13. Chapter 13 #2
I fold my arms and kick water at him this time. “Sounds like a very pointed metaphor.”
Lennon tips a shoulder up. “It probably is.”
“Well, aren’t we full of clichés today?”
His only response is to twist his mouth into an unamused thin line and splash me again.
“Stop!” I yell, laughing and putting my hands up to ward off the spray of water. “I get it. Message received.”
“Good. Now can we get out of this fucking cold water and eat, please?”
I throw my arms wide and tip my face to the sun. Its warmth loosens the tight strings inside my chest, and my face stretches into a smile. The tang of the sea air stings my lungs as I breathe it in. “Yeah,” I say. “Let’s eat.”
We spend the next hour or so munching on meat and cheese and chatting about mostly unimportant things.
The nerves I had about starting to record tomorrow fade and are replaced with an old, familiar confidence I haven’t felt in a long time.
It’s going to be fine. Whether it’s because of Lennon’s demonstration in the ocean earlier or because of his general presence or because of the sun shining on my back as I lay on my stomach, I can sense it now.
Eventually, we fall into a companionable silence, which is novel for us.
Being silent on the phone usually means the conversation is over, and we hang up.
But the luxury of being silent in person seems special as Lennon lies on his back with his hands clasped over his chest just a few feet away from me.
Unwilling to break the silence, I pick up the book and start reading. It’s a different sensation, reading it and no longer being consumed by nerves. I can actually enjoy it.
Or at least, I try. It isn’t long before I snort loudly, and Lennon rolls his head to squint at me, one eye closed.
“What?” he asks, amused.
I don’t look up from the page. “Nothing. Sorry.”
He tips his head back to the sky and closes his eyes again, but it only takes a few minutes before another sound of disbelief makes its way up my throat.
“It’s not that bad,” Lennon says without looking at me.
“It’s not that.” I flip back a few pages and find what I’m looking for. “I know you insisted you don’t want to sleep with her—”
“I don’t.” He still doesn’t look at me.
“Right. Fine. But it’s pretty clear that’s one-sided.”
“What do you mean?” he asks, his voice edged with disbelief.
I flip back a few more pages, confirming what I’ve already seen clearly throughout the entire book. “Oh, come on. Marcus is you, Lennon.”
He faces me again, then, shading his eyes against what’s left of the sun. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”
I pin him with a skeptical look. “Sandy hair, backward baseball hat, chino shorts…”
“You’re describing half the people on this beach.”
“‘His biceps ripple around me as his arms encircle me. I run a long finger over the tattoo of a mountainous outdoor scene on his shoulder,’” I quote. “Come on.”
Lennon cranes his neck to look at the tattoo of an outdoor scene on his shoulder, then tips his head back to the sky and closes his eyes, the picture of relaxation. “Still could be anyone.”
Exasperated, I flip forward a few pages. “‘I lick my way up his thigh to the birthmark just above his right hip bone.’” In a flash, I reach out and lift his shirt up a few inches, exposing the birthmark there. “Lennon. Don’t lie to me. How does she even know this is here?”
“Same way you do.” He tugs his shirt back into place without looking at me. “It’s California. We swim.”
“I didn’t know you were close enough to go swimming together.”
“We aren’t.” He rolls his head to face me again. A piece of hair falls over his forehead, making his mischievous grin even more boyish. “We met at a party.”
He doesn’t offer any more information, so I ask slowly, “A party where you slept with her?”
The skin around Lennon’s eyes crinkles as he chuckles.
The sound is low and deep, almost ominous.
“For someone who says they’re not bothered by this, you sure seem bothered by it.
” When I only blink at him in response, he huffs.
“A pool party. She had told me she was drafting a novel then, so she must have seen my birthmark and used it as inspiration.” He waggles his eyebrows. “I am very inspiring.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re right. This probably isn’t about you. Marcus’s ego isn’t nearly as big as yours.”
We smile, watching each other for a moment before I go back to reading silently.
But now that I’ve started this, I can’t seem to stop.
“Okay,” I exclaim. “‘Marcus grips my knees, forcing my legs open further,’” I read.
“‘The heat of his gaze burns into my core as he circles himself and pumps a few times. “Such a pretty pussy, Gia. I’m going to fuck it so hard until you come.” His voice is gravelly with desire, and I gush.’” I cringe at that last part.
I’m not an expert in every woman’s arousal, but I’ve certainly never gushed anything from anywhere unless I was very ill.
As I’m busy blinking away my disbelief, Lennon turns over onto his side and props his head up on his fist. “See, that’s how you know beyond a shadow of a doubt she might be fantasizing about me, but she doesn’t have any experience with the real thing,” he says softly.
He’s close enough that his breath tickles my ear.
“Oh no?” I ask quietly. Maybe it’s the sunshine or dipping my toes in the cold ocean or the dizzy feeling I have at the close proximity to Lennon’s body. Whatever it is, it’s making me bold. “That’s not what you’d do, if given the chance?”
His hazel eyes darken, and I must be drunk on sunshine, because I could swear they dip to my mouth before returning quickly to meet my gaze.
Is he…thinking about me while we talk about bad smut on a blanket at the beach?
That can’t be right.
But his voice goes raspy and low when he says, “No, Songbird. First of all, I’d never refer to anyone’s ‘pussy.’ It’s crass, which some people like, but I prefer more nuance. I wouldn’t force their legs open, either.”
I swallow hard, the combination of his intense eye contact and his sultry voice making me giddy. “You wouldn’t?” Even I’m surprised at how measured my voice is when I feel like I might implode.
Lennon shakes his head slowly, his eyes never leaving mine.
“I wouldn’t need to. She’d lie on the bed, and I’d start at her ankles, kissing slowly up her gorgeous calves.
Her breaths would grow shorter with anticipation as I worked my way over her knee, and those pretty legs would fall open all on their own. ”
He shifts slightly so his foot is pressed against mine, the sand stuck to his skin deliciously scraping against mine. I’m not even sure if he notices he’s done it, but my entire focus zeroes in on the warmth of him against my foot. It takes a great deal of control to keep my own breathing even.
“Oh,” I whisper.
A corner of Lennon’s mouth tips up ever so slightly. “And I’d never touch myself.”
“Why not?” Even though I might combust from the inside out, I have to know.
That corner pulls up even further. He’s enjoying this , I vaguely register. Well, fuck. I am, too.
“That would imply that my pleasure takes precedence, which is just rude, don’t you think?”
My already tenuous grasp on this conversation is slipping quickly. “I don’t know…” I try to remain skeptical. “I think it’s okay for you to enjoy yourself.”
Did I just say that? I’d be mortified if I weren’t so turned on.
This time, it’s unmistakable when Lennon’s gaze dips to my mouth.
“I’d enjoy myself, Lark.” Did he just say my name?
While looking at my lips like he wants to drag them through his teeth?
Surely, I’m imagining it. “Don’t you worry about that.
But it’s my job as a lover to take my time.
Make sure she’s satisfied.” The way he says the word is positively decadent.
I want to crawl out of my skin and into that word and live there for all eternity.
“And then”—he leans closer—“I’d make sure she’s satisfied again. ”
His eyes linger on me, driving the point home, before he rolls to his back, clasping his hands over his chest and closing his eyes as if he didn’t just completely upend my entire day and make me question everything I thought I knew about sex and seduction…and him.
“And that’s how you know,” he says nonchalantly.
“Know what?” I squeak out.
“That she’s not basing her work on anything real. Because if she was, that smut would be a lot better.”
It’s a joke. I should laugh. I should make another crack about his giant ego. But I can’t manage anything but a shudder that works its way up from where his foot had been resting against mine, over my legs, and up my spine.
“Cold?” he asks, glancing at me.
“Yeah,” is all I can manage. I sit up and fold my legs underneath me again so I can rub life into my suddenly leaden arms.
He gets up, too, and slides one of the hoodies over my head.
It’s his, so it’s not only giant but it smells just like him.
I certainly don’t need him to seep inside me any more than he already has, but I tuck my hands inside the large sleeves and bring them to my nose.
I inhale deeply with the hope that it’ll calm me down, but the big open smell of him only serves to stoke the embers Lennon’s words left behind.
I’m able to get a grip on my libido before the sun sets.
He was right; it’s unbelievable. The sky explodes in shocks of oranges and pinks, dark palm trees silhouetted against the watercolor sky.
The Ferris wheel on the pier lights up with colors that match.
The ocean refracts and reflects everything, sparkling and waving in and out as the sun dips into it once and for all.
But it’s not a religious experience. It doesn’t make me question what I know about the Earth’s rotation.
No, that comes later. In my bed, with my hand between my legs and my face buried in a pillow so Lennon can’t hear my breathy moans as I think about what his kisses might feel like on my inner thighs.