Page 64 of Beyond the Lines
“Is that right?” There’s a hint of teasing in his voice. “And your findings?”
“Your left eyebrow is slightly higher than your right,” I say, pleased with how clinical I sound. “And your ears aren’t perfectly symmetrical.”
“Wow. You really know how to make a guy feel special.”
“I’m just being observant.”
“Observant,” he repeats, and I swear his eyes darken slightly. “Of course.”
“What?” I glare.
He tilts his head, gaze sliding over my features. “Your lips are a little fuller on the right side. Your left eyebrow has a tiny scar through it—right there.” He points to his own eyebrow to demonstrate. “And when you concentrate hard, you get this little crease right between your eyes.”
My breath catches. I didn’t realize he’d been looking at me that closely. “Shut up, I do not!”
“Going to need Botox when you’re all grown-up…” His voice is teasing, warm… and his face lights up, banishing the gloom that’s been there for weeks.
And, for the first time since the Diner, he gets a smirk out of me. “Lacks soulandgoing to need injections… great…”
Something shifts in the air between us, charged and dangerous. I drop my gaze to my sketchbook, heart pounding as I begin to draw the curve of his jaw. We work in silence for several minutes, the only sounds the soft scratching of pencilagainst paper and our breathing, which seems unnaturally loud.
Drawing him feels intimate in a way I wasn’t prepared for. Each stroke captures some essential truth about him—the stubborn set of his mouth, and the intensity in his eyes. By focusing on these details, I’m admitting to myself how closely I’ve been watching him, how aware I’ve been of his presence all along.
His pencil moves with surprising grace for someone with such large hands. I find myself watching his fingers more than I should, remembering how they felt against my skin that night outside my dorm, how I can’t stop dreaming about how they might feel roaming other places over my body…
“Stop moving,” he murmurs, not looking up from his page.
“I’m not moving.”
“Your breathing changed. It makes your shoulders shift.”
Has he really been paying that much attention to my breathing?
The thought sends heat coursing through me…
“Sorry,” I say, forcing myself to take slow, measured breaths.
When I glance up again, he’s watching me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. There’s something almost predatory in his gaze, like he can see right through me—through my clothes and my underwear, past all my anger and defensiveness, past all my hurt from him and from Chris…
And to the desire underneath.
And, in a display ofperfecttiming (not!), I gasp a little when he reaches out and puts his hand on my chin, lifting it slightly higher. His touch is light, clinical even, but my skin tingles like he’s branded me. Every nerve ending in my body seems to redirect to that single point of contact.
“Tilt a bit,” he says, his voice low. “I’m nearly finished with the curve of it.”
My cheeks burn, a warmth that spreads rapidly through my entire body, and suddenly I’m aware of a wetness… an aching… between my thighs.
Houston! We have a problem!My mind screams at me.Draw! Damn it!
I try to keep still for him, while simultaneously dealing with my feelings—thosefeelings—and trying to get my sketch done.
My eyes lock onto his mouth as I draw, but then my gaze drops lower, to areas of his body that I’m not supposed to be focused on right now.
To his shoulders—broad, round muscles I clung to as he stole my breath with that kiss.
To his hands—strong, calloused, yet gentle, as they’d gripped me and pulled me close.
To his chest—which has felt so good pressed against me.
