All the Pretty Lies (7 page)

“My first lesson?”

“Yes, lesson. Didn’t you say you wanted to
learn all about the art of tattooing?”

“Umm, yeah, but didn’t you say you didn’t
teach others?”

“I did. But with you having so many firsts to
share with me, I felt the need to keep up.”

“And what makes you think I’ll be sharing any
more firsts with you?”

Hemi smiles broadly and my insides burst into
flame. “Trust me. You’ll be sharing many more firsts with me.”

It doesn’t occur to me to argue his point.
Mainly because I don’t want to. I can think of nothing I’d like
better than to share
all
of my firsts with Hemi. I can think
of no more fascinating person with whom to spread my wings. I won’t
deny that I’m pleased. Very pleased. But I don’t have to admit it
either.

“Is that so?” I’m purposely nonchalant, even
though I feel anything
but
nonchalant.

“That’s so.”

He’s still smiling. And it’s still doing
wicked things to my guts.

“And just what does my first lesson
entail?”

“You. Me. And the Beach.”

“The beach?”

“Yes, the beach. So hurry up and drink your
coffee then go squeeze that tasty ass of yours into a bikini so we
can hit the road. We’ve got a long drive ahead.”

All I hear is
tasty ass
and
long
drive.
I get to spend the day with Hemi. And he thinks I have a
tasty ass.

Best. Hangover. Ever.

CHAPTER TEN- Hemi

What the hell was I thinking?

I decided to take Sloane up on her offer
because the opportunity was too good to pass up. I mean, this might
be the “in” that I need. I just need to be careful. I can’t afford
to let her distract me
too much
. A little is okay. Everyone
needs a little entertainment. And exploring a virtually untouched
body like hers would
definitely
be entertaining. But it also
might be
too
distracting.

I think the thought of denying myself is
getting to me. I’m used to taking what I want. I’ve always been
that kind of man. There have never really been consequences for a
guy like me. Until recently. But while that man might have been
buried for a while now, he isn’t dead. And I have a feeling that he
might raise his head long enough to take advantage of this
situation, no matter how stupid that would be.

Some part of me wonders if Sloane—and the
temptation to taste her— has more to do with my decision than
pragmatism does. It makes sense, but does it make
enough
sense?

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 cock 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 hips 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.