Get off on the Pain
Page 18
“Tell me something I don’t know. At least I’m good at it,” I brag shamelessly.
Just as I’m about to cut through the grass to walk to the side of his garage, Bailey runs up behind me and shoves my camera in my chest. “Take some more sexy pictures. I want more. You’ve been drinking so he won’t suspect a thing. You’re golden.” She hiccups.
I let out an amused laugh and attempt to hand my camera back to her but she starts backing away while sucking on her lip ring. I think maybe she’s had a bit too much to drink. “I’m not going in there and asking him to do a damn photo shoot, Bailey. I’m just giving him back his jacket. I’ll be out in like two minutes. Here, I don’t need this you twat.” I hold out my camera again.
She shakes her head and turns around, walking crooked back toward the front of the house. “I’m not letting you back inside unless you have at least one new photo of that sex god. So ha!” She hiccups a few more times and holds up her finger. “One picture at least.”
I stand here with a scowl as I watch her disappear, surprised that her crazy ass didn’t fall face first in the grass. I would have paid to see that, and that probably makes me a bad friend.
Not even five seconds later the door to our house slams shut and I see her grin at me through the window while tilting back the bottle of wine.
“Damn whore,” I mumble.
The last thing I want is for him to think I’m here to sneak some more pictures of him, so I throw my camera around my neck and spin it around so that it’s hanging off my back. I’m seriously going to kill Bailey when I get home.
The side door is unlocked, so I open it and let myself in, passing through the dimly lit garage, but stop to glance at the beautiful car I admired the other day. I really need to remember to ask him the story behind that car someday.
When I get to the door leading into the house, I stop and knock a few times but he doesn’t answer, so I try a few for more times. Maybe he’s just downstairs and can’t hear me. I turn the knob and see that it is also unlocked, so I open it and let myself inside.
It’s not like he didn’t ask me to come over, so I’m sure he won’t be too pissed about me barging in.
I poke my head into a few rooms on the main floor, only to find them all empty before making my way to the basement door where I stop.
He asked me to stay upstairs last time I was here, but you know what . . . I don’t play by the rules and I’m tired of doing so for him. If he wants his jacket then he can deal with me.
Screw it . . .
I walk down the steps and call his name but he still doesn’t answer. I notice a light shining through the bottom of what I believe is the downstairs bathroom, so I throw his jacket on the queen-sized bed and look around me.
It’s like a mix between a bedroom and a gym. Everything about this room tells me that Memphis is a fighter . . . or was. In the back corner there is a heavy bag, a speed bag, two long, heavy ropes, and some kind of bar hanging from the ceiling that must be for pull-ups. There is more random equipment sitting around, but I really have no idea what they are used for.
You can tell he was heavy into training and staying fit: sexy and dangerous. Hand in hand they make a lethal weapon, and also one reason I should want to stay away.
I look down at the jacket on his bed one more time before turning around to head back upstairs.
The sight in front of me takes the breath straight from my lungs and for some reason refuses to give it back. Damn you wine. Damn you.
Memphis is standing there, dripping wet, with a small towel wrapped around his waist. One hand is shaking out his hair and the other is holding his towel together.
Please let go. Please let go . . .
I try my best to turn away, I swear, but I have to face it—it’s pointless at this point. My eyes slowly trail down his body, taking their time on each and every body part. Think he’d notice if I grabbed my camera? Holy hell . . .
Every single muscle in that firm chest is dying to be licked by me. Oh fuck me. Those defined muscles leading down to his . . . I swallow. Oh my . . . that looks like a nice package.
Where’s the wine?
My mouth feels dry. I quickly bring my eyes up to his face right as he pulls the towel away to adjust it. I catch a quick glimpse, but hold my breath and try to pretend that I missed it, although, that is definitely hard to miss.
“I . . . uh . . .” I point down at his bed. “Was just dropping off your jacket like you asked. You didn’t answer the door so I . . . never mind. I’m sorry. I’m leaving. I should have just left it upstairs.”
I turn to walk away, but his voice stops me. “I heard you knocking, Lyric. I expected you’d come down here. I know you more than you think.” He steps up behind me and touches my camera. “I was hoping you’d bring this.” He grabs the strap and pulls it over my shoulder toward the front of my body, letting it rest against my front, then turns me around to face him.
His icy blue eyes stare at me with an intensity that makes my heart skip a beat. “Why,” I ask softly, still trying to keep my eyes from wandering.
“Because I like it.” He runs his finger from the camera up the center of my body, between my breasts, and looks into my eyes. “And fuck me, but I love you using it on me.” He walks over to his dresser and pulls out a pair of jeans before dropping his towel and slipping them on.
Ugh, this man’s ass is never going to leave my mind now.
His dark jeans hang low on his waist, leaving little to the imagination. Not to mention his body is still damp from the shower water, making his tattoos seem more visible. Bailey was right. I do love a man with tattoos and this man is no exception.
“You want me to photograph you?” I watch as he walks to the chair pressed against the wall, grabs next to it for his guitar, and takes a seat on the edge of his bed.
“Yeah.”
“Why? You don’t even like talking or having anyone around. Why would you want me to photograph you?” He looks so beautiful with his guitar that I barely manage to get the words out. He seriously needs to put that thing away before I lose it.
He looks up from messing with the strings of his guitar. “Because this is easier than talking for me; always has been.” He picks one leg up and rests his heel on the frame of his bed to prop up his guitar, then sticks the pick in his mouth and strums a few chords before pulling it out and looking back up at me. “You’ve already captured one of my passions.” He licks his bottom lip before biting it. “You might as well capture them all, Lyric. I just hope you can handle them.”
Just as I’m about to cut through the grass to walk to the side of his garage, Bailey runs up behind me and shoves my camera in my chest. “Take some more sexy pictures. I want more. You’ve been drinking so he won’t suspect a thing. You’re golden.” She hiccups.
I let out an amused laugh and attempt to hand my camera back to her but she starts backing away while sucking on her lip ring. I think maybe she’s had a bit too much to drink. “I’m not going in there and asking him to do a damn photo shoot, Bailey. I’m just giving him back his jacket. I’ll be out in like two minutes. Here, I don’t need this you twat.” I hold out my camera again.
She shakes her head and turns around, walking crooked back toward the front of the house. “I’m not letting you back inside unless you have at least one new photo of that sex god. So ha!” She hiccups a few more times and holds up her finger. “One picture at least.”
I stand here with a scowl as I watch her disappear, surprised that her crazy ass didn’t fall face first in the grass. I would have paid to see that, and that probably makes me a bad friend.
Not even five seconds later the door to our house slams shut and I see her grin at me through the window while tilting back the bottle of wine.
“Damn whore,” I mumble.
The last thing I want is for him to think I’m here to sneak some more pictures of him, so I throw my camera around my neck and spin it around so that it’s hanging off my back. I’m seriously going to kill Bailey when I get home.
The side door is unlocked, so I open it and let myself in, passing through the dimly lit garage, but stop to glance at the beautiful car I admired the other day. I really need to remember to ask him the story behind that car someday.
When I get to the door leading into the house, I stop and knock a few times but he doesn’t answer, so I try a few for more times. Maybe he’s just downstairs and can’t hear me. I turn the knob and see that it is also unlocked, so I open it and let myself inside.
It’s not like he didn’t ask me to come over, so I’m sure he won’t be too pissed about me barging in.
I poke my head into a few rooms on the main floor, only to find them all empty before making my way to the basement door where I stop.
He asked me to stay upstairs last time I was here, but you know what . . . I don’t play by the rules and I’m tired of doing so for him. If he wants his jacket then he can deal with me.
Screw it . . .
I walk down the steps and call his name but he still doesn’t answer. I notice a light shining through the bottom of what I believe is the downstairs bathroom, so I throw his jacket on the queen-sized bed and look around me.
It’s like a mix between a bedroom and a gym. Everything about this room tells me that Memphis is a fighter . . . or was. In the back corner there is a heavy bag, a speed bag, two long, heavy ropes, and some kind of bar hanging from the ceiling that must be for pull-ups. There is more random equipment sitting around, but I really have no idea what they are used for.
You can tell he was heavy into training and staying fit: sexy and dangerous. Hand in hand they make a lethal weapon, and also one reason I should want to stay away.
I look down at the jacket on his bed one more time before turning around to head back upstairs.
The sight in front of me takes the breath straight from my lungs and for some reason refuses to give it back. Damn you wine. Damn you.
Memphis is standing there, dripping wet, with a small towel wrapped around his waist. One hand is shaking out his hair and the other is holding his towel together.
Please let go. Please let go . . .
I try my best to turn away, I swear, but I have to face it—it’s pointless at this point. My eyes slowly trail down his body, taking their time on each and every body part. Think he’d notice if I grabbed my camera? Holy hell . . .
Every single muscle in that firm chest is dying to be licked by me. Oh fuck me. Those defined muscles leading down to his . . . I swallow. Oh my . . . that looks like a nice package.
Where’s the wine?
My mouth feels dry. I quickly bring my eyes up to his face right as he pulls the towel away to adjust it. I catch a quick glimpse, but hold my breath and try to pretend that I missed it, although, that is definitely hard to miss.
“I . . . uh . . .” I point down at his bed. “Was just dropping off your jacket like you asked. You didn’t answer the door so I . . . never mind. I’m sorry. I’m leaving. I should have just left it upstairs.”
I turn to walk away, but his voice stops me. “I heard you knocking, Lyric. I expected you’d come down here. I know you more than you think.” He steps up behind me and touches my camera. “I was hoping you’d bring this.” He grabs the strap and pulls it over my shoulder toward the front of my body, letting it rest against my front, then turns me around to face him.
His icy blue eyes stare at me with an intensity that makes my heart skip a beat. “Why,” I ask softly, still trying to keep my eyes from wandering.
“Because I like it.” He runs his finger from the camera up the center of my body, between my breasts, and looks into my eyes. “And fuck me, but I love you using it on me.” He walks over to his dresser and pulls out a pair of jeans before dropping his towel and slipping them on.
Ugh, this man’s ass is never going to leave my mind now.
His dark jeans hang low on his waist, leaving little to the imagination. Not to mention his body is still damp from the shower water, making his tattoos seem more visible. Bailey was right. I do love a man with tattoos and this man is no exception.
“You want me to photograph you?” I watch as he walks to the chair pressed against the wall, grabs next to it for his guitar, and takes a seat on the edge of his bed.
“Yeah.”
“Why? You don’t even like talking or having anyone around. Why would you want me to photograph you?” He looks so beautiful with his guitar that I barely manage to get the words out. He seriously needs to put that thing away before I lose it.
He looks up from messing with the strings of his guitar. “Because this is easier than talking for me; always has been.” He picks one leg up and rests his heel on the frame of his bed to prop up his guitar, then sticks the pick in his mouth and strums a few chords before pulling it out and looking back up at me. “You’ve already captured one of my passions.” He licks his bottom lip before biting it. “You might as well capture them all, Lyric. I just hope you can handle them.”
