Black Ties and White Lies(68)

I don’t realize I’m doing it until he latches onto my hips, causing them to stop the rocking motion I’d begun. “Because I’m nowhere near good enough a man to deny my little brother’s girlfriend when her hips are moving against me like that.”

The moan that falls from my lips takes both of us off guard.

No, Margo. No.

I rip myself from his lap, falling onto the towel with an aggravated sigh.

What in the hell just happened?

My chest heaves, lust coursing through my veins. My body protests breaking the connection with Beck while my head scolds me for allowing it to happen.

What did his words mean?

I cover my eyes with my hands, letting out a groan. I don’t know how much time passes as I lie there, wondering why I don’t feel as regretful as I should. Instead of feeling remorse for wanting to kiss Carter’s brother, I feel aggravated that I stopped myself.

Only the sound of Beck clearing his throat could break me from my self-conflict.

“Your attention to detail is top-notch, Violet.”

My eyes widen as I quickly push myself up from the towel. “No,” I plead, only now remembering the thing that got me straddling Beck’s lap to begin with.

My sketchbook.

It’s too late. I find Beck staring at the picture I’d drawn the first day he’d arrived.

This one is much more innocent than the one he’ll find next.

I hadn’t felt as weird drawing this one sitting in the breakfast nook of the Sinclair house. Carter had left halfway right as I started it, saying he had to run into town. I hadn’t thought too deeply about why he was leaving me alone when he’d begged me to visit with him to begin with. It hadn’t mattered. My brain was focused on Beck sitting at the counter with his laptop, phone pressed to his ear as he discussed business with someone on the other line.

There were so many things I could’ve focused on as he sat working on the counter, but what I couldn’t stop looking at were his hands. He had defined veins on the top of them. Ones that rippled with every single one of his movements.

I’d told myself it was purely innocent as I’d begun to sketch the one whose fingers wrapped around the handle of a coffee mug. Hands are hands. I hadn’t wondered what those strong fingers felt like on intimate parts of me. Or what it’d feel like to have his fingers wrap around my throat the same way they did the mug.

I hadn’t thought of any of that. Or maybe I had. Either way, I’d spent an hour sketching the stupid Greetings From The Hamptons mug.

“That’s my favorite mug,” he quips, pinning me with a sultry smirk.

“A weird coincidence that I saw someone else with the exact same one,” I lie.

He gives me a knowing look. He knows I’m lying through my teeth. But he lets me have the lie. At least for the moment. When he turns the page, there won’t be any more pretending.

He prolongs the inevitable, letting me linger in the anticipation of him finding the more intimate sketch I’d drawn of him. I wait with bated breath until he finally turns the page, his lips turning into a frown when he takes in the picture I’d drawn of him.

He’d been laying by the pool, not working for the first time that weekend. The hard planes of muscles had caught me off guard when he’d walked out that afternoon. His swimming trunks had fit him perfectly, showing off a perfect ass. I’d never been more thankful for a pair of oversized sunglasses in my life. They allowed me to check him out without anyone seeing.

It may have been the backward baseball hat over his blond hair that threw me over the edge.

I’d never wanted to draw a human being more than I had in that moment.

The thing was, I didn’t want to create some other scenario for him for me to draw. I wanted to draw him exactly as he was, casually lounging by the pool. The moment was perfect enough as it was. He was perfect enough. I didn’t have to come up with some alternate life for him, because I couldn’t imagine him any other way than how he was at that moment.

It still started out fairly innocent when I had the time to draw him. I’d started with the tendril of hair that peeked out from underneath his hat. He’d had a pair of wayfarer sunglasses covering his eyes that I’d drawn. I’d taken my time sketching the hard set of his jaw, his perfectly straight nose and the curve of his defined Adam's apple.

Then things got a bit more…not innocent.

I’d stared at his defined pecs, wondering what they’d feel like to the touch. I’d been finishing the slopes and planes of his abs when Beck happened upon me tonight.

He takes me by surprise by placing the book back into my lap. I’d expected him to spend more time looking at the picture I’d drawn of him, or at least for him to give me shit about it. He does neither of those things.

I can’t move as he watches me. I wonder how often he uses that same stare in a boardroom. It’s commanding. With one look, he can pin you to your spot.

His fingers find the collar of his shirt. In one fluid movement, he tugs the shirt off. He balls up the fabric and throws it next to him.

“What are you doing?” I whisper. My voice betrays me. I can’t say anything more, too caught up in staring at the skin he’d just bared to me.

He leans back, propping himself up by the elbows. I only last a few seconds staring into his eyes until I can’t help but look at his perfectly sculpted muscles.