K. Bromberg - Sweet Ache

But hell if I don’t want to tell him to kiss my ass with that smart mouth of his while I stride up the steps toward the exit and flip him the bird instead.

But my degree is more important so I swallow my pride along with my anger, even though I’d much rather verbalize it as I reach the front row. Keeping my eyes fastened to his, I refuse to let him think he’s gotten the upper hand despite me following his directive and taking the seat he so graciously offered.

I reach the seat and stop before I sit down and stand my ground, my eyebrows arched and eyes telling him everything my lips can’t. He meets them challenge for challenge while all the while those lips of his smirk and taunt me.

I force my eyes to remain forward, not to wander and take in the whole of him because I don’t want to see how sexy-hot he is face-to-face, don’t want to notice his cologne that makes me think of fresh air with a subtle hint of musk, don’t want to feel my cheeks flush because I know my nipples just hardened and I’m quite sure they’re more than obvious through the thin layer of my bra’s lace and my cotton T-shirt.

After a moment, when I know I have no point I can really make in front of several hundred students, I lower my eyes and take my seat. But instead of continuing on right away, he stands in front of me a few seconds more, making sure I know who won this ridiculous little show of control between us.

And of course as he stands in front of me with his hips right at my eye level, I can’t help the two thoughts colliding: the one of him being in control with the one of just how well his worn denim jeans are filled out behind that button fly of his.

I immediately chastise myself. Tell myself that it’s my sex-deprived brain—well, more like other deprived body parts—that is directing my thoughts like a nympho. And that alone fuels my dislike of Hawkin even more because I should be focused on being pissed off at him rather than wondering about how he performs in other ways … off the stage.

I’m pulled from my thoughts when laughter erupts in the room and I realize he’s continued on with his spiel and is no longer in front of me.

“Isn’t that right?” he asks and the classroom falls quiet causing me to glance his way.

His eyes are locked on mine and I know I’ve been caught not paying attention. His tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip as he waits for my response and I swear to all things holy when the girl next to me actually sighs. It takes everything I have not to roll my eyes. I have no clue what he’s asking me and make that split-second decision between faking it or playing it off.

“What’s that?” I reply, lips pursed, telling him if he wants to keep this game up, I’ll play it right back.

He flashes me a bright smile and angles his head to the side for a moment, eyes narrowing momentarily before he delivers, “That being late for an event is a surefire way to make a bad first impression.”

Bastard. I walked right into that one and I silently fume over it but hell if I’m going to let him know it. “True,” I say with a measured nod of my head, his eyes dancing with mirthful victory when I continue. “It is better to stay silent and be thought a fool, than to open one’s mouth and remove all doubt.” I recite the proverb to him, expecting his brow to furrow and irritation to flicker across his face, but instead of anger in his eyes I see amusement, challenge.

The crowd falls silent, probably a tad shocked that I’m not bowing down to the rock god who I’m sure is used to getting anything he wants. But I grew up in a room next door to my brother and with the famed director Andy Westin as my father so I more than anyone know that I will not be getting anywhere near my knees to bow for Hawkin Play.

Or do anything else on them for that matter when it comes to him.

He just shakes his head, a curious look on his face before a student calls out a question across the oppressive silence we’ve created. He turns to face the fellow student and luckily leaves our unspoken sparring match unresolved.

I’m furious at him for calling me out again, and at the same time amused by his arrogance that he thinks I care. Risking a glance his way now that his focus is elsewhere, I take the chance to stare at and scrutinize him. I have to pay attention and figure him out if I’m going to try to get the upper hand here. I mean, it’s purely out of curiosity . Good-looking guys are a dime a dozen in California.

But not all of them are rock stars that cause that tingly ache I have from simply imagining what he’d be like in bed.

His physique is lean, medium build with broad shoulders, but I can tell the muscles beneath are toned. Of course he takes the moment I’m watching him to raise his arm and point to someone, gifting me a flex of his biceps and the hint of a tattoo on the upper part of his arm hidden by his shirt. And I’m a girl that has a thing for firm biceps, especially when they are framing my body on the mattress beneath me.

I trail him as he walks back toward the podium, taking in his profile, strong jaw, straight nose, and hair a little on the long side but somehow styled into a messy disarray that says I didn’t try to do this . He fiddles with the overhead projector, the school’s setup for it much more complicated than necessary. He continues on, speaking of something in regard to media expectations—a part of me curious what he’s talking about because I’ve been so focused on not liking him and at the same time studying him I haven’t followed a single word of his lecture.

The man leaning against the wall whose seat I took chuckles loud enough that the first few rows can hear him and it takes me a second to realize that Hawkin can’t get the projector to turn on.

Serves him right. I sit in my chair and tuck my tongue in my cheek, refusing to help and enjoying watching him fumble. If he’s going to call me out like he did, then I guess I’ll act like a student and feign technological ignorance.

“And this folks is why I sing and play an instrument for a living,” he says with a half laugh, brushing his hair off his forehead, his charismatic charm coming across even when he’s frustrated. “Guess my reputation proceeds me and I’m too much to handle since the TA I was promised has yet to show and help me set everything up.”

“I’ll handle you!” a girl in the back yells, garnering a chuckle from him.

I’m sure you will, sweetie .

I watch him a few more moments until he gives up and says something I can’t hear to his friend before turning to the class. “Well, I guess I’ll have to rely on my many other hidden talents,” he says rubbing his hands together and causing me to sigh like the girl next to me while the rest of the students chuckle, “but it seems they’ll have to wait until next time…. Time’s up for today.” The sigher next to me makes a sound of protest, and I swear she’s going to be stuck to the seat she’s so desperate for all things Hawkin.

“Until next time,” he says and students begin to shuffle their papers. I lean forward to pick up my bag when his voice stops me. “Ms. I’m-Too-Special-to-Be-on-Time? Please stay a minute.”

I freeze more from disbelief than because I care. Seems to me by his arrogance that this whole I’m-a-professor kick has gone to his head. Then again, this is probably his norm, considering he’s used to performing on stage in front of thousands.

I bite the inside of my cheek to stifle the smart-ass remark that is begging for escape, and lean back in the chair, arms and legs crossed, and raise my eyebrows at him. Come at me rocker boy. I’m ready for you.

Hawkin holds my taunting gaze, and I feel like we’re on a playground having a staring contest. Guess things don’t change much when you get older.