The sight in front of me takes the breath straight from my lungs and for some reason refuses to give it back. Damn you wine. Damn you.
Memphis is standing there, dripping wet, with a small towel wrapped around his waist. One hand is shaking out his hair and the other is holding his towel together.
Please let go. Please let go . . .
I try my best to turn away, I swear, but I have to face it—it’s pointless at this point. My eyes slowly trail down his body, taking their time on each and every body part. Think he’d notice if I grabbed my camera? Holy hell . . .
Every single muscle in that firm chest is dying to be licked by me. Oh fuck me. Those defined muscles leading down to his . . . I swallow. Oh my . . . that looks like a nice package.
Where’s the wine?
My mouth feels dry. I quickly bring my eyes up to his face right as he pulls the towel away to adjust it. I catch a quick glimpse, but hold my breath and try to pretend that I missed it, although, that is definitely hard to miss.
“I . . . uh . . .” I point down at his bed. “Was just dropping off your jacket like you asked. You didn’t answer the door so I . . . never mind. I’m sorry. I’m leaving. I should have just left it upstairs.”
I turn to walk away, but his voice stops me. “I heard you knocking, Lyric. I expected you’d come down here. I know you more than you think.” He steps up behind me and touches my camera. “I was hoping you’d bring this.” He grabs the strap and pulls it over my shoulder toward the front of my body, letting it rest against my front, then turns me around to face him.
His icy blue eyes stare at me with an intensity that makes my heart skip a beat. “Why,” I ask softly, still trying to keep my eyes from wandering.
“Because I like it.” He runs his finger from the camera up the center of my body, between my breasts, and looks into my eyes. “And fuck me, but I love you using it on me.” He walks over to his dresser and pulls out a pair of jeans before dropping his towel and slipping them on.
Ugh, this man’s ass is never going to leave my mind now.
His dark jeans hang low on his waist, leaving little to the imagination. Not to mention his body is still damp from the shower water, making his tattoos seem more visible. Bailey was right. I do love a man with tattoos and this man is no exception.
“You want me to photograph you?” I watch as he walks to the chair pressed against the wall, grabs next to it for his guitar, and takes a seat on the edge of his bed.
“Yeah.”
“Why? You don’t even like talking or having anyone around. Why would you want me to photograph you?” He looks so beautiful with his guitar that I barely manage to get the words out. He seriously needs to put that thing away before I lose it.
He looks up from messing with the strings of his guitar. “Because this is easier than talking for me; always has been.” He picks one leg up and rests his heel on the frame of his bed to prop up his guitar, then sticks the pick in his mouth and strums a few chords before pulling it out and looking back up at me. “You’ve already captured one of my passions.” He licks his bottom lip before biting it. “You might as well capture them all, Lyric. I just hope you can handle them.”
My body heats up from his words and it takes everything in me not to turn around and leave. As much as I want him to let me in—him allowing this—somehow makes me so nervous that I almost forget how to use my camera . . . but only for a second. I mean, I usually don’t let a man get to me this way, but Memphis . . . he makes it hard to think straight just from being in the same room as him.
I clear my throat as I run my fingers over my camera. “I didn’t come here to get more pictures if that’s what you think. I just wanted to drop off your jacket.”
“And you did, so now you can stay.” He looks back down at his guitar and starts playing a tune I’m familiar with, but I’m too buzzed to recall the name. All I know is that it has me wanting to do very dirty things to him.
I start snapping pictures of him playing his guitar, capturing the beauty of his passion while trying to keep my cool. The way his muscles flex with each movement and the sight of his jaw tightening as the tune picks up speed is so damn sexy that I can’t take it anymore. I need to change this up and fast. I’m starting to sweat.
“Put the guitar down,” I say firmly. “If I’m shooting you then I’m making it a full session and we’re doing it my way. You might as well experience my passion the right way, and that guitar is blocking too much of your body. Put it down,” I repeat.
Well shit . . . that didn’t come out right. I blame the wine.