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.
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.