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
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
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