Page 51 of Beyond the Bright Lights

I knock frantically and within seconds, Lana answers. My words catch in my throat as my eyes travel up and down her body. She’s wearing a black, silk nightie, with a matching silk robe. She tugs it tight around her curves, but not before I saw her glorious tits pouring out of the top.

“Mylan? What’s wrong?”

She didn’t see my ogling. Maybe the panic on my face masked my never-ending desire for her.

“We need to talk.” I push my way in, and she scoffs.

“The hell, Mylan? You’re making me nervous.” She heads to the freshly brewed pot of coffee. She pours two mugs full and hands me the one without cream or sugar.

I set the mug down on the table and stand before her.

“There are pictures,” I begin, and Lana pauses before taking a sip of her coffee. “From the lake. Of us. Together. Looking . . .”

She sets her mug on the table next to mine and holds up a hand to stop me from talking. She crosses her arms and looks up, locking eyes with me.

“I don’t care, Mylan.”

“What?”

“I’m so tired.” She sighs with her entire body.

“We can fix this.”

“Fix what, Mylan?” She rubs her temples. “When the book was released, I let the media dictate my life. I let them scare me into hiding. I moved out of the house my parents left me when they died and sold it. I told myself this time would be different because this time, it isn’t about me. It’s about Tyler and making sure this movie gets made right, making sure Hollywood doesn’t tarnish his legacy. So, yeah, I don’t care. At the end of the day, I’m confident in who I am, and I know my truth. They can print, post, report whatever the fuck they want.”

I let out a long breath and comb both my hands through my hair. “I can have my publicist release a statement.”

“And what would it say?” she laughs. The sound eases the tightening in my stomach. “That we’re in a relationship? That we’re fucking? We’re not.”

“Not yet,” I smirk, attempting to mask my nerves. She huffs another laugh and gives me a sad smile.

“The paparazzi and the attention will only get worse. I understand that. I’m ready for that. We’ve been careful together out in public so far, but I knew it wouldn’t last. And maybe this is a good thing.”

I step closer to her and before I can say more, before I can offer her assurances, she holds up her hand again.

“Mylan,” she begins and by the tone in her voice, I anticipate she’s about to crush my soul. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”

She places both of her palms flat against my chest and I cover them with mine, closing my eyes because her touch is warm, invigorating.

“You’re shaking,” she whispers.

I am. I’m rattled. My entire body is overwhelmed after I let my thoughts run wild with how Lana would react to the paparazzi thing. Scenarios played over and over in my head the entire ride over here of her yelling at me, pushing me away, never wanting to see me again.

Irrational thoughts because that’s not who Lana is.

I take a deep breath, trying to push down the over-exaggerated emotions. This is what she does to me. She heightens every part of my life. All I want to do right now is grab her and pull her to my body or toss her on the bed and fuck her into a blissful orgasmic coma.

Lana smooths her hands down my chest to my stomach, making me tense.

“Your body,” she whispers, not so much to me but herself.

I can’t stop the groan in my throat when her fingertips slip underneath the t-shirt I hastily threw on at the hotel. My skin inflames as she skims those warm palms over my abs, up and down as if she’s memorizing every inch. They stroke my pecks, my shoulders before she slides them back down, spreading out her fingers as if to make sure no part goes untouched.

She stops at my pants; her hazel eyes dart up to mine.

“You’re still shaking. How do I make you forget?”

My shaking no longer has anything to do with those fucking paparazzi pricks. Now I’m shaking because Lana is touching me.

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