Wicked Sexy Liar
Page 41

I pull my T-shirt over my head and toss it to the sand before unbuttoning my shorts and stepping out of them.
“I like this place,” Luke says, hands on his hips as he looks around—pointedly not looking at me. “I’ve been here before but only for a campfire or something.”
“Never to surf?” I ask, smoothing sunblock over my arms and shoulders.
“Ha, no. I barely go in the water.”
I stop. “You’re kidding.”
He ruffles the back of his hair and looks a little sheepish. “Afraid not.”
“Wait, I mean . . . How could you have lived this close to the ocean for most of your life and not go in the water? You swim. You were on a national championship water polo team.”
“Yeah, that’s a pool. And nothing in there is trying to eat me.”
I cough out an incredulous laugh. “Luke, there’s something like—I don’t know—eight hundred thousand things that live in the ocean, and out of that only a microscopic percent of a fraction would want anything to do with you.”
He tilts his head and pins me with a serious look. “I’ve seen Jaws, Logan.”
“Do you play bridge?” I ask him.
Clearly confused, he says, “Sometimes, with Grams and some of her friends.”
“Statistically speaking, more people have died playing bridge in the last century than by shark attacks in the entire states of California, Oregon, and Washington combined.”
“You made that up.”
I might have made that up.
I toss my sunscreen to the sand and turn to face him. “I don’t understand. If you didn’t want to go in the water, then why on earth did you agree to come out here?”
“I already told you, I like you. And when you’re not handing me my balls, you’re a lot of fun.” The corner of his mouth tilts up into a smile before the other side joins it. “Even then.”
Honest Luke is really throwing me for a loop. “Do you want to do something else?” I say. “We could, I don’t know, see a movie?”
He’s thinking about it, looking out at the water with a considerable amount of apprehension in his eyes. “No. No, I think I want to do this,” he says, and then begins to nod, like it’s taking his body a moment to agree with his mouth.
“You’re sure,” I say, giving him the chance to back out. “I don’t want you to do something that makes you uncomfortable. I promise I’m not keeping score here.”
“No, I . . . I want to.” He reaches behind his neck and tugs his shirt up and over his head. I feel my lungs constrict at the sight of his bare chest in the bright sun, the definition of muscle cutting down his torso and bisected by sharp lines on his abdomen. I blink away.
“Yeah,” he says. “Let’s go.”
“Okay,” I say, voice steadier than I feel, and reach for Luke’s board. “Basics first.”
With a stick I find in a group of rocks, I trace the outline of his board in the sand and prop it back up again.
Luke watches me, confused. “Why don’t you just use the board itself?”
“Because boards are expensive and we don’t want to ruin it,” I say, and toss the stick back into the brush. “This is your board.” I grip his forearms and bring him over to stand in the shape I’ve drawn, and then point to the various parts. “This is the nose, the rails, the tail. This vertical line down the middle is called the stringer, and will keep you centered. Remember that,” I say. I point out the Velcro strap lying in the sand. “I’m assuming you already know this, but this is the board leash; never go in the water without this around your ankle, okay?”
“Got it.”
“We’ll go over paddling and everything when we’re actually in the water, but let’s start with the easy stuff.” I stand next to him, legs spread just wider than shoulder-width apart. “First, your stance. You need to make sure you’re in the center of the board, not too far forward or too far back. No, let me . . .” I say when he tries to mimic my stance, and bend, gripping his ankle, physically moving his feet into position. He’s so warm, bones strong and solid under my grip. “Don’t be too open; put the arch of whatever foot you lead with right there, on the stringer. The other behind it.”
“Like this?” he asks, demonstrating.
I straighten. “Perfect. Being in the center of the board means you’ll have more control. Always stay in the center.”
He nods and tests out the movement. “Okay, I can imagine what you mean.”
“Now, arms up—” I reach forward, trailing my hands down along his forearms until my fingers wrap around his wrists. I can feel the steady beat of his pulse under my fingertips, the heat of his skin. It reminds me of when he held my hands down, above my head, and my mouth suddenly feels dry. I’ve been trying to avoid looking at his torso and his arms ever since he took off his shirt—knowing I’ll only be able to remember what they looked like over me—but realize that’s only going to work for so long.
Luke’s silhouette is the definition of a swimmer’s body. His shoulders are broad, lats bulky like all strong swimmers, biceps clearly defined. His torso is long and lean and I count an eight-pack on his flat stomach. It’s a body designed for power and hours of cutting through the water with little resistance. It’s a body built for endurance.
And Lord, does it endure. He could take me all night and only come at sunrise.
I really didn’t need that reminder right now.
“You okay there, Logan?” he says, and I snap my attention back to where my fingers are still wrapped around his wrists.
“This is for balance,” I tell him, pushing on as if my every thought isn’t written on my blazing-hot face. “Point your leading arm wherever you want to go, rear arm at shoulder height and flexed with the elbow back.” I show him and he mimics the action.
“Good, just like that. Let your body move back and forth, wherever the board takes you. Hips loose, like you’re doing the hula hoop.”
He laughs. “Tell me I look amazing doing this, okay? And not as ridiculous as I’m guessing.”
“Very manly.” I make a few adjustments to his posture and stand back to see. “So with your arms, people think they need to keep them at their side, parallel with the rails, but that’s wrong. Keep them squared with your hips—” I step forward again, bracing a hand on either side of his ribs. Luke curls inward, away from my touch, and giggles.
“Sorry,” he says quietly. “Ticklish.”
“Uh, sorry,” I mumble, and have to mentally count down from ten before I can remember what I was doing. I’ve had sex with Luke, seen his naked body over and under me, from behind, and somehow this feels . . . more intimate than any of that.
My cheeks are hot as I reach for him again, and I bring my hands
down
down
down—how long is his torso?—to rest on his hips.
I never fully appreciated how low boys wear their trunks until this very moment, now that I can feel the bony ridges and hollows of Luke’s hip bones under my fingertips. There are so many shadows on his body, so many places where bone and muscle meet, and for a moment I’m back on his couch, watching these same parts of his body move and flex while he fucks me.
When I blink up, I find him watching, mouth open and hair falling gently forward across his forehead. His cheeks are flushed, too, visible even out in the sun, as if he’s thinking of exactly the same thing I am.