12. Anastasia
Anastasia
I ’m not used to the Cali heat that has my skin slick on the ten-minute walk to the beach from our hotel. Desperate to take my thin top off, and even more so for Rhett to shed his, we reach the busy sands and I’m giddy on my feet from the excitement.
“Do we need to find a bathroom?” Rhett asks.
I tear my gaze from the crowd for the volleyball tournament down the beach.
“What? No.”
“You can hardly keep still.”
“You’re keeping too still,” I counter. Then I pull him along from our joined hands.
No one has recognized us yet, and I plan to enjoy that for as long as possible.
We get ice cream—the only logical thing to do when it’s hotter than Satan’s balls and your fake boyfriend refuses to even pretend to look happy.
The ice cream doesn’t help his naturally stern expression, but he looks adorable, his large hand making his cone look child-size.
“You’re wasting your ice cream,” I point out. It melts as he watches the volleyball game from our table in the shade. Mine doesn’t get the chance to drip a single bit of mint chocolate chip deliciousness before I’m making my way down the wafer.
“You’re wasting it by not finishing that one fast enough.”
I toss the point of the cone into my mouth as I contemplate his half-eaten strawberry scoop. “We didn’t agree to share. I ate all of mine.”
He merely holds it out to me, and it would be a shame to let it go to waste.
Rhett has a big appetite and frequently finishes off anything savory I don’t want. I tackle the desserts. It’s a win-win unspoken agreement.
“You know, most would wear light colors in the heat. You can’t be comfortable,” I comment on his plain black T-shirt and the shorts that still manage to look expensive. He wears Ray-Bans that add danger to him and his expression basically repels company.
“If you want my clothes off, you’re going to have to do better than that.”
I refrain from launching the ice cream at him.
“If I wanted your clothes off, Agent, they would be off already.”
“Confident, are you?”
I shrug. “We’ll never know.”
My ice-cold lemonade goes down a treat as we head closer to the volleyball.
It’s rather casual. The nets are generally for the public along the beach, no arena, and onlookers are cheering from the tapes set up around them for the games.
It’s nothing serious, just for charity, and the air is buzzing with friendly competitive spirit.
I spot Adam heading down the beach, walking next to some guy I’ve never seen before. They’re the same height, both shirtless and impeccably toned. His companion has such a pretty face it’s strange to feel envious of the long lashes, soft, kind features, and tousled brown hair.
“There’s America’s darlings,” Adam’s irritating voice drawls when they’re near enough.
I scowl as it pulls unwanted attention to us, and he smirks. Deviant bastard.
“Adam told me all about you,” Adam’s ... friend? says. “I’m Nathan.”
“Don’t believe a word of it,” I mutter.
Nathan only chuckles as if our feud is genuinely playful. I’ve never seen him before, yet from their close proximity and the attentive gazes Nathan casts to Adam, they seem very well-acquainted.
“This game is almost finished—what do you say?” Adam encourages.
I skim my gaze from the beach back to him. Does he mean us against him? No. No way. I am not seeing myself front-page on some tabloid tomorrow with a sand facial.
“Come on,” he says, louder now, and with the last match finished the crowd starts to find something else for entertainment. “Our fathers get their turn tomorrow. Let’s not give them all the press this weekend. One game of pairs.”
The onlookers agree, of course. Small murmurs of, “She won’t do it,” and, “Sullevan would win,” boil me over.
“What’s the loser’s punishment?” I ask.
Now we’re committed. Game. Fucking. On. Sullevan.
His smile curls with wicked deviance. “Losers swim out to the buoys.”
I’m a competent swimmer, but I’m not fond of the sea. If I lose and become a sea creature’s snack I’ll never live it down.
“Deal.”
The crowd cheers, and it erupts over me like I’m only just realizing what the hell I’ve signed up for. Winning a sport I’m not all that familiar with is one thing ... but the audience is what shakes my nerves with regret.
“You sure about this?” Rhett asks.
“Please tell me you’re good at this. I’m counting on you for victory.”
He smiles in amusement. “Watch and learn, little bird.”
I bite my lip and his eyes drop to it with his vanishing smile. He reaches out, and my heart tumbles until he takes my lemonade and finishes it off.
On the sands I hesitate with the want to take my top off. Would it be inappropriate? I only have on a bikini top, but I trust its support. I think. It’s too damned hot, and with the game I could pass out from the unnecessary layer.
Fuck it.
I fold out of my top and toss it by our bag, leaving myself in only small denim shorts and red bikini top.
When I look up Rhett is shirtless too, and we both stare stupidly at each other.
He’s sculpted by Greek gods; those muscles seem to come naturally to him.
It’s completely unfair. But I’m stalled on his tattoo, which I discover is in fact a large serpent engulfed in smoke that coils around his large bicep, ending in a vicious, open-mouthed snake head across the right side of his chest. It’s so beautiful I want to run my hand along it and discover the details, then I want to explore the rest of him .
“Done gawking, little bird?” he teases.
I roll my eyes. “If you are.”
He stops me from passing him with a hand on my waist. The bare-skin contact flutters between my legs.
“Not even close,” he says huskily.
He’s playing his part for the crowd too damn well. People are already taking pictures, and I become hyperaware of our performance. May as well take advantage.
My hand trails up his abdomen, holding his blue eyes as they darken, right until I touch the serpent’s fangs.
“If we lose, you’re making the swim carrying me on your back.”
His mouth twitches. “There’s no outcome of this where you don’t win then, Miss Kinsley, smart girl.”
I don’t know why that skitters pleasure through me. I need to rally my focus to be of some help in this sport, though I expect Rhett to take charge, and I wish I were a mere spectator watching him in action. He’s being eye-fucked by so many men and women as the crowd grows thicker.
“Come here,” Rhett calls to me.
When I turn back he’s crouching by the beach bag holding a bottle of sunscreen.
“I put some on at the hotel an hour ago,” I say.
“Not on your back now you’re topless.”
I can’t protest. Then I realize what this means and my stomach coils.
He squeezes some onto his hands and I turn, pulling my hair over my shoulder, out of the way.
The moment his hands are on me I’m resisting the urge to melt to a damn puddle.
I shouldn’t find it so sensual, but it’s like he’s working his fingers so slowly and smoothly on purpose just to rile me.
His hands are ... Shit , I slam away thought after thought of what I want them to be doing to me.
I almost moan when he massages my shoulders, down my spine, and under the strap of my bikini.
His palms run up my sides and pull me gently into him.
“All done,” he mumbles in my ear.
“You’re determined to get top marks on your bodyguard report.”
“Of course.”
I turn around to do the same for him, and he squeezes out a healthy amount to cover the large expanse of his back before he tosses the bottle back into the bag.
“You’re going to have to kneel,” I say, shielding my eyes from the sun to look up at him.
“For you, anytime.”
It’s harmless flirting, but my body doesn’t grasp the difference, and watching Rhett Kaiser lower in front of me sparks something powerful and pleasurable in me.
“Wrong way,” I say.
His hands grip my hips unexpectedly. Then he leans in and my heart near slams out of my chest when his lips press near my belly button. Desire pools at my core.
“I know,” he says, and he turns around.
I’m dumbstruck. Caught completely off-guard by the simple yet sinful act he so casually pulled out of nowhere.
I survey the gathering people again and find a group of women with eyes trained on us. All scowling at me and gawking at Rhett.
“Let’s go, Kinsley!” Adam shouts from across the net.
I snap back into myself, rubbing the sunscreen into both my hands before they’re upon Rhett. Then I’m lost in the contours of him. He looks impeccable, but he feels ...
Stop it, Ana. Stop lusting after your damn bodyguard.
I speed up my work because I risk delaying this stupid game by taking too long. My fingers skim over slightly raised skin so often that I become transfixed by his beautiful imperfections, wanting to know who or what hurt him with every single one.
“All done,” I say as I finish on his shoulders, but my hands linger.
Until he stands and I have no choice but to let him go.
“Thanks,” he says.
He looks like he might kiss me for show again. The press have made their way over and I can hear their completely shameless asks, but we’re pulled away from the opportunity.
“Sullevan versus Kinsley!” someone shouts.
Fuck , this is a bad idea. I wonder if our fathers would say as much if this harmless game could be twisted into something political that could get nasty. So far everyone seems amicable, and I try to relax.
When we’re on opposite sides of the net, Adam and I decide who gets to begin with a good old-fashioned game of rock, paper, scissors. I beam triumphantly at my clenched fist and knock his pathetic scissor fingers away.
“Muscle memory, I guess,” he says with a wink.