Black Ties and White Lies(67)

My eyes flick to the sketchbook in his hands. “If I wanted to show you what I was drawing, I would. You have no right stealing it from me.”

“Don’t I?” His challenging stare says everything it needs to. The asshole definitely saw.

“First, you hijack the first chance at alone time I’ve had this weekend, and then you have the nerve to steal something that’s meant to be private. Are you always like this, Beckham?”

“It’s Beck.”

I roll my eyes. “Oh excuse me, Beckham.” I use the name on purpose just to annoy him. “I’ll get the memo to call you that when you stop being an ass and give me my drawings back.”

My stomach plummets when he lifts the cardboard cover of the book. At least there’s a small grace in the fact he doesn’t automatically flip to the newest page. He starts with the first page, his eyes raking over every pencil stroke I’d drawn.

He’s silent, taking his time looking over each drawing before flipping to the next. Eventually, he looks up at one I’d drawn of a man I’d seen eating alone at a cafe. One page had him seated at the table exactly as I’d seen him that early morning. The page after it was the life I’d made up in my head for him. He was walking through a Brownstone neighborhood in New York with his arm looped through a woman’s. In my head, this was the life he used to live before whatever transpired to have him eating alone that morning. I’d drawn him happily in love with the woman next to him, the two of them on a morning stroll with their tiny, yappy dog.

Beck pauses on the picture for a long time, flipping back to the previous page of the man before focusing on my re-imagined one again. His eyes look up to mine. There’s no longer humor in them. They’re serious, and I wish I knew him better to know what secrets lay beyond that penetrating indigo gaze of his. “These are breathtaking.”

I try to hide my gasp at his compliment. I’ve had plenty of people in my life tell me I’m talented, but for some reason, none of their opinions affected me the way his just did.

His stare is too much. It’s too intense. I have to look away, afraid the look on my face may show too much vulnerability to a man I barely know. “Thank you,” I mumble, brushing sand off the towel to give myself something to do.

I allow him to flip through the subsequent drawings, knowing there’s still a good amount left before he reaches the one I’ve drawn of him.

Once I’m confident he’s too focused on what he’s looking at in the book to pay attention to me, I make my move. Springing off the towel, I lunge for the book, attempting to snatch it from his unexpecting hands.

If it took him off guard, you’d never know. He easily rips the book from my grasp. I refuse to let go, resulting in him pulling me along with it. One large tug from him has the book coming free from my hands, but not at the expense of my body jerking into his lap in the process.

My hands find his body, running over his rock-hard abs, as I attempt to steady myself and prevent my body from crashing on top of his. The sudden movement has one of my thighs hiking over his, causing me to straddle him in a compromising position.

I should move.

If anyone were to happen on Beck and me right now, this position would have people automatically thinking the worst.

The problem is, I can’t. I’m stuck staring at him, marveling at the way his body feels underneath mine.

He lets the sketchbook fall from his hand. It lands next to him with a soft thud. With it no longer in his grip, I should feel safe. He isn’t focused on sorting through my drawings any longer, at least for the time being.

He’s focused on something much worse—me.

One of his large hands comes up to rest at the small of my back. It only hovers there, more of a tease of a touch than an actual touch. Still, it ignites fireworks low in my belly.

I come to the realization that I feel an intense need to kiss my boyfriend’s brother.

Maybe it’s still the lust from earlier rolling through my veins. Carter had gotten me so close to an orgasm before leaving me high and dry. I can blame the feelings passing through my body on that. But I know it really isn’t that. My body feels like a rubber band that’s been pulled taut, ready to snap from the tension at any moment. It doesn’t have anything to do with my boyfriend. It has everything to do with his brother.

In the company of the moonlight and the crashing waves, I can admit to myself I want Beckham Sinclair. Wholly, desperately, in a way so fiercely that I don’t care that I’m in a relationship with his brother.

His stare is so intense I’m wondering if he wants the same thing…

My gaze flicks to his lips. They’re so perfect, I want to know what they taste like. Is his kiss as demanding as his personality or is he softer when his lips press against another’s?

“Careful, Violet,” he warns. His hand moves from the small of my back, wrapping around my bicep. His grip is tight, his fingertips pressing into my tender skin. It’s almost like he’s trying to restrain himself. I could trick myself into thinking he's a coiled rubber band about to snap as well.

My tongue peeks out to wet my lips. They suddenly feel dry under the intensity of his gaze. “Careful how?” He didn’t use the right name, but it doesn’t matter. It sounds phenomenal coming from his lips. Even if he has my name wrong, there’s no misinterpretation of who he wants at the moment. I can feel him stiffen underneath me. It’s clear what he wants. Me.