by Shandi Boyes
“Are you sure you don’t want something to take the edge off?”
With the thin belt halfway across her stomach, Isabelle glances up at me. The undeniable look of lust is brightening her beautiful chocolate eyes, and her cheeks are hued, exposing who she’s planning to use to curb her debilitating fear of flying. Me.
The longer she stares at me, the stronger my urge to claim her becomes. I’m desperate to taste her again, to have her screaming my name. The need to dominate her is so headstrong, it is taking everything I have not to carry her into the bedroom right now.
I wouldn’t hesitate if she were the only female seeking aide from me this afternoon. My arm doesn’t need to feel the sting of Callie’s nails to guide her through her fear, but she does need my eyes and the silent promise they bring that she’ll always be safe when she’s with me.
Callie loses me from her sight for the quickest second when the steward places my glass of whiskey onto the table between mine and Isabelle’s seats, his eyes not once veering anywhere near my wife’s legs. “Will that be all?”
I step to the right to ensure Callie can still see me before requesting for him to advise Scout we’re ready to go. Scout is my lead pilot. He works solely for me and now Isabelle.
“Yes, Mr. Holt. Right away.”
As he skedaddles to the front of the plane, I keep my eyes locked on Callie. She’s almost asleep. The soothing lulls of the jet’s engines as it warms up for takeoff are as rhythmic to her as the rolls of my Bugatti’s tires over asphalt. That’s how Isabelle and I settled her the first two weeks in Ravenshoe. We took her on nighttime drives throughout the untouched hills dividing our residence from Cormack’s. It worked every single time—as it does now.
Callie is asleep just before the plane jerks toward the runway. Her timing couldn’t be more perfect. With her panic subdued, I can shift all my focus to Isabelle.
The heady scent of lust captivates me when I fill the empty seat next to Isabelle before placing my hand on her thigh. The spark of attraction between us is so intense, a zap darts up my arm before it lowers to thicken my cock.
A growl rumbles in my chest when I trace a figure-eight pattern on the skin high on Isabelle’s thigh. She’s not wearing any panties, meaning my pinkie grazes the soft cleft of her pussy with every circular pattern I do.
When I brush my hand down Isabelle’s warm slit, seeking confirmation on how wet she is, her grip on the armrests firms. She’s drenched, her recent waxing leaving nothing to absorb the wetness my meekest touch instigates. She’s slick and hot, and my cock seeps with precum just at the thought of making her come where she sits. Her pussy has been bare and waiting for me all day. It would be cruel to make her wait a second longer.
Isabelle’s eyes adopt a sleepy look when I give her clit a quick tap with the back of my fingers. She’s not tired. Her eyes are hooded with unmistakable yearning.
“Please, Isaac,” she breathes out heavily, wiggling in her seat. “I need you.”
The swivels of her hips raise the flare of her dress enough she exposes her pussy to my more-than-avid eyes. She’s aching with so much need, I only need to part her lips the slightest bit to see the nub I’m obsessed with. It’s pulsating with desire, like I’ve been teasing it relentlessly the past twenty minutes.
After straying my eyes to the flight attendant, who’s buckling himself in, in preparation for takeoff, I return them to Isabelle’s pretty pink pussy. It’s so lovely. Smooth. Wet. Mine.
“Not a peep, Isabelle. If you make a single murmur, I will withdraw contact. Do you understand?” When she nods without pause for thought, I reiterate, “Not a sound. I love every moan that shreds from your throat, but those are my screams.”
After a second nod, Isabelle digs her heels into the plush carpet lining the jet’s floor before raising her ass off the seat, seeking closer contact with the hand I’m incapable of removing from between her legs. I stroke her pussy three times before adjusting the tilt of my hand so I can sink two fingers inside of her.
My teeth grow envious when she bites her lower lip to stifle a moan. I don’t need to hear her pleasure to know of its existence, though. I can see it in the rise and fall of her chest and feel its vibrations on the tips of my fingers when they brush her uterus. She wants to scream but is aware her submissiveness will be well-rewarded.
When the walls of her vagina clamp around me, a rough groan leaves my mouth. Her pussy sucks at my fingers, hardening my cock to the point it’s painful. It’s frustrated my fingers are surrounded by her heat instead of it. He only had her this morning, but his desires never wane. They get stronger every time we fuck.
As the jet increases its speed, I double the pumps of my fingers. I finger fuck Isabelle without a single expression crossing my face, like her pussy isn’t slicking my palm with the arousal I smell melding in the air. Raspy moans bubble in her chest, but she keeps them contained.
The control she’s slowly harnessing over her body is mesmerizing, and it has a wet patch forming on the crotch of my trousers. Isabelle is beautiful no matter what, but when she’s flushed with ecstasy, she’s not the only one struggling to keep a rational head. My astuteness, levelheadedness, and ruthlessness needed to control every aspect of our lives are null and void when she’s quivering beneath me.
The power Isabelle has over me is astounding and utterly frightening at the same time. I put my empire on the line to pursue a woman capable of destroying me, and it enriched my life in a way I could have never predicted. I have never felt more alive than now.
Like the situation could grow more intense, the light above our heads captures the platinum band around my ring finger. Its sparks of light are a reminder of our day, how we unified and became one. It has me sliding my fingers deeper into Isabelle, taking her to the brink like I didn’t demand a peep not to leave her lips.
I can tell she’s enjoying this, her arousal is slicking my palm, and the faintest misting of sweat is coating her skin, but she’s giving it her all to follow my command. I’m not surprised. My hands are on her, which means she no longer has control of her body.
That pleasure solely belongs to me.
When the roar of the jet’s engines has Isabelle’s pussy clutching my fingers, I place pressure on her clit with my thumb. She’s too turned on to express her fear with words, but that doesn’t stop her body announcing her concerns.
As her breaths turn urgent, I press my lips to the shell of her ear, so I can tell her all the things I’m going to do to her once the plane is at the desired height. How I’m going to fuck her mouth before fucking her even more ravenous pussy, and how every orifice she owns will be covered with my cum by the time we land in Ravenshoe.
Isabelle stills for the quickest second when the jet’s tires lift off the runway before the most beautiful expression crosses her face. She’s not fretful. She is about to climax.
“Eyes, Isabelle.”
I imagine her throat burning from suppressing the screams I see in her eyes when they lock with mine. Her shudders are less impacting without the moans they regularly arrive with, but the visual isn’t any less stimulating. Her pert nipples bud against her dress as her beautiful scent strengthens. As she slicks my hand with evidence of her climax, I slow the grinds of my fingers, gently guiding her down from her toe-curling orgasm.
After several long, heart-thrashing seconds of silence, she leans across my seat so she can hide her flushed face in my neck. Her warm breaths tickling my chin add to the thump of my pulse, but it has nothing on the euphoria I feel when she whispers five little words I’ll never grow tired of hearing, “I love you, my husband.”
18
Isabelle
One surprise is never enough.
* * *
Heat rises on my cheeks when Isaac guides me to the open hatch of our private jet. I’ve been caught in compromising positions with Isaac countless times the past nine-plus months, but today is the first time I’ve orgasmed while being seated mere feet from a strange
r.
“Mr. Holt. Mrs. Holt.” The male air steward’s low tone exposes he’s as embarrassed as me, or is he fearful? Men often have difficulties expressing themselves. Isaac has always been a little hard for me to read, except when we’re in the bedroom. There, I know his every thought. It was a beautifully crafted two hours. “I hope you had a pleasant flight.”
“Thank you. It was wonderful.” My high shriek reveals my delight at being called Mrs. Holt for the first time. Isaac changed my relationship status on my Facebook page months ago, but this is the first time the title has been used correctly.
I don’t need to see Isaac’s smirk to know it’s etched on his sinfully handsome face. The tightening of his hand around mine is indication enough, not to mention the arrogance beaming out of him. His entire composure exudes to his authority. He’s the alpha male in this realm, and he’s more than aware of it. I just don’t know if what I said is the cause for his egotism or the flight attendant’s acknowledgment that I’m his wife. His pulse exposes it could be a combination of both.
The heat on my cheeks clears away when we descend the jet’s stairs. Callie is jumping in puddles, not the least bit confronted by the sprinkling of rain kinking her hair. Ravenshoe is her hometown, so she’s celebrating her return without concern for the weather.
I understand Callie’s excitement. I grew up in Tiburon, but Ravenshoe is my home. Hugo was right. Home isn’t where you are born, it’s where your family lives. This is my family—even Roger, who doesn’t look impressed the seats of his town car are seconds from being drenched by Callie’s wet bottom. Excluding the mist his eyes held when Isaac recited vows he made up on the spot, Roger has always been a bit of a stiff.
I run my fingers through Callie’s flattened locks as Isaac clasps her into her car seat. She’s melded into our lives so profoundly the past seven months, I can’t remember what it was like before she joined our duo. My private time with Isaac has become more taxing, but Callie nurtured us into two caring, loving people who are honored to be her parents.
Our first kiss as husband and wife was flavored by the salty tears dripping down my face. Callie’s poem… gosh. I’d never heard such beautiful words spoken by an adult much less an almost-four-year-old.
“How are we going to handle that?” I ask Isaac once he joins Callie and me inside his town car.
He drifts his alluring gray eyes from me to the media contingency ready to tail us through the streets of Ravenshoe. He has always had a strong media profile, but it grew more rampant when I was charged with murder.
“I’ll have my media guy draw up a press release.”
My nose screws up. It seems so impersonal to announce our marriage via an official statement. “Can you hold him off a day or two?”
I freeze when I catch Isaac’s angry glare. I’m not panicked. I’m turned on. “You want to keep our marriage quiet?”
“No, not at all.” That was my original plan, but there’s no way I can keep this secret contained. I’m so delighted to be his wife, I’m about ready to shout it from the rooftops.
When I curl my hand around his, I feel Isaac’s jaw throb. The clicking of my wedding ring against my engagement ring weakens its intensity. “I just think we should share the news with our family and friends before we tell the world. You don’t really want your parents finding out you wed by reading an online article, do you?”
“In all honesty, I don’t think my mother would care.” His confirmation isn’t a shock, but it still hurts to hear. “But I’d like to tell Nick and my father. They’re as smitten with you as I am… regrettably, so they’ll be disappointed they missed the ceremony.”
“They won’t be if you tell them I cooked for the occasion.” That eases the tension on Isaac’s face. Try as she may, Catherine’s culinary skills have yet to rub off on me. “And we’re still keeping our March 5 date, right? So they’re still invited, it’s just not for a few more months.”
“Yes, we’ll wed again in March.” The hairs on my arms bristle when he drags his index finger across the top of my hand. “I very much look forward to marrying you again, Isabelle.”
The way my name rolls off his tongue in a seductive purr has me confident Roger forgot to turn on the AC. If he did, today’s temperatures must be record-breaking. I’m burning up everywhere.
“Are you looking forward to getting married again? Or the event that occurs after every wedding?”
Isaac’s smirk heightens my senses even more. Just like earlier, I’m certain he’s on the fence regarding which event he is looking forward to the most, although perhaps somewhat teetering toward the latter. I thought nothing would top our first exchange in his jet almost eleven months ago, but this afternoon’s exchange blew that out of the water. Isaac was attentive and firm while also blowing my mind.
It was so stimulating, if Callie wasn’t watching us with eager, bright eyes, I’d slide up the privacy partition and add another exchange to the long list of transportation romps we’ve had. Alas, a three-year-old’s inability to understand chemistry has me sinking into my seat before I shift my eyes to the scenery flying by my window.
It’s amazing how different it seems now. My life drastically changed in seventy-two hours. I’m no longer Isabelle Brahn, an orphaned FBI agent looking to find her place in the world. I am a mother and wife—two things I was certain wouldn’t be on my agenda for many years to come, if ever.
When familiar streets come into view, I seek Roger’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “Can you swing past Harlow’s bakery on the way. I need to collect something.” Callie’s eyes light up as quickly as suspicion makes itself known on Isaac’s face. “It’s your birthday, we have to have cake.”
“We had cake,” Isaac disputes.
“Wedding cake isn’t birthday cake. Ask Harlow, she’d agree with me.”
Callie giggles at the face Isaac pulls. If he weren’t aware how disappointed I was to discover his and Cormack’s plan to run Harlow’s bakery into the ground, I’m certain he’d be putting tactics into place now to take her down. He hates when I place her between us, and we won’t mention her many other quirks he’s still adapting to.
I stray my eyes from Isaac to Harlow’s bakery that is shrouded in darkness. I’m not surprised. Although her kitchen had a recent makeover, she still wakes before the sparrows to prepare the scrumptious treats her customers devour every day, so her doors are closed shortly after five each evening.
“What a shame. We’re too late. She’s closed.”
Isaac tries to sound disappointed. You can be assured acting isn’t his strong point. He’s not just being a birthday Grinch, he is eager to commence ticking off the wicked thoughts he whispered in my ear during our tryst in the plane. He not only promised to cross off jet fucking from our list of activities today, he wants the shower, our bed, and his desk marked off as well. We’ve had sex in these places many times, but this will be the first time as husband and wife.
Isaac’s yummy scent streams through my nostrils when I lean across his body to pop open his door. “Come on, I know where Harlow hides the spare key.”
His growl is low and menacing, and it quickens my pulse, but not enough to stop me. Ignoring the frantic pulse between my legs, I crawl across his body before stumbling onto the sidewalk. Isaac and Callie join me ten seconds later.
“This way. There’s a side entrance down the alley.” I have to shout to ensure they can hear me over the traffic surrounding us. It’s almost six, meaning peak-hour traffic is at its heaviest.
As I bend down to gather the key Harlow left under the welcome mat, my heart whacks out a funky tune. Newspaper borders the glass I peered through at precisely five each morning when I was the FBI’s glorified coffee girl. It effectively conceals Harlow’s bakery from any snoopers lurking in the alley, but it’s extremely thin—paper-thin, some may say.
After the door creaks open, Isaac drags his hand not curled around Callie’s down the side wall, seeking the light switch. His brows join when his
countless flicks of the switch fail to illuminate the bakery. “The fuse must be blown.”
I graze my teeth over my lower lip to hide my smile. “It’s okay. I don’t need it. The fridge has a light. It also houses the cakes.”
Isaac stops me when I attempt to enter the premises, mortified about my lack of safety. He’d never say anything, but he’s still uneased Megan’s body hasn’t been recovered. Considering this was one of her regular haunts when seeking a break from stalking Nick at the Dungeon two blocks up, his caution is understandable.
After gesturing for Roger to join us in the poorly lit alleyway, Isaac pushes open the door all the way. The low-hanging sun showcases Harlow’s new cabinets, stainless-steel counters, and industrial ovens, but the corners of the once-dowdy space are still cloaked by darkness.
“Where’s the fridge?” Isaac is neither scared nor nervous. He just wants to go home.
“Back left-hand corner. Just under the stairwell.” I point in the direction I’m referencing.
I became familiar with the floorplan when Harlow let slip on Colt Enterprises’ endeavor to force her doors closed. When the bakeries they placed in direct competition of hers closed down, Harlow had a ton of customers to serve but only two staff members to fill their orders. My baking skills aren’t any better than my cooking skills, but my bond with both Harlow and Callie strengthened the weeks we spent here helping Harlow get her beloved bakery back on its feet.
“Is there any particular flavor of cake you’d like me to steal?”
Isaac’s attempt to act angry is as sexy as sin. I love seeing him like this. His powerful demeanor is still beaming out of him in invisible waves, but there’s a playful edge brightening his eyes. It’s been there since he said ‘yes’ to becoming my husband months earlier than predicted.