Page 81 of Beyond the Bright Lights

“When?” he murmurs against my hand.

I wince because if it were up to me, I'd never have this conversation with him. If we talk about it, it becomes real. Perhaps I should follow Jensen’s warning, whatever it may have been before Rebecca interrupted us. Mylan is still an addict. Is thirty days of rehab enough? There's a vulnerability in him that I worry once breached, it will make him fall back to those bad habits.

I can't allow myself to be the reason he slips. I won’t.

I let myself indulge in this relationship. It was never going to be some hot summer fling. Now it’s more, and that scares me. It scares me because I need him just as bad as he needs me.

Still, the decision to uproot my life, after decades of familiarity, isn’t an easy one to make.

What I do know is that Mylan will be in my life in some way after this movie is done filming, but before I can talk to him about it, I have to find peace with my grief. I’m so close, I can sense it, almost touch it.

“Lana?” Mylan mumbles, making me realize I still have my palm over his mouth.

The moment I peel it away, Mylan takes hold of my wrists, flipping me onto my back. He straddles me, holding my arms over my head.

Shit. This is hot.

He smirks, like the brat that he is, and leans in. He's seconds from kissing me when someone knocks on the door of his trailer.

He growls against my lips and adjusts his hold on my arms above my head to one hand. All so he can twist my nipple with the other. I buck my hips in response, moaning so loudly my face heats because I was certain the person at the door heard it.

“Five minutes!” Mylan barks.

“Mister Andrews,” the muffled voice calls, cautiously. “I already gave you five minutes. Now you’re late to hair and makeup.”

He rests his forehead against mine and I inhale his cedar and citrus musk.

“You’re lucky, Lana,” he says, quietly. His coffee and toothpaste breath fanning against my lips. My mouth waters, wanting his kiss more than ever at this moment.

“Oh?”

“I was going to punish you for refusing to talk to me about—”

“Punish . . . punish me how?” I interrupt in a shaky breath.

The interruption must have pissed him off by the way he tightens his grip around my wrists above my head—by the way his smile turns cruel. Neither of which I find threatening. It's . . . sexy as hell. Mylan is clearly a dominant. I've never been one to submit, but for him?

“How will I punish you? I'll start by throwing you over my lap and spanking you.” He kisses me, soft and careful, unlike his damning words. “I’ll spank you until your ass is red and your cunt is dripping. I’ll spank you until you beg me for more. Are you going to let me spank you, my little donut?”

Fuck.

I’ve been spanked during sex before, but I have a feeling it’s nothing like what Mylan wants to do to me.

The panicked production assistant bangs on Mylan’s door again.

“Please, Mister Andrews.”

“Mylan, the only person you’re punishing is that poor PA by not getting your ass to set.”

He groans and kisses me one last time. This kiss is harsh, hungry, consuming. When he comes up for air, my face is as hot as the day is humid. My nipples are so fucking hard, and Mylan sees it. He reaches down to twist one again, but I manage to peel my wrist out of his grip and slap his hand away.

“Go!”

“Oh yeah, I’m going to punish you.”

“I look forward to it.”

He groans again and crawls off me, adjusting his hard cock.

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