All the Pretty Lies
Page 7
I quickly brush the notion aside. Yes, it makes enough sense. At twenty-eight, I’m too old to be ensnared by a girl like Sloane. For all the life experiences I’ve had and the way I’ve lived for so long, I might as well be fifty.
But damn, I can’t say I wouldn’t love to dig my fingers and my tongue and my c**k into her sweet little body. I’m reminded of that when she comes bouncing back out into the living room less than ten minutes later, carrying a beach bag and wearing nothing but a bikini top and the tiniest shorts I’ve ever seen.
“Ready?” she asks, all fresh-faced and enthusiastic.
“Oh, hell yeah I’m ready.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN - Sloane
I never really thought of what a guy like Hemi might drive. I wouldn’t have been surprised by a big, shiny motorcycle or a fast little sports car, but what I find parked in the driveway at my house suits him perfectly.
It’s an old car, but in absolutely perfect condition from what I can tell. It’s a convertible and the top is down. With its muscular build, glossy black paint and sparkly silver racing stripes that zoom up the hood, it looks dangerous and powerful, just like its driver.
“I don’t know what kind of car this is, but it suits you to a T!” I say as I walk around to the passenger side. Looking at the car, I didn’t know Hemi followed me until he reaches past me to open up the door. “Oh,” I exclaim, startled, “thank you!”
Hemi nods, a grin teasing the edges of his lips. “My pleasure.” I love it when he’s almost smiling like that. It makes him look like he’s up to something and I can’t help but feel excited with anticipation.
I watch his loose gait as he walks around the hood of the car and slides easily behind the wheel. He glances over at me. “It’s a 1969 Camaro.” As if to punctuate what I already suspected about the car, Hemi fires up the engine. The deep, throaty growl screams speed. And power. “It’s four hours to the beach. This baby’ll get us there in closer to three.”
He shifts into gear and guides the car slowly out of my subdivision. As soon as he turns the corner onto the highway, he hits the gas and turns up the music. I feel a lighthearted laugh bubble up in my throat. The tunes, the wind, the sun, Hemi—it all feels like freedom. I’m spreading my wings. And it feels wonderful.
********
It’s just after one when we arrive at Tybee Island, right on the edge of Savannah. We didn’t talk on the way down, as a convertible isn’t exactly conducive to hearing much of anything. But we didn’t need to talk. The trip was wonderful without a single word having to be spoken.
Hemi finds a parking spot at a public lot and maneuvers his car into it. He cuts the engine and hops out, grabbing my bag from the back seat. I get out before he can get around to my side, and I meet him at the front of the car.
“I hope you brought sunscreen,” Hemi says, reaching up to rub the backs of his fingers down my arm. “I’d hate to see this porcelain get burned.”
“I did,” I reply softly, feeling his touch all the way into my core.
“All right, then, let’s do this thing.”
I smile, remembering he said the same thing the first night we met. Hemi holds out his hand. I slip mine inside it, fighting the urge to smile even wider. “I’m ready.”
He’s not looking at me when he speaks, and his voice is low, so I’m not entirely sure I hear him correctly, but it sounded like he murmured, “I sure hope so.”
We cross the street and make our way onto the hot sand. There is a nice crowd out today, but it’s nowhere near as commercial (and, therefore, as congested) as other beaches.
Hemi surprises me when he leads me to a small square of empty sand right in the thick of things and sets my bag in the center of it. “This oughtta do.”
“Not that I’m complaining, but why are we here again?”
“To observe.”
“To observe what?”
“People. Bodies. Your canvas will be this,” he says, sweeping his hand over the throng of beach-goers. “Folks just like these. The more familiar you are with the human body, the way the skin moves and shifts, the way it stretches over bone and muscle, the better able you’ll be to craft a great tattoo.”
“Oh,” I respond, not knowing what else to say, but duly impressed with his philosophy. “Sounds good.”
As I spread out my towel, I’m keenly aware of Hemi. He’s standing to my left, facing me. Behind his glasses, he could be looking out at the people beyond me. Or he could be watching me. I can’t be sure. Either way, it makes peeling my shorts down my legs unnerving. And exciting.
I stretch out on my towel and take advantage of my own shaded eyes, tilting my face toward the sun and surreptitiously watching Hemi. I find that I’m much more interested in observing his form than I am in looking at the other half-naked bodies on the beach.
I see his lips curl up again—just the tiniest bit—and I wonder if he knows I’m watching him. He slips his glasses off as he pulls his shirt over his head. He pitches it onto the sand and, before he puts his glasses back in place, I see his eyes meet mine through my own aviators. Yes, he knows I’m watching him.
I’ve seen Hemi in a tank top before, but without it, he’s even more beautiful than I could’ve imagined. His shoulders are impossibly wide, one side covered with an intricate tattoo that crawls over onto a perfectly-defined pectoral. His chest is covered with a smattering of hair that narrows as it approaches the washboard of his abdominals. On one side of his trim waist is a series of beautifully designed letters and numbers that travel from his hip, beyond his jeans, up his ribs to his armpit. I’m just about to ask what they mean when he reaches for the closure of his jeans. The words die in the back of my throat.
Hemi unfastens his button fly, his fingers working nimbly to undo each one. He looks practiced at it and I can’t help but imagine him expertly loosening the clasp of my bra. And my shorts. And whatever else lies between his skin and mine.
He eases the material down his legs, revealing black swim trunks and, beyond them, the most perfect legs I’ve ever seen. They’re muscular and not overly hairy, and I can see the end of a tattoo peeking out from beneath the hem of his shorts. It must cover his right thigh.
He pitches his jeans on top of his shirt and turns to face the ocean. My mouth is dry as I look at his amazing back side. I hope to God we get in the water and I get to see what all that looks like with the thin material of his trunks stuck wetly to every wonderful inch of his lower body.
“You did bring sunscreen, didn’t you?” he asks, looking over his shoulder at me.
“Of course. I’m obedient like that,” I tease, reaching into my bag for a tube of lotion. Hemi gave me meticulous care instructions for my tattoo, one of which was to protect it from the sun.
“Obedient? Mmm, I like obedient.” Something about the way he says it, something about the rough quality of his voice draws my eyes back to him. He’s still looking back at me, watching me. And my mouth is still dry as he does.
“I’m a good girl, remember?”
“How can I forget?”
I’m not sure what that means, so I’m thankful when my fingers meet the familiar shape of the sunblock. I drag it out and hold it out to Hemi. “Want some?”
“Please,” he says, taking it from my fingers and squeezing some out into his palm. He hands me the tube and I take it. But that’s as far as I get. I’m suddenly mesmerized as I watch him rub lotion onto his arms then his chest and belly, the skin glistening in the sun as he works in the cream. “Can you do my back?” he asks quietly.
My eyes fly to his and I silently curse the black disks that hide them from me. All I see there is a reflection of my face, of my interest and desire. I know nothing of what he’s feeling, if anything at all.
“Sure,” I say, getting ready to stand to my feet.
“Stay put. I’ll come to you,” he says, sitting between my feet.
Feeling a little breathless in the heat, I squirt a blob of sunscreen into my palm and spread my legs to lean up and massage the lotion into Hemi’s smooth, bronze skin. He must be naturally dark complected. I see no evidence of tan lines. Anywhere.
I rub my hands over his shoulders, down the backs of his arms, over his broad back and down his sides, making sure to adequately cover the tattoo on his ribs, all the while trying to ignore the way his muscles twitch and flex under my palms.
“All done,” I breathe, feeling discombobulated.
“Now you,” he says, turning to get up onto his knees and taking the tube from beside my hip. “Roll over.”
Slowly, I straighten my legs, guiding them between his spread knees and then I roll carefully onto my stomach, more aware than ever of my tiny bathing suit bottoms.
The first thing I feel is a cool dot between my shoulder blades. It snakes from side to side over my back, stopping at the base of my spine. There’s a pause and then I feel Hemi’s warm hands. They start with wide swipes between my shoulder blades then he spreads his hands and digs his fingers into the muscles of my neck.
I gasp.
“Why so tense?” he asks.
“The drive, I guess,” I mutter, burying my face in my crossed arms.
Hemi works his way down my back, his fingers gliding under the tie to my suit, skating dangerously to the curve of my breasts. He moves on to my ribs, carefully coating my new butterflies.
His strokes slow and I feel him shift closer. “These turned out really well. Maybe we can finish them up this week.”
I feel his warm breath on my skin and chills spread. Again.
“You’re surely not cold.”
“No, I’m not cold.”
“Then why the chills?” he whispers, his voice near my ear.
“I’m ticklish,” I murmur, the statement not entirely fabricated.
“You are? Where are you most ticklish? Here?” he asks, dancing his fingertips along my side. I flinch, but not because he’s tickling me. “Here?” he asks, nearing my arm pits. “Or is it lower?”
Oh God, oh God, oh God!
I catch my breath and hold it as he drags his hands down my spine and spreads them over my hips, dipping them down toward the sand, his fingertips barely teasing the edges of my stomach. Reflexively, I arch, raising my h*ps a little.
I hear him breathe an obscenity before his hands are gone. I look behind me and he’s already on his feet, his jaw clenched tight, rubbing excess sunscreen onto his chest.
“Come on, let’s go people watch.”
“Wait! I need to do my front.”
“I’ll meet you down at the water,” he says stiffly and then he turns and walks away.
CHAPTER TWELVE - Hemi
Here I am. At the beach. Surrounded by scantily-clad women, sparkling water and white-sugar sand, and none of it is holding my attention. I’m simply looking at it all to keep from turning and watching Sloane slather sunblock on her long legs, her tight stomach and between those lush tits.
God, rubbing that lotion on her was sweet torture. The kinds of women I usually spend time with have no delusions about where something like that would lead. And they’d be okay with it. Begging for it, even. But it’s different with Sloane. She’s naïve to a point. And besides that, I don’t think she has a clue how damnably hot and sexy she is. In fact, I think that adds to it. Maybe that’s what I’m finding so irresistible about her. Because that’s what it’s feeling like. The more I’m around her, the more I want her, the more I feel like I have to have her. And now that I know about her brother, that could be bad news for both of us. And no female is worth that risk. Not. One.
“Okay, what now?” Sloane asks from behind me. I turn to find her standing at my left shoulder, looking up at me, her eyes hidden by sunglasses. But I don’t need to see them to know that interest is there. Attraction. Fascination. I don’t know whether she doesn’t try to hide it or if she thinks she is hiding it. Either way, it’s there for me to see. Plain as the cute little nose on her face. And it’s driving me crazy.
“Let’s walk,” I say, turning to head up the beach. I set a lazy pace as we kick through the surf. She keeps up easily. When the wind blows, I get a hint of her perfume mixed with sunscreen—the scent of innocence. It’s mouthwatering.
“What are we looking for?”
“Just look around. Look at all the exposed skin. Look at the way it moves when people walk. Look at the way it stretches tight when they bend over or run. Look at the way it hangs when they’re relaxed. When you’re drawing a picture on skin, when you’re making art that will live and breathe with the person wearing it, you need to consider everything. Wrinkles, fat, bone, muscle, age. It can all affect your work. And they’ll have to live with it. For a long, long time.”
As we walk along, I point out tattoos on different people, explaining why I would or wouldn’t have done it that way. I ask Sloane questions, trying to get a feel for her innate abilities. I ask her things like how she would work around a skin fold or what she’d tell someone who wanted a tattoo in a place that wouldn’t turn out the way they envision.
I suspected her to be fairly intuitive about art. After seeing her sketch, I had no doubt she has talent. But now I’m beginning to think she might really have an aptitude for tattoo work. And that just makes her even more appealing to me. It’s not something that’s common—doing tattoos—therefore it’s not something easily shared with others. I can feel it forming a bond between us, one I didn’t foresee and probably should’ve avoided like the plague.
But damn, I can’t say I wouldn’t love to dig my fingers and my tongue and my c**k into her sweet little body. I’m reminded of that when she comes bouncing back out into the living room less than ten minutes later, carrying a beach bag and wearing nothing but a bikini top and the tiniest shorts I’ve ever seen.
“Ready?” she asks, all fresh-faced and enthusiastic.
“Oh, hell yeah I’m ready.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN - Sloane
I never really thought of what a guy like Hemi might drive. I wouldn’t have been surprised by a big, shiny motorcycle or a fast little sports car, but what I find parked in the driveway at my house suits him perfectly.
It’s an old car, but in absolutely perfect condition from what I can tell. It’s a convertible and the top is down. With its muscular build, glossy black paint and sparkly silver racing stripes that zoom up the hood, it looks dangerous and powerful, just like its driver.
“I don’t know what kind of car this is, but it suits you to a T!” I say as I walk around to the passenger side. Looking at the car, I didn’t know Hemi followed me until he reaches past me to open up the door. “Oh,” I exclaim, startled, “thank you!”
Hemi nods, a grin teasing the edges of his lips. “My pleasure.” I love it when he’s almost smiling like that. It makes him look like he’s up to something and I can’t help but feel excited with anticipation.
I watch his loose gait as he walks around the hood of the car and slides easily behind the wheel. He glances over at me. “It’s a 1969 Camaro.” As if to punctuate what I already suspected about the car, Hemi fires up the engine. The deep, throaty growl screams speed. And power. “It’s four hours to the beach. This baby’ll get us there in closer to three.”
He shifts into gear and guides the car slowly out of my subdivision. As soon as he turns the corner onto the highway, he hits the gas and turns up the music. I feel a lighthearted laugh bubble up in my throat. The tunes, the wind, the sun, Hemi—it all feels like freedom. I’m spreading my wings. And it feels wonderful.
********
It’s just after one when we arrive at Tybee Island, right on the edge of Savannah. We didn’t talk on the way down, as a convertible isn’t exactly conducive to hearing much of anything. But we didn’t need to talk. The trip was wonderful without a single word having to be spoken.
Hemi finds a parking spot at a public lot and maneuvers his car into it. He cuts the engine and hops out, grabbing my bag from the back seat. I get out before he can get around to my side, and I meet him at the front of the car.
“I hope you brought sunscreen,” Hemi says, reaching up to rub the backs of his fingers down my arm. “I’d hate to see this porcelain get burned.”
“I did,” I reply softly, feeling his touch all the way into my core.
“All right, then, let’s do this thing.”
I smile, remembering he said the same thing the first night we met. Hemi holds out his hand. I slip mine inside it, fighting the urge to smile even wider. “I’m ready.”
He’s not looking at me when he speaks, and his voice is low, so I’m not entirely sure I hear him correctly, but it sounded like he murmured, “I sure hope so.”
We cross the street and make our way onto the hot sand. There is a nice crowd out today, but it’s nowhere near as commercial (and, therefore, as congested) as other beaches.
Hemi surprises me when he leads me to a small square of empty sand right in the thick of things and sets my bag in the center of it. “This oughtta do.”
“Not that I’m complaining, but why are we here again?”
“To observe.”
“To observe what?”
“People. Bodies. Your canvas will be this,” he says, sweeping his hand over the throng of beach-goers. “Folks just like these. The more familiar you are with the human body, the way the skin moves and shifts, the way it stretches over bone and muscle, the better able you’ll be to craft a great tattoo.”
“Oh,” I respond, not knowing what else to say, but duly impressed with his philosophy. “Sounds good.”
As I spread out my towel, I’m keenly aware of Hemi. He’s standing to my left, facing me. Behind his glasses, he could be looking out at the people beyond me. Or he could be watching me. I can’t be sure. Either way, it makes peeling my shorts down my legs unnerving. And exciting.
I stretch out on my towel and take advantage of my own shaded eyes, tilting my face toward the sun and surreptitiously watching Hemi. I find that I’m much more interested in observing his form than I am in looking at the other half-naked bodies on the beach.
I see his lips curl up again—just the tiniest bit—and I wonder if he knows I’m watching him. He slips his glasses off as he pulls his shirt over his head. He pitches it onto the sand and, before he puts his glasses back in place, I see his eyes meet mine through my own aviators. Yes, he knows I’m watching him.
I’ve seen Hemi in a tank top before, but without it, he’s even more beautiful than I could’ve imagined. His shoulders are impossibly wide, one side covered with an intricate tattoo that crawls over onto a perfectly-defined pectoral. His chest is covered with a smattering of hair that narrows as it approaches the washboard of his abdominals. On one side of his trim waist is a series of beautifully designed letters and numbers that travel from his hip, beyond his jeans, up his ribs to his armpit. I’m just about to ask what they mean when he reaches for the closure of his jeans. The words die in the back of my throat.
Hemi unfastens his button fly, his fingers working nimbly to undo each one. He looks practiced at it and I can’t help but imagine him expertly loosening the clasp of my bra. And my shorts. And whatever else lies between his skin and mine.
He eases the material down his legs, revealing black swim trunks and, beyond them, the most perfect legs I’ve ever seen. They’re muscular and not overly hairy, and I can see the end of a tattoo peeking out from beneath the hem of his shorts. It must cover his right thigh.
He pitches his jeans on top of his shirt and turns to face the ocean. My mouth is dry as I look at his amazing back side. I hope to God we get in the water and I get to see what all that looks like with the thin material of his trunks stuck wetly to every wonderful inch of his lower body.
“You did bring sunscreen, didn’t you?” he asks, looking over his shoulder at me.
“Of course. I’m obedient like that,” I tease, reaching into my bag for a tube of lotion. Hemi gave me meticulous care instructions for my tattoo, one of which was to protect it from the sun.
“Obedient? Mmm, I like obedient.” Something about the way he says it, something about the rough quality of his voice draws my eyes back to him. He’s still looking back at me, watching me. And my mouth is still dry as he does.
“I’m a good girl, remember?”
“How can I forget?”
I’m not sure what that means, so I’m thankful when my fingers meet the familiar shape of the sunblock. I drag it out and hold it out to Hemi. “Want some?”
“Please,” he says, taking it from my fingers and squeezing some out into his palm. He hands me the tube and I take it. But that’s as far as I get. I’m suddenly mesmerized as I watch him rub lotion onto his arms then his chest and belly, the skin glistening in the sun as he works in the cream. “Can you do my back?” he asks quietly.
My eyes fly to his and I silently curse the black disks that hide them from me. All I see there is a reflection of my face, of my interest and desire. I know nothing of what he’s feeling, if anything at all.
“Sure,” I say, getting ready to stand to my feet.
“Stay put. I’ll come to you,” he says, sitting between my feet.
Feeling a little breathless in the heat, I squirt a blob of sunscreen into my palm and spread my legs to lean up and massage the lotion into Hemi’s smooth, bronze skin. He must be naturally dark complected. I see no evidence of tan lines. Anywhere.
I rub my hands over his shoulders, down the backs of his arms, over his broad back and down his sides, making sure to adequately cover the tattoo on his ribs, all the while trying to ignore the way his muscles twitch and flex under my palms.
“All done,” I breathe, feeling discombobulated.
“Now you,” he says, turning to get up onto his knees and taking the tube from beside my hip. “Roll over.”
Slowly, I straighten my legs, guiding them between his spread knees and then I roll carefully onto my stomach, more aware than ever of my tiny bathing suit bottoms.
The first thing I feel is a cool dot between my shoulder blades. It snakes from side to side over my back, stopping at the base of my spine. There’s a pause and then I feel Hemi’s warm hands. They start with wide swipes between my shoulder blades then he spreads his hands and digs his fingers into the muscles of my neck.
I gasp.
“Why so tense?” he asks.
“The drive, I guess,” I mutter, burying my face in my crossed arms.
Hemi works his way down my back, his fingers gliding under the tie to my suit, skating dangerously to the curve of my breasts. He moves on to my ribs, carefully coating my new butterflies.
His strokes slow and I feel him shift closer. “These turned out really well. Maybe we can finish them up this week.”
I feel his warm breath on my skin and chills spread. Again.
“You’re surely not cold.”
“No, I’m not cold.”
“Then why the chills?” he whispers, his voice near my ear.
“I’m ticklish,” I murmur, the statement not entirely fabricated.
“You are? Where are you most ticklish? Here?” he asks, dancing his fingertips along my side. I flinch, but not because he’s tickling me. “Here?” he asks, nearing my arm pits. “Or is it lower?”
Oh God, oh God, oh God!
I catch my breath and hold it as he drags his hands down my spine and spreads them over my hips, dipping them down toward the sand, his fingertips barely teasing the edges of my stomach. Reflexively, I arch, raising my h*ps a little.
I hear him breathe an obscenity before his hands are gone. I look behind me and he’s already on his feet, his jaw clenched tight, rubbing excess sunscreen onto his chest.
“Come on, let’s go people watch.”
“Wait! I need to do my front.”
“I’ll meet you down at the water,” he says stiffly and then he turns and walks away.
CHAPTER TWELVE - Hemi
Here I am. At the beach. Surrounded by scantily-clad women, sparkling water and white-sugar sand, and none of it is holding my attention. I’m simply looking at it all to keep from turning and watching Sloane slather sunblock on her long legs, her tight stomach and between those lush tits.
God, rubbing that lotion on her was sweet torture. The kinds of women I usually spend time with have no delusions about where something like that would lead. And they’d be okay with it. Begging for it, even. But it’s different with Sloane. She’s naïve to a point. And besides that, I don’t think she has a clue how damnably hot and sexy she is. In fact, I think that adds to it. Maybe that’s what I’m finding so irresistible about her. Because that’s what it’s feeling like. The more I’m around her, the more I want her, the more I feel like I have to have her. And now that I know about her brother, that could be bad news for both of us. And no female is worth that risk. Not. One.
“Okay, what now?” Sloane asks from behind me. I turn to find her standing at my left shoulder, looking up at me, her eyes hidden by sunglasses. But I don’t need to see them to know that interest is there. Attraction. Fascination. I don’t know whether she doesn’t try to hide it or if she thinks she is hiding it. Either way, it’s there for me to see. Plain as the cute little nose on her face. And it’s driving me crazy.
“Let’s walk,” I say, turning to head up the beach. I set a lazy pace as we kick through the surf. She keeps up easily. When the wind blows, I get a hint of her perfume mixed with sunscreen—the scent of innocence. It’s mouthwatering.
“What are we looking for?”
“Just look around. Look at all the exposed skin. Look at the way it moves when people walk. Look at the way it stretches tight when they bend over or run. Look at the way it hangs when they’re relaxed. When you’re drawing a picture on skin, when you’re making art that will live and breathe with the person wearing it, you need to consider everything. Wrinkles, fat, bone, muscle, age. It can all affect your work. And they’ll have to live with it. For a long, long time.”
As we walk along, I point out tattoos on different people, explaining why I would or wouldn’t have done it that way. I ask Sloane questions, trying to get a feel for her innate abilities. I ask her things like how she would work around a skin fold or what she’d tell someone who wanted a tattoo in a place that wouldn’t turn out the way they envision.
I suspected her to be fairly intuitive about art. After seeing her sketch, I had no doubt she has talent. But now I’m beginning to think she might really have an aptitude for tattoo work. And that just makes her even more appealing to me. It’s not something that’s common—doing tattoos—therefore it’s not something easily shared with others. I can feel it forming a bond between us, one I didn’t foresee and probably should’ve avoided like the plague.
