Page 66 of Beyond the Spotlight Discreet Version
He really likes touching me. I’ve never been a fan of touching, but I think it’s because I wasn’t used to it. Brad didn’t do it, especially in public. He hated holding hands. He’d never steal a kiss from me in passing. Reynold is the opposite. He can barely go five minutes without touching me in some way. Even if it’s a graze of his finger along my jaw or pushing a piece of hair off my face.
Once the food is done, Reynold puts his clothes back on (I insisted, so he wasn’t sitting bare ass on the stool). Then he plates our meals with such precision, flaring the sauce he made for the steak, as if he’s the chef of a Michelin star restaurant. I’ve never felt so fancy eating steak and potatoes.
Sitting next to each other so Reynold can run his palm up and down my thigh, we did little talking as we savored our food. Once our stomachs are full and the bottle of wine is empty (and I’m flush and somewhat tipsy from the alcohol), Reynold stands.
“Will you shower with me?”
“Hell yes.”
We leave the mess in the kitchen and Reynold leads me down the hallway to his bathroom. Despite no one else being in the penthouse, he locks all the doors and turns to face me.
“Strip for me, Savannah,” he says, his voice soft and full of demand and passion.
I’m wearing a simple sundress, no bra or panties because I knew I wouldn’t be wearing the outfit for long. The fabric falls to the floor in a puddle, and I stand there, naked in front of a fully clothed Reynold.
“Fuck. You’re beautiful.”
His blue eyes light with desire and his dick rises as he takes in my body, making my stomach clench with anticipation. He steps close and I inhale his musk; hints of sweat infused with a wooden, spicy scent. Warm. Welcoming. I lick my lips and realize I’m gawking at the man. Does he see how much I need him right now? He must because he strips faster than I can blink.
I lift my hand to his chest. “May I?”
“Please,” he breathes.
He closes his eyes as my hand spreads over every inch. I leave no patch untouched, appreciating his sculpted body over his broad shoulders and brawny chest.
“Are you okay?”
He nods. “I haven’t been touched like this in a long time. It’s intoxicating. Keep going.”
He tightens his abs the moment my fingertips graze over them. I trace down to that V-shape and flatten my palms to slice them back up his stomach and over the muscles rippling across his shoulders. He flexes his meaty pecks with a wicked smile.
“Are you taunting me, British Guy?”
He ignores the nickname and leaves me to turn on the shower. He tests the water to make sure it’s warm enough. When satisfied, he holds out his hand to me.
I eagerly take it and he twists me around to stand me underneath the stream.
Not warm...cold.
“Fucking bastard,” I growl and slap at him, jolting away from the freezing water.
“That’s for calling me British Guy again.” He chuckles and adjusts the knob until warmer water spews out. Reynold pulls me flush to his body. My soft chest and stomach smash against all his hard lines and defined muscles.
“My turn to touch,” Reynold says next to my ear, walking me backwards until we’re both getting soaked. “Tell me where you want my hands, Savannah.”
My head tilts back, and he brushes a kiss against my lips. “Everywhere. Touch me everywhere.”
I’ve never said those words to a man. It’s something no man has ever offered me. Dating has been exhausting for this reason. Men want to sleep with me, but they don’t want to be seen with me. They don’t want to touch me, but they want to fuck me and get their pleasure, then leave me unsatisfied.
I’ve always been the guilty pleasure.
Not anymore.
Reynold’s hand finds my breast, and he squeezes appreciatively before his fingertips tease the nipple. I arch into the touch, and he leans down, covering his mouth over the peak. His tongue laps over the sensitive tip, and I dig my nails into his back.
He hisses at the pain, but his mouth continues to work my breast.
“Sorry,” I breathe out.
