Page 46 of Beyond the Bright Lights

Mylan holds out his hand, and I squirt a good amount in the center. Then I watch as he spreads it across the very chest I wanted to lick and bite and touch seconds ago. His palms move over his shoulders and arms, then down his stomach. Ugh. That ripped stomach. Abs for days. Abs I need pressed against me. Abs I need to touch.

I lick my lips, hungrily, his eyes following the sweep of my tongue.

When he’s done, he winks (jerk move—he’s aware of the power he packs behind that wink) and turns around.

“Can you do my back?” he asks over his shoulder.

I clear my throat and glance around. This is not a good idea. Touching him in public is begging for a paparazzi photo to be snapped. I’m not dumb. I know they’re here, hiding in the trees or maybe on the other side of the lake ready to zoom in with their fancy cameras. Not one day has passed where they haven’t somehow managed to sneak in a photo of us out and about.

I can only imagine how these photos would turn out. The act of putting sunscreen on someone is intimate. At least, that’s how it would translate in a photo or video.

To be honest, I’m getting to the point where I don’t give a fuck. Let them snap away and write whatever they want.

Without saying a word, I squirt a blob of sunscreen into my hand and begin spreading it across Mylan’s back. He sucks in a sharp breath.

“Cold,” he whispers.

The sexual tension taking my body captive lessens and I smile, genuinely. “Don’t be a baby,” I tease.

“I’m your baby.”

My smile drops, and I cringe. He is a baby, compared to me.

“Don’t,” he says through clenched teeth, demanding my attention while peering over his shoulder again. “I’m a grown man. You are a grown woman. There is nothing wrong with you wanting me.”

I glance to our friends, worried they can hear our conversation.

“Let them hear,” Mylan says, answering my silent concern.

He’s right. I've told Ginger everything. Well, everything minus this morning’s feast. Though, she got an idea after spotting his mark. What about Mylan’s assistant and bodyguard? I’m sure he’s told them about us. Probably too much since he can’t seem to stop talking.

“Tell me about the lake,” Mylan says, quickly changing the subject. “Tell me why this was Tyler’s favorite spot.”

“I know you read about it in the script,” I say quietly. His back is now well covered with sunscreen, but I struggle to stop myself from touching him.

“I did, but like I said that first night, I want to hear it from you.”

I swallow again. I swear my damn throat is as dry as the Sahara.

“Me, Tyler, and Ginger used to come here every summer since we turned sixteen and could drive ourselves. Some weeks, we’d be here every day. Some days we wouldn’t leave at all, sleeping underneath the cloudless night sky and the sparkling stars.”

“Sounds like heaven.”

“It was.”

“You don’t come here anymore?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Too many memories. Mostly sad ones.”

“Tell me.”

Ugh. So bossy.

“This is where Tyler proposed to me.” I focus on my hands moving across Mylan’s defined back. His skin is so soft and tanned. I don’t think there’s an ounce of fat on this man. “Senior year of college, a couple weeks before he collapsed on the football field—before we found out.”

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