“Okay, when are we moving in together?”
“After the wedding. I have to protect my virtue, of course.”
“Right. Virtue. On the subject of virtue, what’s your favorite position?” Reeve asked as they walked past high-heeled shoes.
Sutton stopped. “Excuse me?”
“Well, I’m not buying the protecting-the-virtue thing. I doubt they will either. So, what is it?”
“I highly doubt that will come up at dinner. Besides, our deal was for pretend. So I don’t think we need to go there.”
“No. We don’t need to go there. But yet, that Janelle…” he let his voice trail off.
“What do you mean? That Janelle?”
“I don’t know, but her little casting couch comment made me think she’s not quite as conservative as she pretends to be.”
“And because of that we need to prepare a briefing doc on our fictional sex life?” She raised an eyebrow, daring him to keep going.
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he swept a strand of her soft brown hair away from her ear, and asked in a low, sexy voice, “What could it hurt for me to know how you like it, Sutton?”
Oh, he was good. He was very, very good, because she felt that swooping feeling in her belly. But she wasn’t going to be rattled by it. She was going to play along too. Sutton took a step closer to Reeve, giving him a look as if he were a naughty boy. “Doggie style,” she whispered, then watched him closely. His chest rose and fell, and he pressed his lips together, as if he were trying to hold back a word, or maybe even a moan? Perhaps he was even picturing her naked on king-size bed, on all fours as he trailed a hand down her back. Good. They’d be all the more believable then as a couple. “What’s yours, Reeve?”
He locked eyes with her and she felt goosebumps on her arms. Then, he dipped in closer, his mouth inches away. “The one you like best. That’s my favorite. My favorite thing is making you feel good.”
She drew in a sharp breath, then clamped her lips closed. But it was too late. A fuse had lit inside her. Deep in her belly, sending heat throughout her body, sending warmth to between her legs. Then she reminded herself—he was an actor, he was playing the role she’d cast him in, and he was going to win an award, because the way he’d said making you feel good seemed so true and authentic. As if he meant it. As if Reeve really had made her feel all those things in the bedroom.
“We better get moving.” She led him to the men’s section, choosing several high-end dress shirts for him, sharp pants, and a few neat ties. She was grateful to segue away from the sex talk and onto the safer terrain of wardrobe.
“This shirt is perfect for your eyes.” She held a green button-down against him.
“I feel like Julia Roberts,” he joked.
“Cue the shopping scene montage.” This was better, she thought. Keep it light, keep it simple.
“May I help you with that?”
The question came from a dressing room attendant. Reeve nodded, and the cute, perky gal took the potential purchases and showed him a dressing room. Sutton sat on the leather couch in the nearby waiting area and took out her phone. She fired off a few quick replies to agents asking questions about tomorrow’s plastic surgeon audition—Were there pages? Yes, already attached. How should the actors dress? In scrubs. Clean shaven look or stubble? Stubble, but of course—all the while picturing Reeve pulling off his tee-shirt, standing there alone in the dressing room, shirtless, only jeans on.
Damn. He made it hard to concentrate. She took off her glasses and pressed on the bridge of her nose as if she could push away all the thoughts of him.
The attendant walked by. “If you want to go in and help your boyfriend choose a shirt, it’s totally fine with me.”
Apparently, Reeve had the same idea, because Sutton heard him call out to her. “Hey, Sut. I could use a little help.”
A boyfriend would definitely want to show potential purchases to his girlfriend, Reeve reasoned. This was part of the role, and he had to play it well. To impress her. But there was something else going on too. He’d thought he was playing her, but the way she talked about favorite positions, all smoky and breathy, it was like a rush of blood to the head. Now, he was picturing her, naked on a big king-size bed, on all fours, him trailing a hand down her gorgeous back.
So if they were playing pretend, he was going to enjoy it. He opened the door a bit, and watched her walk toward him. She had a hell of a body, a true hourglass shape, with a waist you just had to get your hands on. He could picture her on top of him, his strong fingers wrapping around her waist. Or she could be pressed against the wall, that fabulous sculpted ass of hers jutting out, and he could hold her that way.
His eyes drank her in as she gave a perfunctory rap of the knuckles on the open door.
“Funny. I thought you had clothes to show me.” She slid inside the dressing room. She tapped her fingertip against his naked chest. “Did you need me to help get your shirt on?”
“On. Off. Whatever you want.” He closed the door behind them.
“I think we were going for on, weren’t we?” she asked, sounding the tiniest bit breathy. Sutton couldn’t stop looking at him, Reeve noticed. She was damn near gaping at his chest and his abs. He worked out a lot. He had to look good for his job. No, he had to look a hell of a lot better than good.
“Okay. Let’s try this green one.” He started to reach for a shirt. She stopped him.
“You have a tattoo.” She pointed to the swirling calligraphy that lined one side of Reeve, from his hip bone up to his arm.
“You’ve seen my tattoo. If memory serves, you required shirts off for It’s Raining Men.”
“I know,” she started, but her voice was shaky. “I just haven’t seen it this close.”
“Want to touch?”
She nodded, and reached out a hand, as if she were mesmerized, as if she were lured in by some uncontrollable force toward his skin, his muscles, his body. She started at the hip bone, one fingertip making contact. She glanced up, and Reeve drew in a breath. In this moment, he wasn’t acting; he wasn’t playing as she trailed a finger up his taut, lean body. Everything about her touch made him buzz. He wanted to grab her and do everything, but he let himself give into the moment, to the way she seemed so drawn to the marks he’d made on his body.
“They look like very fancy Hs. Three Hs.”
“They are. For the three most important things in the world.”