“The clubhouse. We have a ton of this stuff in the family room. Hobbies can help during recovery.”
“Have they helped you?” I ask as I open a cross-stitch kit with a ladybug on the box.
“A little,” Hawk answers as he opens one with a bee on it. “Physical movement and riding have always helped me the most, but other people find peace when focusing on a tangible task. For example, Cash crochets like a madman whenever he needs to quiet the noise in his head. He made that blanket,” he nods his head towards the item in question.
“No,” I gasp.
“Hammer is into LEGO sets. The ones with a million tiny pieces. I could never.”
“Huh.”
As I ruminate on the two men’s unexpected hobbies, I let my own task consume me.
I’ve never threaded a needle for non-practical purposes, I realize. Never thought it could be an instrument of fun and enjoyment.
I focus all my attention on separating the threads, following the pattern, counting the stitches, finding the right holes, and before I know it, my Aida cloth has half of a beautiful little ladybug on it.
“Look!” I exclaim victoriously, only to find Hawk already watching me.
He’s sitting with his legs crossed, and his project is abandoned on the floor next to his armchair.
“Are you aware that you haven’t looked up from your hoop in 45 minutes?” He asks.
I frown. He must be exaggerating.
“My neck does feel a bit sore,” I admit as I glance at the clock. “Has it seriously been that long?”
Hawk nods. “I’m guessing you liked it?”
“It was… hypnotizing. It’s like my mind finally shut up, you know,” I tell him as I stretch my back and lean over my legs to grab my toes. “I was so focused on counting the stitches that I didn’t have time to overthink or worry about anything else. It was beyond relaxing.”
“I’m glad. We can go to a craft store one day and get you more stuff. Do you need help with that?”
I gladly abandon bending my neck to my left shoulder to get the kinks out. “Yes, please.”
Hawk joins me on the couch, and we settle in a position that allows him access to my back. The moment I feel both his hands on the base of my neck, my nipples stiffen like they’ve been tugged. Fuck. I press my lips together to keep the moan to myself.
My legs reflexively spread, and I put my palms on the space they free up on the couch cushion.
“Is this pressure okay?” Hawk asks as his thumbs gently but persistently work on the knots between my shoulder blades.
I nod, unable to trust my voice. As Hawk’s hands move lower, I bend forward to make it easier for him, using the opportunity to squirm against my wrists in order to relieve some of the tension I’m feeling.
Hawk makes a small sound of surprise when I gasp.
“Do you like this, baby?” He asks hoarsely.
I shamelessly press my legging-clad ass into his erection instead of responding. Hawk’s forehead meets my shoulder as his arms move to hug my waist.
“Fuck, Marissa, you’re trying to kill me.”
His words make me giddy, and I turn over my shoulder to smile at him. He looks dazed. His eyes are black, and his cheeks are flushed. His mouth…
A magnetic force draws my face closer to his as my eyes dart between his mouth and gaze.
Hawk deftly repositions my body so that I can execute the kiss I long for, and I want to laugh victoriously.
Anything I want, this man - my man - will see to making it possible.
