But I do remember smiling so big and for so long, the next morning, my face hurt.
Like I said.
Exquisite pain.
Chapter Nine
No Regrets
“So, you were a rock star?”
I grinned as I watched Hop press his handsome head into the pillow and burst out laughing.
It was Tuesday night.
I was in Hop’s bed at Hop’s house. It was the first time I’d been there.
I found, after following his directions, that Hopper Kincaid lived in a nondescript split-level on a cul-de-sac in a regular neighborhood, not a clandestine biker bunker I had to be led to blindfolded.
This was a surprise but not a disappointment.
The house was nice although it was clear he could spend more time on the yard. The moment after I had this thought, my mind purged it. Hopper Kincaid and yard work didn’t go together. What did go together was, if his neighbors didn’t like it, since he was a badass biker, they probably didn’t complain and just put up with it.
The minute I walked in (after Hop laid a hot and heavy one on me in the open doorway), I was assaulted by décor that shouted, “A man lives here!”
The prevailing colors were black and brown. Dark brown. The feel wasn’t “sit and stay a while,” but “kick back and lounge for however long you want, preferably with a beer.”
It was not the way I would decorate but I had to say, I liked it.
It was pure Hop.
There was framed rock memorabilia everywhere. Signed pictures of Springsteen, Seger, Clapton, Page, these intermingled with framed tickets, rock concert posters, and posters from motorcycle rallies.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have much time to peruse this Museum of Rock (and Motorcycle Rallies) because dinner was ready and I got surprise number two of the night.
Hop could cook.
He made a meatloaf that had been basted in a sweetened tomato sauce that was out of this world. It was so good Mamaw would approve, and that was saying something.
When I shared this information, he grinned at me and stated, “Don’t get excited, lady. I can kick ass with ground beef and I can broil the fuck out of a pork chop but outside that, my cooking is not much to write home about.”
I was looking forward to him “broiling the fuck out of a pork chop” for me, but I didn’t share that mainly because I was shoveling meatloaf in my mouth.
Now, the dirty dishes were in the sink and we were in Hop’s bed. This was because he didn’t waste time after dinner in starting the tour of his house. This included a lot more man stuff, the not-surprising knowledge that Hop wasn’t exactly tidy, and the equally not-surprising knowledge that Cody was a Hop Mini-Me (seeing as his room was filled with motorcycle and rock stuff).
The revelation was Molly’s room, which was painted a pastel yellow and decorated effusively in every shade of purple under the sun, with a liberal sprinkling of daisies in the form of daisy lamps, a daisy motif to the bedclothes, daisy prints on the walls, and a daisy nightlight.
Glancing into Molly’s room was more proof badass biker Hopper Kincaid loved his daughter. It didn’t belong in this rambling, split-level man cave.
And yet, getting to know Hop, it absolutely did.
The end of the tour was Hop’s room, and I was again surprised when confronted with a mammoth, black leather-padded waterbed. Although it looked incredibly cool, I’d slept on a waterbed twice in my life and, albeit an adventure, being tossed on the waves every time you twitched wasn’t my idea of a restful night.
I didn’t have a chance to think much on this because Hop wasted no time ending the house tour and beginning another one.
The new tour lasted two hours.
During it, it took Hop thirty whole minutes to take all my clothes off me. It took ten more for me to get all his off him.
In other words, it was about taking our time. It was about exploration, rediscovery and memorization, of touch, taste, sound, and sensation.
Two hours.
Two hours of making love.
It was phenomenal and, by the time Hopper slowly slid inside of me, his eyes holding mine, I was so primed, I came instantly. I did it hard and it lasted a long time.
And it was the best I ever had.
Every time with Hop seemed like new.
And every time with Hop was a new best.
So now I was lying on top of him, his dark sheets pulled up over my booty, his chest hair rough against my breasts, his fingers curved around the cheeks of my ass, pads digging in, and I was doing something I knew in that instant I could do for a lifetime.
Watching him laugh.
When his laughter died down to chuckling, he dipped his chin and focused on me to say, “I was never a rock star, babe.”
“You seemed pretty comfortable up there,” I noted.
“Yeah, guess it’s like ridin’ a bike,” he mumbled and I pressed closer, sliding my hands up his chest to wrap my fingers around the sides of his neck.