“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 br**sts. 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.”