Page 8 of Light

And people think veils are only good devices for women.

Though as soon as Reece reenters the bedroom, fresh from his shower, it’s not his “veils” that spike my disquiet.

It’s his damn bath towel.

And the way he’s cinched it so low on his beautifully muscled hips, his “happy V” is dangerously close to being an erotic exclamation point.

And the way I wish I could take full advantage of that observation—not to mention the bulging flesh below that declares his thoughts on the matter—but we have to stop dancing around his tricky secrecy. For the last three days, we’ve been handling his evasion with humor and sex. While both factors have been very nice, they’re still exactly what I’ve just called them. Evasions.

“Hey, beautiful.” His interjection is music on the air, a harmony of sensuality and practicality that directly impacts my body’s happy V. Just like that, I’m even “happier” down there—a state I fight with every synapse in my brain and force of my composure. “If you like what you see, I think I can talk the manager into letting you have a test drive.”

Dear God. He’s not making this easy. But after a self-reprimand of a terse head shake, I retort, “We’re practically late for the party as it is.”

Reece turns, hands braced at the top points of his V, a smirk already dancing across his formidable lips. “And that’s a problem…why?”

I plop down on the seat at the lighted vanity. “Because the event is honoring our charity, remember?”

“And we’ll be the only ones there who really know it.”

“And that’s a problem…why?” The retaliation is harsher than I intended, but maybe that’s not a shitty thing. Reece drops his hands and jumps his brows, bringing a surge of satisfaction for me. No, that’s not it. I’m not gratified; I’m grateful. For the first time in three days, we’re cutting through our congenial surfaces and digging to what we really mean here. What we truly need to say. “RRO isn’t something we simply started for the optics, remember?”

Reece draws in air through his nostrils. “Of course I remember.”

He’s peeved and it’s obvious. Good. Damn good. I want his truth; not the I-am-Bolt-hear-me-roar PR kit. “Then let’s enjoy the chance to support our team and their efforts without having to do it from a stage with a thousand flashbulbs popping in our face.”

The sincerity I expect from him, in response to my own, doesn’t manifest. My husband continues to stand there, still looking like he’s going to be Mr. January for the “Hot Billionaires in the Shower” calendar, but also like he’s not one damn bit comfortable with it.

Or any other word I’ve just said.

“What?” I finally prompt. “You saying you miss the stage and the flashbulbs?”

He folds his arms. Mentally, I slot him into the calendar as Mr. February—because the fewer days I have to share those burnished pecs, those rugged forearms, and that low towel line with the rest of the world, the better. “I’m saying that I’m not sure this will be the simple flight beneath the radar we want it to be.”

“Huh?” He’s thrown out the statement so casually, I wipe my hands on my thighs just for a break to reprocess. “Wh-What the hell are you saying? Have you noticed anything? Did someone recognize you up at the cupcake place this morning?” Because despite the man’s field practice with his veils, he took time out of his morning run to grab me a pistachio special with cream cheese frosting while returning from his jog. “Or has the team learned something? Heard something?” I charge to my feet, ignoring Bean’s protest as my heartrate triples. “Has Faline finally figured it all out?” I raise both hands. “Baby, I swear that when I FaceTimed with Mom last week, I had the blond wig secured and that beanie on tight. And she saw nothing lower than my shoulders—”

“Sssshhh.” He steps over and gathers me close, his clutch as forceful as his admonition. “You’re fine; you did nothing wrong. And I know that it’s tearing you up, keeping Bean a secret from her.”

“Not as much as it would if Faline learned about him.” As soon as I utter it into his chest, which tightens from the texture of a brick wall into a titanium shield, comprehension slams me. “Holy shit.” I pull back far enough to get a full stare at his face—and the fresh tension through his jaw. “That’s what’s been haunting you too,” I assert. “In your dreams.” As soon as he averts his gaze, I wrap my hands around the back of his head. “Oh, baby. Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“Because it would have helped you how?” he counters.

“Because I’m your wife, damn it, and that’s what I’m here for.”

“To babysit my wussy nightmares?” It’s obvious he doesn’t want a response to that, so I abstain as he pulls away. He keeps his head dropped while sliding his long, sure fingers across my stomach. “You’ve got a more important guy to worry about these days, I think.”

“You want to know what I think?” I drape my hand across his, meshing our fingers together. “That there’s enough room in my mind and heart for both my guys.”

His expression softens, despite the fierce silver glints in his gaze. As he grazes his grip upward and cups one of my breasts through my dress, he husks, “And what about your delectable goddess body?”

A reprimanding breath. Well, at least that’s my intention. What comes out instead is a clutching choke, courtesy of the million zings between my legs. The fire caused by his simple touch. His adamant possession. The effect he alone wields over my desperate, electrified senses.

Damn it. Damn it.

“My body says that if you don’t stop, we’re going to be really late to the party.”

His rough velvet hum does nothing to turn down the wattage in my blood. He worsens things by rolling his caresses across my chest, to the nipple already hardening for him. “My body says it likes how yours thinks.”

“Who says I’m thinking anymore?” A truth if I’ve ever uttered one, especially as he teases my distended nub with his thumb.