Page 18 of Under The Twilight Rainfall
He shoots a narrow-eyed look back at me.
“Cover me up if you’re so damn worried about it,” he says, throwing the sunblock at me. He might be joking, but I’m not going to miss an opportunity to have my hands on him if he’s offering.
As soon as I touch his shoulders, Dex startles, but I press down until he calms and give him an easy smile when he throws me a questioning glance.
“Sunscreen,” I say, working it into the muscles of his neck and back. “I told you, you’ll burn like a Toaster Strudel out here.”
He snorts, and as I rub into his lower back, I swear I hear him groan.
He doesn’t pick up the conversation, just sits in silence as I smooth the sunscreen into his skin. When my fingers trail down his well-toned arms, goosebumps rise in their wake, and I make the pass back up his shoulders just to feel him shudder beneath me.
I rise onto my knees, squirting and warming more of the sunscreen between my hands, and then I slide them down his chest, my own pressing against his back. His breath hitches and I stop, unsure if he’s uncomfortable and knowing deep down that the way I’m touching him has nothing to do with protecting his skin.
But then Dex relaxes and I continue my descent down, loving the feel of his firm muscles under my fingertips, of the light dips in his abs and the softness of his stomach. When I feel the waistband of his swim trunks, I cup my hands around his sides and slowly glide them back up and over his chest again.
That’s where they rest, my arms around him, until Dex tilts his head back, pressing on my collarbone. Ocean blue eyes stare up at me with such vulnerability that I want to press my lips to his, erase any concerns swirling around in that pretty little head of his.
But that would be crossing a line. Instead, I start to pull away, but Dex grabs my hands, adds a little more sunscreen, then guides them slowly up his neck. Everywhere my fingers touch feels electric, and there isn’t enough self-control in the world to stop me from trailing my fingers over his cheeks, rubbing the lotion into his skin, over his nose.
His eyelids flutter closed, but I see the tremble in his bottom lip, the one that says he’s afraid. I want to kiss it better, but he doesn’t want that, so I gently pull my hands away and lean him forward until our bodies are no longer touching.
And just like last night, we silently agree not to talk about the charge of energy thrumming between us.
I’m practically his bag boy as we depart the boat, my backpack slung over my shoulder along with his bag of miscellaneous camera equipment. Dex is a ‘come-prepared-for-anything’ type of person, so who knows what he’s got tucked away. It’s heavy; I’ll give it that.
Apo Island isn’t especially busy today. There are a few groups, but there’s still plenty of beach for us to separate from them. I’m mostly keeping watch and helping Dex with his tripod adjustments as he gets some lounging pictures that would look innocent to anyone passing by, but the camera picks up the dickprint in his swim shorts just the way Dex wants.
He’s got the art of sexy, casual poses down, ones that passersby might whistle at—mostly the foreigners, but he’s gotten some appreciative glances from the island’s inhabitants as well—but that don’t fully show how sexual they appear behind the lens.
Our bags are set aside, far enough up shore that the tide won’t catch them, but still within reaching distance if Dex asks me to grab anything for him. Not that my brain could function at the moment even if he did.
Dex has a hand on his thigh, propped up on the opposite elbow, his dirty, secretive smile aimed at the camera. His eyes flicker down then back up, and as I watch the camera take rapid shots, I see Dex is stroking his thumb along the length of his soft dick.
Our eyes meet when I look from the camera to him, and I wonder if the camera catches the heat building up behind his eyes. It might be wishful thinking, but I don’t think I’m imagining the twitch in his shorts, the little moan that parts his lips as he breaks eye contact and drops his head back.
I’m hard as hell inside my own shorts, and I adjust myself while Dex’s eyes are closed. The man is a goddamn work of art, whether it be in front of the camera or behind it.
I’m too busy trying to ignore the throbbing between my legs to notice Dex wrapping up, and it isn’t until his hands are on my shoulders, pushing me down so my ass plops onto the sand, that I finally snap out of it and look up at him.
His arms are crossed and he’s regarding me with a serious expression. One that breaks a little when he licks and bites down on his lip.
“Lie down,” he says, and I don’t hesitate to listen.
His brows fly up, and an amused little smile quirks his lips. “Eager to please, are you, Val?”
The old nickname rolling off his tongue makes me shiver, but it’s the truth. I’m eager for anything he’s willing to give me.
“How do you want me?” I ask, knowing damn well this has to do with the shoot—I can tell by the way he fiddles with the camera around his neck—but searching for that flash of arousal that keeps flaring to life in his eyes.
There it is.
In the next instance, he’s pinning my hips with his thighs and my wrists—clenched in his hands—are pressed tightly to the ground beside my head.
“Just like this.”
His hair curtains his expression as his grip on my wrists loosens. He slides his fingers down my arms at a snail’s pace, adding an extra layer of heat to the already blistering sun. He puts a hand on my chest and pushes himself up, scoots back so he’s bracketing my thighs instead of my hips, and then he brings up the camera.
I don’t get any instructions, but I’m so hot and bothered I don’t think it matters. Whatever he’s looking for must already be written on my face, because he sits there for minutes on end taking pictures—and I swear the only thing that changes is the erratic rise and fall of my chest as I try to breathe through the desire consuming me whole.
