consequences for a
guy like me. Until recently. But while that man might have been
buried for a while now, he isn’t dead. And I have a feeling that he
might raise his head long enough to take advantage of this
situation, no matter how stupid that would be.
Some part of me wonders if Sloane—and the
temptation to taste her— has more to do with my decision than
pragmatism does. It makes sense, but does it make enough sense?
I quickly brush the notion aside. Yes, it
makes enough sense. At twenty-eight, I’m too old to be ensnared by
a girl like Sloane. For all the life experiences I’ve had and the
way I’ve lived for so long, I might as well be fifty.
But damn, I can’t say I wouldn’t love to dig
my fingers and my tongue and my cock into her sweet little body.
I’m reminded of that when she comes bouncing back out into the
living room less than ten minutes later, carrying a beach bag and
wearing nothing but a bikini top and the tiniest shorts I’ve ever
seen.
“Ready?” she asks, all fresh-faced and
enthusiastic.
“Oh, hell yeah I’m ready.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN- Sloane
I never really thought of what a guy like
Hemi might drive. I wouldn’t have been surprised by a big, shiny
motorcycle or a fast little sports car, but what I find parked in
the driveway at my house suits him perfectly.
It’s an old car, but in absolutely perfect
condition from what I can tell. It’s a convertible and the top is
down. With its muscular build, glossy black paint and sparkly
silver racing stripes that zoom up the hood, it looks dangerous and
powerful, just like its driver.
“I don’t know what kind of car this is, but
it suits you to a T!” I say as I walk around to the passenger side.
Looking at the car, I didn’t know Hemi followed me until he reaches
past me to open up the door. “Oh,” I exclaim, startled, “thank
you!”
Hemi nods, a grin teasing the edges of his
lips. “My pleasure.” I love it when he’s almost smiling like that.
It makes him look like he’s up to something and I can’t help but
feel excited with anticipation.
I watch his loose gait as he walks around the
hood of the car and slides easily behind the wheel. He glances over
at me. “It’s a 1969 Camaro.” As if to punctuate what I already
suspected about the car, Hemi fires up the engine. The deep,
throaty growl screams speed. And power. “It’s four hours to the
beach. This baby’ll get us there in closer to three.”
He shifts into gear and guides the car slowly
out of my subdivision. As soon as he turns the corner onto the
highway, he hits the gas and turns up the music. I feel a
lighthearted laugh bubble up in my throat. The tunes, the wind, the
sun, Hemi—it all feels like freedom. I’m spreading my wings. And it
feels wonderful.
********
It’s just after one when we arrive at Tybee
Island, right on the edge of Savannah. We didn’t talk on the way
down, as a convertible isn’t exactly conducive to hearing much of
anything. But we didn’t need to talk. The trip was wonderful
without a single word having to be spoken.
Hemi finds a parking spot at a public lot and
maneuvers his car into it. He cuts the engine and hops out,
grabbing my bag from the back seat. I get out before he can get
around to my side, and I meet him at the front of the car.
“I hope you brought sunscreen,” Hemi says,
reaching up to rub the backs of his fingers down my arm. “I’d hate
to see this porcelain get burned.”
“I did,” I reply softly, feeling his touch
all the way into my core.
“All right, then, let’s do this thing.”
I smile, remembering he said the same thing
the first night we met. Hemi holds out his hand. I slip mine inside
it, fighting the urge to smile even wider. “I’m ready.”
He’s not looking at me when he speaks, and
his voice is low, so I’m not entirely sure I hear him correctly,
but it sounded like he murmured, “I sure hope so.”
We cross the street and make our way onto the
hot sand.
guy like me. Until recently. But while that man might have been
buried for a while now, he isn’t dead. And I have a feeling that he
might raise his head long enough to take advantage of this
situation, no matter how stupid that would be.
Some part of me wonders if Sloane—and the
temptation to taste her— has more to do with my decision than
pragmatism does. It makes sense, but does it make enough sense?
I quickly brush the notion aside. Yes, it
makes enough sense. At twenty-eight, I’m too old to be ensnared by
a girl like Sloane. For all the life experiences I’ve had and the
way I’ve lived for so long, I might as well be fifty.
But damn, I can’t say I wouldn’t love to dig
my fingers and my tongue and my cock into her sweet little body.
I’m reminded of that when she comes bouncing back out into the
living room less than ten minutes later, carrying a beach bag and
wearing nothing but a bikini top and the tiniest shorts I’ve ever
seen.
“Ready?” she asks, all fresh-faced and
enthusiastic.
“Oh, hell yeah I’m ready.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN- Sloane
I never really thought of what a guy like
Hemi might drive. I wouldn’t have been surprised by a big, shiny
motorcycle or a fast little sports car, but what I find parked in
the driveway at my house suits him perfectly.
It’s an old car, but in absolutely perfect
condition from what I can tell. It’s a convertible and the top is
down. With its muscular build, glossy black paint and sparkly
silver racing stripes that zoom up the hood, it looks dangerous and
powerful, just like its driver.
“I don’t know what kind of car this is, but
it suits you to a T!” I say as I walk around to the passenger side.
Looking at the car, I didn’t know Hemi followed me until he reaches
past me to open up the door. “Oh,” I exclaim, startled, “thank
you!”
Hemi nods, a grin teasing the edges of his
lips. “My pleasure.” I love it when he’s almost smiling like that.
It makes him look like he’s up to something and I can’t help but
feel excited with anticipation.
I watch his loose gait as he walks around the
hood of the car and slides easily behind the wheel. He glances over
at me. “It’s a 1969 Camaro.” As if to punctuate what I already
suspected about the car, Hemi fires up the engine. The deep,
throaty growl screams speed. And power. “It’s four hours to the
beach. This baby’ll get us there in closer to three.”
He shifts into gear and guides the car slowly
out of my subdivision. As soon as he turns the corner onto the
highway, he hits the gas and turns up the music. I feel a
lighthearted laugh bubble up in my throat. The tunes, the wind, the
sun, Hemi—it all feels like freedom. I’m spreading my wings. And it
feels wonderful.
********
It’s just after one when we arrive at Tybee
Island, right on the edge of Savannah. We didn’t talk on the way
down, as a convertible isn’t exactly conducive to hearing much of
anything. But we didn’t need to talk. The trip was wonderful
without a single word having to be spoken.
Hemi finds a parking spot at a public lot and
maneuvers his car into it. He cuts the engine and hops out,
grabbing my bag from the back seat. I get out before he can get
around to my side, and I meet him at the front of the car.
“I hope you brought sunscreen,” Hemi says,
reaching up to rub the backs of his fingers down my arm. “I’d hate
to see this porcelain get burned.”
“I did,” I reply softly, feeling his touch
all the way into my core.
“All right, then, let’s do this thing.”
I smile, remembering he said the same thing
the first night we met. Hemi holds out his hand. I slip mine inside
it, fighting the urge to smile even wider. “I’m ready.”
He’s not looking at me when he speaks, and
his voice is low, so I’m not entirely sure I hear him correctly,
but it sounded like he murmured, “I sure hope so.”
We cross the street and make our way onto the
hot sand.
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