Beautiful Player
Page 7
“That is horrifying. How in the world do you remember all this?”
I straightened. “I was twelve. You were a nineteen-year-old hot friend of my brother who joked about sex in our house. You were practically a mythical creature.”
“Why don’t I remember any of this?”
I shrugged, looking past him at the now-crowded trail. “Probably for the same reason.”
“I don’t remember you being this funny, either. Or this”—he took a moment to covertly look me up and down—“grown-up.”
I smiled. “I wasn’t.”
He reached behind him, pulling his sweatshirt up and over his head. For a brief moment, his shirt underneath was pulled up with it, and a long stretch of his torso was exposed. I experienced a full-body clench at the sight of his flat stomach and the dark hair that trailed from his navel down into his shorts. His running pants hung low enough for me to see the carved lines of his hips, the enticing suggestion of man parts, and man legs and . . . holy crap Will Sumner’s body was unreal.
When he tugged the hem of his shirt back down, he broke my trance and I looked up to take in the rest of him, arms now bare below the short sleeves of his shirt. He scratched his neck, oblivious to the way my eyes moved over his forearm. I had a lot of memories of Will from the summer he’d lived with us while working for Dad: sitting on the couch with him and Jensen while we watched a movie, passing him in the hallway at night wearing nothing more than a towel around his hips, inhaling dinner at the kitchen table after a long day at the lab. But only from the evil influence of dark magic could I have forgotten about the tattoos. Seeing them now, I could remember a bluebird near his shoulder, a mountain and the roots of a tree wrapped up in vines on his bicep.
But some of these were new. Swirls of ink formed a double helix down the center of one forearm, the etching of a phonograph peeked out from beneath his sleeve on the other. Will had grown quiet and I looked up to find him smirking at me.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, smiling sheepishly. “You have new ones.”
His tongue darted out to lick his lips, and we turned to start walking again. “Don’t be sorry. I wouldn’t have them if I didn’t want people to look.”
“And it’s not weird? With the business job and everything?”
Shrugging, he murmured, “Long sleeves, suit jackets. Most people don’t know they’re there.” The problem with what he said was it didn’t make me think about the most people who remained ignorant to his tattoos. It made me wonder about the ones who knew each and every line of ink on his skin.
The Danger of Will Sumner, I reminded myself. Everything he says sounds filthy, and now you’re thinking of him naked. Again.
I blinked away, searching for a new topic. “So what about your life?”
He eyed me, wary. “What do you want to know?”
“Do you like your job?”
“Most days.”
I acknowledged this with a smile. “Do you get to see your family often? Your mom and sisters are in Washington, right?” I remembered that Will had two much older sisters who both lived close to their mother.
“Oregon,” he corrected. “And yes, a couple of times a year.”
“Are you dating anyone?” I blurted.
He furrowed his brows as if he hadn’t quite understood what I’d asked. After a moment he answered, “No.”
His adorably confused reaction helped me forget how inappropriate my question had been. “Did you have to really think about it?”
“No, smart-ass. And no, there is no one I would introduce to you by saying, ‘Hey Ziggy, this is so-and-so, my girlfriend.’?”
I hummed, studying him. “What a very specific evasion.”
He pulled his hat from his head, running his fingers through his hair. It was damp with sweat and stuck up in a million directions.
“No one woman has caught your eye?”
“A few have.” He turned his eyes on me, refusing to shrink from my interrogation. I remembered this about Will; he never felt the need to explain himself, but he didn’t shy away from questions, either.
Clearly he was the same Will he’d always been: often with women, and never with just one. I blinked down, looking at his chest as it widened and retracted with his slowly-steadying breaths, at his muscular shoulders leading to a smooth, tan neck. His lips parted slightly and his tongue peeked out to wet them again. Will’s jaw was carved and covered in dark stubble. I had a sudden and overwhelming urge to feel it on my thighs.
My eyes dropped to his toned arms, the large hands relaxed at his sides—holy shit what those fingers probably knew how to do—his flat stomach, and the front of his running pants that told me Will Sumner had plenty going on below the belt. Good sweet baby Jesus, I wanted to bang the smirk off this man.
I straightened. “I was twelve. You were a nineteen-year-old hot friend of my brother who joked about sex in our house. You were practically a mythical creature.”
“Why don’t I remember any of this?”
I shrugged, looking past him at the now-crowded trail. “Probably for the same reason.”
“I don’t remember you being this funny, either. Or this”—he took a moment to covertly look me up and down—“grown-up.”
I smiled. “I wasn’t.”
He reached behind him, pulling his sweatshirt up and over his head. For a brief moment, his shirt underneath was pulled up with it, and a long stretch of his torso was exposed. I experienced a full-body clench at the sight of his flat stomach and the dark hair that trailed from his navel down into his shorts. His running pants hung low enough for me to see the carved lines of his hips, the enticing suggestion of man parts, and man legs and . . . holy crap Will Sumner’s body was unreal.
When he tugged the hem of his shirt back down, he broke my trance and I looked up to take in the rest of him, arms now bare below the short sleeves of his shirt. He scratched his neck, oblivious to the way my eyes moved over his forearm. I had a lot of memories of Will from the summer he’d lived with us while working for Dad: sitting on the couch with him and Jensen while we watched a movie, passing him in the hallway at night wearing nothing more than a towel around his hips, inhaling dinner at the kitchen table after a long day at the lab. But only from the evil influence of dark magic could I have forgotten about the tattoos. Seeing them now, I could remember a bluebird near his shoulder, a mountain and the roots of a tree wrapped up in vines on his bicep.
But some of these were new. Swirls of ink formed a double helix down the center of one forearm, the etching of a phonograph peeked out from beneath his sleeve on the other. Will had grown quiet and I looked up to find him smirking at me.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, smiling sheepishly. “You have new ones.”
His tongue darted out to lick his lips, and we turned to start walking again. “Don’t be sorry. I wouldn’t have them if I didn’t want people to look.”
“And it’s not weird? With the business job and everything?”
Shrugging, he murmured, “Long sleeves, suit jackets. Most people don’t know they’re there.” The problem with what he said was it didn’t make me think about the most people who remained ignorant to his tattoos. It made me wonder about the ones who knew each and every line of ink on his skin.
The Danger of Will Sumner, I reminded myself. Everything he says sounds filthy, and now you’re thinking of him naked. Again.
I blinked away, searching for a new topic. “So what about your life?”
He eyed me, wary. “What do you want to know?”
“Do you like your job?”
“Most days.”
I acknowledged this with a smile. “Do you get to see your family often? Your mom and sisters are in Washington, right?” I remembered that Will had two much older sisters who both lived close to their mother.
“Oregon,” he corrected. “And yes, a couple of times a year.”
“Are you dating anyone?” I blurted.
He furrowed his brows as if he hadn’t quite understood what I’d asked. After a moment he answered, “No.”
His adorably confused reaction helped me forget how inappropriate my question had been. “Did you have to really think about it?”
“No, smart-ass. And no, there is no one I would introduce to you by saying, ‘Hey Ziggy, this is so-and-so, my girlfriend.’?”
I hummed, studying him. “What a very specific evasion.”
He pulled his hat from his head, running his fingers through his hair. It was damp with sweat and stuck up in a million directions.
“No one woman has caught your eye?”
“A few have.” He turned his eyes on me, refusing to shrink from my interrogation. I remembered this about Will; he never felt the need to explain himself, but he didn’t shy away from questions, either.
Clearly he was the same Will he’d always been: often with women, and never with just one. I blinked down, looking at his chest as it widened and retracted with his slowly-steadying breaths, at his muscular shoulders leading to a smooth, tan neck. His lips parted slightly and his tongue peeked out to wet them again. Will’s jaw was carved and covered in dark stubble. I had a sudden and overwhelming urge to feel it on my thighs.
My eyes dropped to his toned arms, the large hands relaxed at his sides—holy shit what those fingers probably knew how to do—his flat stomach, and the front of his running pants that told me Will Sumner had plenty going on below the belt. Good sweet baby Jesus, I wanted to bang the smirk off this man.
