“You think so, huh?” Every cell in my body rebels, exploding into a fight for self-control. It’s not working, the merciless work of art before me making the battle in vain. He’s stripping away my defenses, not only buckling my knees, but also the promise I made to myself to never fall. “I wouldn’t be so sure if I were you.”
“I wouldn’t be so unsure . . . Ber.”
Brock’s smile collapses into something so indescribably male, fierce, and primal, I want to bare every inch of myself to him—emotional scars included. His gaze is undecided on where to settle, skidding between my lips and eyes. Along with mine, his breath hitches as he leans down, stroking the side of my nose with his. My back’s pressed to the hot vehicle as I attempt to think, but I can’t. My thoughts are chained, frozen in this moment. Want quakes between my thighs, its strength growing as Brock barely touches his lips to mine.
But that’s all he gives me.
Before I know it, his lips are suddenly at my ear, his whisper teasing my senses. “Are you ready to get your fishing on, Ber?”
Disappointment kicks through me as he slowly backs away, stacking the fishing gear on top of the cooler. I give an unaffected smile as I try to quell the shaking that’s taken over my body. Heart stuck in my throat and unable to do otherwise, I simply nod.
Brock watches me intently, his eyes creased in amusement with every step we take toward a graying, old wooden pier. I move to the edge and look out over the water. It’s huge, its ending nowhere in sight. Miles upon miles of nothing but pristine lake, filled with small boats, families in canoes, and people fishing for as far as my eyes can see. Though we’re surrounded by life in every sense of the word, we’re in our own world, tucked away in a private cove.
I take a deep breath, relishing the sun on my skin as Brock sets everything up. Nevertheless, it’s sweltering out, so I do what I deem necessary to avoid succumbing to a slow, heat-induced death. I kick off my Chucks and slip my T-shirt over my head, leaving me in only a bra and red cotton shorts.
From behind me, Brock roughly clears his throat.
I turn and find him staring, wide-eyed, his mouth parted. “Stop. A bra is the same as a bikini top. Besides, the little schizophrenic woman inside of my head is telling me you’ve seen your share of bras.”
He smiles and reaches into the cooler for two beers. “Want one?”
“You’re going to serve alcohol to an underaged girl?” I take the ice-cold Heineken and slide it against my neck, enjoying the temporary chill it brings to my flesh. “Such a bad, bad boy.”
“How old are you?” he asks, his eyes playfully narrowed.
“Nineteen, soon to be twenty.” With no luck, I attempt to twist off the cap.
Brock takes the bottle and de-caps it with an opener. However, he doesn’t hand it back. Instead, he takes a long gulp, emptying half its contents.
“What the heck?” I snatch the bottle from him. “Not cool. I just deducted a point.”
He turns and jogs toward the Hummer, calling over his shoulder, “Well, you are underage, my beautiful Ber. But it’s all good. I’ve got a few million points left.”
“Wiseass,” I mumble, watching him open the driver’s-side door. I enjoy the view when he leans in to flip on the stereo, his cargo-short-covered ass in my line of sight as The Script’s “Broken Arrow” pelts from the speakers.
Brock leaves the door open and jogs back to the pier. “We needed music.”
I nod in agreement.
“You like The Script?” He unbuttons his shirt, his smirk letting me know he’s about to torture me with his bare skin.
A second then third sporadic nod, a nervous swallow greasing my throat as he peels the material from his body. The dick’s beating me. I may have to reconsider not flawing his gorgeous teeth. Left only in his cargo shorts and Nike Free Runs, Brock smiles, and I’m the one who’s staring now. I’m also pretty sure my mouth is hanging open, drool possibly involved in this embarrassing, mathematical turn of arrogant equations.
His chest is cut, layered with slabs of lean muscle from the hollow of his glorious neck down to the delectable V between his hips. He has the kind of chest I can lick without getting my tongue twisted up in wiry hair. Not that he doesn’t have any, but he has just the right amount of hair a girl such as myself can appreciate while she rubs oil or chocolate all over it. As he turns, reaching for a fishing pole, my eyes land on a tattoo covering the top half of his right bicep. Barbed wire encases a heart, a skull’s evil, flaming eyes peeking out from the bleeding organ.
He attempts to hand me the fishing pole. “Good. So do I.”
“So do you what?” I ask, my attention still on his chest.
He tucks his finger underneath my chin, lifting my gaze to his. I exhale the breath I’m well aware I’m holding.
“I also like The Script,” he says with a knowing smile. “And stop. It’s just a chest. The little schizophrenic man in my head’s telling me you’ve seen your share of them.”
“I wasn’t staring,” I blurt, yanking the pole from him.
“Whatever you say.” He laughs and squats next to the tackle box.
I sigh, hating that he caught me ogling.
He peers up at me, dangling a helpless worm between his fingers. “You might love fishing, but are you willing to get your hands dirty for it?”
“Everything has to die, right?” I take the slimy worm and hook it onto its awaiting electric chair.