Page 68 of Black Ties and White Lies

Then things got a bit more…not innocent.

I’d stared at his defined pecs, wondering what they’d feel like to the touch. I’d been finishing the slopes and planes of his abs when Beck happened upon me tonight.

He takes me by surprise by placing the book back into my lap. I’d expected him to spend more time looking at the picture I’d drawn of him, or at least for him to give me shit about it. He does neither of those things.

I can’t move as he watches me. I wonder how often he uses that same stare in a boardroom. It’s commanding. With one look, he can pin you to your spot.

His fingers find the collar of his shirt. In one fluid movement, he tugs the shirt off. He balls up the fabric and throws it next to him.

“What are you doing?” I whisper. My voice betrays me. I can’t say anything more, too caught up in staring at the skin he’d just bared to me.

He leans back, propping himself up by the elbows. I only last a few seconds staring into his eyes until I can’t help but look at his perfectly sculpted muscles.

“Beck?” My voice comes out as a squeak. I hate that he’s not a man of many words. I’m left wondering what he’s thinking. I wished he’d say whatever is on his mind so I didn’t have to fill in the blanks.

“Finish it,” he clips.

I pull my gaze from the splatter of hair above the waistband of his shorts. “What?”

He growls, his eyes ushering to the picture in my lap. “You don’t have to study me from afar. I’m right here, Violet. Finish it for me.”

I’m right here, Violet. Words have never been hotter, and he didn’t even have my name right.

I bite my tongue, not wanting to correct him. I don’t know where he got the impression that was my name, but I don’t hate it coming from his lips. Telling him he’s got the wrong person would ruin whatever is happening between us right now. The last thing I want to do is break what is happening between us, no matter how wrong it is.

He shifts on the towel. It feels weird to be allowed free rein of staring at the way his muscles flex with each movement.

I stare at him, unsure. It feels way less innocent than it did earlier today with him laid out in front of me, a willing participant. “I um…” I don’t know what to say. This was the last thing I’d expected.

The confident look on his face has me picking up my pencil. He seems so sure, it’s like through his concrete resolve that I have no option but do as he wishes.

This should feel weird. It should feel off. Neither of those are how it feels. It’s thrilling. It feels right. It’s like there’s nothing else I should be doing under the moonlight than sketching every perfect inch of Beckham Sinclair.

My fingers clutch the pencil for dear life. I have to erase something almost immediately after picking back up, my nerves getting the better of me.

I can feel his gaze hot on me as I study him. I’ve already drawn his face, so I don’t have to look him in the eyes. But it doesn’t stop me from feeling him look at me. I want to ask him what he’s thinking. Or how he knew I was out here to begin with, but my mouth stays shut.

Right now, it feels like things should be silent. That the only sounds around us should be the scratch of my pencil on paper mixing with the sound of the waves. It’s incredibly peaceful.

I work on getting a rough sketch of the muscles along his hips. They’re huge. I don’t know what he does to get them so defined, but whatever it is, it’s working. As I bring the muscles to life, shading in different colors, I can’t help but think about where the muscles lead to. They dip into his shorts, leading to something forbidden.

In the silence of the moment, I want to know what Beck looks like underneath. I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself. Does that dirty blond hair go all the way down? Are there muscles hiding underneath his shorts that I need to pay attention to?

Beck breaks me from my dirty thoughts. He adjusts the waistband of his shorts, pulling it down slightly to show off even more of his skin. With his pants lowered an inch, I can see that the newly exposed skin is a shade lighter than the rest of him. It isn’t as pink from the burn of the sun.

Neither one of us speak for minutes, maybe even hours. I don’t know exactly how long we spend out there. By the time I’m done drawing him, the sun has barely begun to rise. It’s pretty, pink and orange bleeding into the dark blue of the night sky.

The deep color of the ocean reminds me of the indigo color of his eyes.

I lean in, blowing some pencil shavings off the piece of paper. “It’s done,” I tell him quietly, shy being in his presence all over again. Soon he’ll realize that I’d started completely over. I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to capture the look on his face in this moment, the two of us alone under the moonlight, so I could keep it and remember it forever.

He sits up. Part of me hopes that he’ll immediately put his shirt on so I can stop fantasizing about the muscles I’d just spent hours drawing. He doesn’t allow me the mercy. His shirt remains off. Worse, he brings his body close to mine to look at the sketchbook in my lap.

His breath tickles my neck as he inspects it. It’s an excruciating few seconds of silence as he observes what I’d spent so long working on. I begin to panic that he hates it, that I’ve done something wrong when he lets out a long sigh.

“Your talent is unbelievable. You’re unbelievable.”

I fight the urge to tell him it wasn’t hard when the subject was someone as perfect as him. All I manage is a small thank you.

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