I revel in the tension strung between us like a taut wire. I want to enjoy it, prolong it, not push him away like he tried to push me away.
“And lasts,” I say with a casual laugh, referring to my venture into alcohol consumption.
“Maybe. Some things you try will be much more…addictive than drinking, though.”
My pulse flutters. “And what might those be?”
“I’ll let you tell me.”
The coffee feels tepid compared to the heat that’s coursing through me. This subtle, intimate way he has of speaking to me is doing horrible things to my nerve. And delicious things to the rest of me. But should it? This is the guy that asked me to leave…
“What are you doing here? Did you come all the way out here to bring me coffee?”
I live about thirty minutes outside Atlanta.
With my father and brothers.
Still.
But once I graduate, and start making some money, I’m outta here.
“I’m here to take you for your first lesson.”
“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 c**k 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.”