by Lolita Lopez
His shoulders, wider than the beach chair he leaned against, mesmerized me and I couldn’t keep from imagining the way they’d feel. I’d have donated my whole stack of traveler’s checks to charity just to feather my fingers over them. I could see the strength in his muscular arms and sense the power he could unleash at any moment. He pressed his mouth to the highball glass, moving his square jaw, and I had to fight to keep from dashing over and licking off the tiny drop of whiskey left on his upper lip.
His eight-pack abs called to me. Come, Jenn. Come and run your hands over me. I let my gaze glide down his rock-hard abdomen. Can you blame me when my heart started pounding and my mouth went dry? Can you understand why the place between my legs overflowed with wetness?
I pondered what to do. Should I say something? Why didn’t he say something? How long could we lie here and stare at each other? What would I do if he got up and walked away? Or even more frightening, what would I do if he came over?
Then he smiled at me.
My mouth dropped open. I lifted my head from my beach towel, forgetting to play it nonchalant. Instead I gaped like a schoolgirl with her first crush. He stood and started toward me, making me oh-so-aware of his height and brawn. My examination of this spectacular specimen started at the top and moved slowly downward.
I’d never found men’s legs attractive before—I’m an upper torso kind of gal—but the black hairs on his legs, the firm tanned skin stretched over his runner’s tendons, converted me to a leg gal right then and there. My membership in the leg lovers fan club was sealed the minute he squatted next to my blanket and gave me a front row seat to the hard bulge in his swimsuit.
Granted, his first words weren’t anything particularly clever, but he didn’t need clever. He could have read me the directions on how to buckle a seat belt and I’d have thought it wonderful, riveting, mysterious and oh, yes, sexy as hell.
“Hi, there. Why are you watching me?”
Thick as molasses and hotter than the center of the sun, his warm voice traveled over my naked skin and made me shiver in anticipation of steamy nights and luxurious mornings in bed.
“Uh, no. I mean, no, I’m not watching you.” I rolled off my stomach and onto my side in what I prayed was a slinky kind of move, and propped my head with my hand.
Sliding his sunglasses to the end of his nose, he arched one thick eyebrow upward and knowing eyes twinkled the word liar at me. “Oh, I see. My mistake.” His gaze left mine to make a very slow, very deliberate trek down my thong-clad body, and the tips of his mouth tweaked a bit higher.
Thank you, oh tortuous elliptical machine.
I swallowed, trying to force the liar’s lump in my throat all the way down to my stomach. Since when had I ever felt guilty about lying? I was proud I could lie with the best of them. In my line of work—both lines of work—I have to be able to stretch the truth. Otherwise, I might not live very long—or sell a bug-ridden condo. But something irresistible about him drew the truth out of me. “Okay. Maybe I was. But I was simply returning the favor, if you know what I mean.”
He reached out to take a wayward strand of my hair off my cheek. Yet instead of putting it behind my ear to join the rest of my ponytail, he played with it, rubbing the strand between his two fingers as if he’d never experienced the texture of hair. I found myself wishing I’d spent the extra bucks for a salon-quality conditioner.
“I do and you’re right. I apologize.”
Huh? “What for?” I suddenly envisioned those fingers playing with my nipple instead of my hair. Forget the conditioner, think scented body lotion. The image was so intense, I wanted nothing more than to take his hand and bring it to my breast. How I kept from grabbing his hand, I’ll never know. “Why are you apologizing?”
“For staring at you. I apologize for my rudeness.”
Unnerved by his words, I sat up and tried to position my body as I’d seen countless swimsuit models pose in glossy magazines. Yet instead of stretching my torso and legs in an alluring way, I ended up sitting cross-legged like a big kid. A real turn on—not.
“Oh, were you?” Argh! Stupid comeback, especially since I’d already accused him of staring at me.
“Yes, but you can hardly blame me.”
“I wasn’t blaming you, but I’d be interested in knowing why I can’t. I mean, since you’re apologizing.”
He took off his glasses and, like in all those cliché romance books my mom used to read, our eyes met and a sizzle passed between us. “The answer is very simple. What man could not look at such a tantalizing sight?”
Sure it was a corny line, but I fell for him right then and there. Off the deep end, over the cliff, dived in head first and all those other sayings people use when they fall in love at first sight. As if he could read my thoughts, he leaned closer and placed a feather-light kiss on my lips. Yet, although his touch barely brushed against my mouth, the result rivaled the explosion of a nuclear bomb between my legs. My body’s temperature jumped sky high, matching the burn of the sun on my shoulders.
“What are you doing tonight?”
I knew a leading line when I heard it and I heard this one loud and clear. “The same thing I’m going to be doing in about fifteen minutes.”
His eyebrows dipped toward his nose and he cocked his head to the side. “And what would that be?”
“Having the best sex of my life.”
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