of it in a long time. I don’t know. I don’t even care. It’s good not to care about anything for a while.

As if by some silent, mutual agreement our laughter dies down as one. And we’re left staring at each other, both a little breathless. His gaze goes molten. It’s like he’s flicked a switch, leaving me in the dark, and he’s my light. He’s all I can see.

The chair creaks beneath him as he slowly lowers the guitar. I can’t move. I can’t catch my breath. I’m so hot my skin hurts. There’s an ache between my legs and in my breasts. A throbbing beat that matches my heart. I can only pant and watch him rise.

His mouth is hard, his eyes glittering darkly beneath half-lowered lids as he comes for me. I find myself leaning back, like I’m afraid of him, when really it’s all I can do not to beg him to hurry up and touch me. He stops at the foot of the bed and looks me over, an insolent, languid perusal that I should find insulting but only makes me burn hotter.

When he speaks, his voice is rough, quick, sharp. It scrapes against my heightened nerves, shouts in the quiet room, even though it’s a near murmur. “Lift your top.”

Oh, God, I’m dizzy. My head goes light and then heavy, my breath chuffing out in strangled half-gasps as I fumble with the bottom of my sweater. Cool air kisses my skin as I expose my belly.

He merely watches, waiting. My breasts ache so bad that when I ease my sweater over them, I whimper. I’m not wearing a bra. He had to have expected as much; my breasts are too big to hide the fact. Even so, his nostrils flare on a sharp breath.

And then he’s coming for me, the slow, rolling stride of a lion. He crawls over me, a veritable mountain of testosterone and intent. One thick thigh shoves between my legs, pressing there, giving me sweet relief and soft agony. When his hot, wet mouth closes over my nipple, I groan so loud it scares me a little. Not him. He sucks me harder, and we fall back into the bed. I don’t have another coherent thought.

ANNA’S TITS, NAKED and in the full light of day, drive me out of my mind. I can barely think, I’m shaking so badly. Her tight nipple fills my mouth, and I flick my tongue over it, loving the way she arches into me, her breath coming in quick pants. I let her go with a loud pop, then lean back to look at her again.

Holy hell, she’s perfect to me. Firm and teardrop-shaped breasts so full they spill over a bit on the sides of her narrow frame. A smooth, luminous cream color, they quiver with each breath she takes. Her nipples, one of which I’ve sucked to a wet peak, are a dark, rosy-brown. Brown sugar topping vanilla ice cream. I want to eat her up. With a grunt of impatience, I tug off the sweater that’s bunched around her neck, and her wild red curls tumble about her face. Then I tear off my shirt; I’m too hot to breathe with it on.

She laughs a little, until I sit back on my haunches and pull off her pants and panties in one, swift move. Then she simply watches me with her big, green eyes. But I see the way her fingers curl into the covers and her beautiful tits lift with each breath she takes.

Lust flares through my veins like fire. It gets worse as my gaze travels over her body.

Jesus. Her waist is tiny compared to the rounded swells of her hips that ease into full, smooth thighs, and long calves. Freckles cover her shoulders, even a few on her hips. Endless cream sprinkled with sugar, laid out on her bed like an offering of everything I’ve ever wanted.

My attention settles on the place I need to sink into. That small triangle of curls, so dark red it’s like a valentine between her sweet thighs. Lots of girls wax themselves bare. It’s always creeped me out, like I’m with a preteen. Not Anna. She’s perfect for me.

Suddenly I can’t breathe right. My voice comes out rough and strangled. “Spread your legs and let me see that gorgeous pussy.”

Her entire body tightens, her soft mouth parting on an agitated breath. Oh, but her eyes gleam bright. She likes my words raw and unfiltered. I’ve never talked much during sex before, never thought to do it. I don’t know why it’s different with Anna. Maybe it’s because I want her so bad, I don’t think about anything but the blinding, gut-wrenching lust and the need to bring her along for the ride. That she seems to get off on it as much as I do has me shaking again. In this way, at least, she is all mine.

Her trembling thighs part. She glistens there, her pink lips plump and wet.

“You’re so beautiful,” I rasp. “So beau—” I can’t talk.

The air between us goes thick. She spreads wider, without shame, without artifice. She’s not even looking at my face, but at the bulge of my crotch where my hard-on is desperately trying to punch through my jeans. With an unsteady hand, I snap the button and pull down my zipper, the sound loud in the quiet room. I’m so fucking hard, my dick springs straight up, pulsing in time with my heartbeat.

Her breath hitches, her teeth catching the plump curve of her lip. I hold her gaze as I reach down and give myself a light stroke, enough to make my dick surge, but not nearly enough to satisfy me. She watches the movement, and her breath becomes agitated.

“Do you want this in you, Anna?”

Her gaze flicks up to mine. She’s panting now, licking her lips wet in a greedy way. I nearly groan.

“Do you want me to fuck your pussy?”

Her abdomen clenches.

“Tell me, Anna,” I whisper, leaning over so I can run my lips from her bent knee, down her soft thigh. She trembles, her flesh jumping beneath my touch. I smell her musk, the faint scent of shower gel lingering in her soft curls, and feel the heat of her core. Up close, she’s all shades of rose. Beautiful.

I give the crease at the top of her thigh a slow lick.

“Drew…”

God, I love hearing her say my name. I reward her and kiss the pink, wet lips quivering before me. “Or maybe you want me to suck you,” I say before I do just that.

She arches off the bed, and I have to place a hand on the gentle curve of her belly to hold her still.

I love doing this to her. Licking, nuzzling, fucking her with my tongue, letting myself take deep tastes of her sex. I feel the heat of my own breath as I manage to ask, “What do you want, baby?”

And then I hear her. “I want it all.”

I’m lost. My fingers fumble with the condom, nearly tearing it in my haste to put it on. I surge up, hooking her legs over my arms as I go. My dick sinks into her with one thrust, and she groans so loud and hard that I nearly come right then. But I find her shoulder and hold it steady with my teeth as I pump into her. Her ass clenches against my palms with each thrust.