Red Hot Rebel - Olivia Hayle Page 0,64
To experience pleasure racketing through my body, and to have his hands touch my body like he loved it. Like he couldn’t wait to be inside me, like he needed me.
My smile grows wider.
And so what if I haven’t looked at my physical therapy textbooks in days? There’ll be time for that. Rhys goes where he wants, he does what he pleases. Perhaps I can be more like that.
I glance over at the alarm clock on the bedside table and nearly jolt up in alarm. We’ve slept for nearly ten hours.
Beside me, Rhys stirs and gives a low groan. The arm around my waist tightens, his leg against mine, and I smile again. Worth it.
So worth it.
He presses a kiss to my shoulder. “Morning,” he mumbles.
“Good morning.”
His hand smooths over my stomach, before sliding up to cup my breast. It’s a casual touch, but it means the intimacy is still here. No morning awkwardness.
“Sleep well?”
“Like the dead,” he says, voice hoarse. “You?”
“Same. We must have been tired.”
“Clearly.”
I try to turn, to see what he looks like newly awake, but I can’t make out any clear shapes. “It’s late,” I tell him.
“The time?”
“Yeah.”
“Drop the itinerary, Ives.”
I push against his chest. “Not when it’s our job.”
He sighs and stretches to flick a switch by his bedside table. A mechanic motor kicks into gear and then the giant draperies start to slide open. We both wince at the sharp light they reveal.
“How late is late?” he asks.
“As in, I’m supposed to be in hair and makeup in twenty minutes.”
“Well, that’s easy.” He settles back down, pulling me into his arms so I’m draped across his wide chest. “Skip it. You don’t need it, anyway. I like photographing you au natural.”
I run a hand under my eyes. “I never removed my makeup yesterday. You distracted me.”
“Guilty.” His smile is crooked.
“Do I look like a raccoon?”
“No,” he says, but he has an eyebrow raised. “A panda, perhaps. They’re cuddlier.”
“You’re very kind.”
He pushes my hair back, off my face. “I do my best.”
We look at each for a long moment. The deep green of his eyes is thoughtful, soft, illuminated by the morning light. I’m the one who looks away, unable to stop myself from smiling.
“What?”
“Nothing. I just… I can’t believe we did that last night.”
Rhys’s smile is crooked. “I can.”
I bury my head against his chest. “I’ll probably come to terms with it soon enough too.”
“Come to terms with it?” His hand settles around my bare hip, squeezing. “You wound me.”
“Impossible.”
“Nearly.”
I look up again to see his gaze on my body, eyes focused. I force more bravado into my voice than I feel—it’s vulnerable, being this intimate. “You’d want to photograph me nude, huh?”
But his voice doesn’t match my teasing. “Absolutely, I do.”
I rise up, a hand on his chest. “Seriously?”
“Of course.” He runs a thumb over my lower lip. “I’ve already thought of what kind of light I’d want, knowing which poses you prefer.”
There’s nothing to say to that, because my mind is blank. His statement is matter-of-fact, a true appreciation. It’s not lewd or leering. It’s not a photographer taking advantage. It’s one artist to another.
And it moves me more than I thought it would.
“So?” he asks. “No regrets about yesterday?”
“None at all.” I wonder if I can ask the question on my mind. What happens now? We didn’t define any parameters for this. But Rhys raises an eyebrow and barrels on—he probably has no qualms or questions. After all, when did he say his last kiss was before me? A few weeks ago?
I doubt that encounter had been limited to kissing.
“How do you feel?” he asks, glancing down. And it’s silly, because he’s the one who’s been there, but it makes me blush.
He gives a quiet laugh. “So inconsistent, about what makes you embarrassed. It’s difficult to keep track of.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s very interesting.”
I roll my eyes. “So I’ve been upgraded from not uninteresting to actually being interesting? Thank you.”
“That’s a real compliment in my book,” he says. “You should take it to heart.”
“Oh, should I?”
He nods, flipping us over. The comforter falls off him, his hair a tumble of dark locks over his brow as he hovers above me. “You’re not too sore, are you?”
“Perhaps I’m not sore at all,” I counter.
Rhys shakes his head. “I don’t know if I’m relieved or offended.”
“Decide, and then I’ll tell you the truth.”
His eyes widen. “Ivy, you deceitful—”
His words are cut off by the loud sound of a phone ringing. The ringtone is