He glances at the seat and my legs, which are in the way. Quickly, I unbuckle and start to slide toward the terrifying thin-walled piece of plexiglass that pretends it’s a window.
He laughs, a low, sinful sound, and gives a shake of his head. “You really are scared of flying. I promise, that window will not bite you.”
“I’m more worried about it cracking and sucking me outside.”
He undoes the button of his jacket and holds his tie to his chest. “Let me save you from such a fate.” He gestures to the aisle, and I realize he’s going to let me keep his seat.
“Thank you.”
“Not a problem at all.”
As he peels back his suit jacket, the flight attendant takes his coat. My eyes lock to his broad chest, flat abdomen, and the way his belt draws everything together. I’m really looking at the zipper, because it’s at eye level, and what shifts behind it. This man is either happy to see me, or is packing something impressive.
“Would you like a glass of champagne?” The flight attendant drapes the jacket over his arm.
“No, thank you. Water will be fine, but she may need some of that champagne.”
I should tell him I’ve downed two glasses. An alcohol buzz swirls in my veins, relaxing me. But I don’t. If two glasses are good, a third will be better.
I unbuckle and move into the aisle while he takes the seat beside me. While the first-class accommodations seem to swallow my thin frame, he fills up the seat like it was made just for him.
This may not be such a horrible flight. As for the man beside me, I can use some of the sexy distraction he provides. He puts Scott to shame.
Back in my seat, I tug the seatbelt tight under the watchful eye of my neighbor. The plane gives a quick shudder. I jump and grab at the armrest, which happens to be right where my stranger’s hand is resting.
“Sorry.” I release his hand and stare down the aisle, anything to keep from looking out that window.
We’re moving, rolling back from the gate. The flight attendants are doing the safety thing. Like any of that is going to save my life.
He gives another low chuckle. It’s more of a rumble and adjusts his tie. I find myself staring again. Who knew hands could be so damn sexy? Ignoring me, he stares out the window as we taxi to the runway and stop for a few moments.
The engines roar, getting louder as we prepare for departure. My fear escalates with each loud roar. We roll again, turning, lining up with the runway itself.
With one last roar, we blast down the runway, bouncing along like we’re moments from crashing. My hand flies out again, grasping for anything.
Something warm and solid holds it. My stranger places his hand on top of mine and gives it a little squeeze.
“Relax. I fly all the time, and so far, I’ve survived just fine.” His attempt at humor is lost on me.
A few moments later, the pilot’s calm, confident voice comes over the intercom. He welcomes us on board our flight and tells us all about the weather at our tropical destination.
As the plane climbs smoothly into the sky, I slowly relax until a sharp pain bolts in my ears.
“It’s the pressure equalizing.” My stranger’s grip on my hand eases and I finally open my eyes. “Try yawning or make a chewing motion.” He demonstrates. “It’ll help to pop the air out.”
I do as he says and sure enough a pop sounds and the pain eases.
“Thank you.” I glance up at him, into those magical eyes of his.
“No worries. Just sit back, relax, and we’ll be there before you know it.”
“That’s what I’m worried about.”
“Why’s that?”
“The landing.”
Another low, throaty chuckle from him turns my insides to mush. No man deserves to be that sexy.
“Well, don’t worry about the landing. I’ll hold your hand through that too, if it helps.”
Embarrassed doesn’t begin to describe my emotional state, but I manage to string together a few words.
“Looks like you saved me again.”
“If only things were that easy.” He turns away and stares out the window, concluding the speaking portion of our flight.
I polish off the champagne and somehow manage to drift off. If we can nail this landing, I might be able to get through the next ten days. As for what happens next?
I have no clue.
Six
Hawke
What a delectable treat. The woman from the store is on my flight. Uniquely appealing, she draws my attention. In a rush at the store, I thought nothing of her at first, but then the universe granted me a second look. She’s flustered by my presence, but too terrified by the takeoff to let that stop her from grabbing my hand. I find her insanely attractive, and I can’t pinpoint why.
As for my attention, she has it now. I’m enraptured and entranced.
Not classically beautiful, or runway gorgeous—my usual go-to types—her stunning, understated beauty stirs my carnal hunger. It makes me want things. Dark things. Filthy things.
And I always get what I want.
I fully embrace my nihilistic desires, satisfying my cravings as I please. Mother considers this a fatal flaw. My cold-hearted mother is one to talk. Where does she think my disinterest in relationships stems from?
You taught your son everything, Mommy Dearest.
My disregard for emotional entanglement is not a flaw. It is, instead, my greatest strength.
Self-absorbed liars, cheats, and whores, women spread their legs at the drop of a hat if it means getting what they want. Mother taught me that. I’ve spent a lifetime watching everything she does.
And while I may live with a hardened heart, I don’t deprive myself the indulgence of female companionship, or the pleasure they provide.
Three rules encapsulate my life and a motto of proceeding with extreme caution serves me well.
As for the rules?
I initiate.
I take.
I’m the one who walks away.
The only one to beat me at my own game is the heartless spinster who raised me.
The rules keep things honest. There’s no worrying about feelings, emotions, or a trail of broken hearts littering my past. Every woman I’ve ever been with, with the exception of one, knows the rules going in.
As for the darling mystery beside me, I’ve already stripped and fucked her every way imaginable with my mind. She’s outmatched, and I’d consider her easy prey, except for the way she looked at me, or rather looked through me. Her initial interest fades. That kind of indifference fascinates me.
There’s a story here. It lingers in her breathtaking eyes, which hold a universe of pain and hides in the tumultuous cascade of her long, auburn waves. She makes me itch to discover what caused her so much pain.
I’ll uncover the details in time, but that’s not what draws me. Sure, there was that initial flare of arousal when she saw me, but it was here and gone in an instant. She’s not draping herself over me, trying to figure me out. She’s not attempting to entice me in any way.
She’s completely unaffected by my presence and that never happens. It makes her an unknown quantity; dangerous, and that fascinates me.
Her existence places me in peril because she presents a mystery I must figure out.
That, in and of itself, screams one hell of a bad idea. While my motto of extreme caution tells me to walk away, I fixate on having her.
Taking her.
Making her mine.
What brings you to the tropics, my dear? And how can I turn that to my advantage?
She’s the first woman to fall asleep on me. Granted, there’s more than a good bit of alcohol flowing through her system, but I’m used to a certain response from women. They’re rapt and ravenous for a piece of me. The beauty fitfully sleeping beside me is not.
In the meantime, I appreciate the peace and quiet as she sleeps. Using the onboard Wi-Fi, I dial up my sister and check in on her newest project.
Cherise is eager to show me everything about her orchids. A discussion about orchids would normally bore me to tears, but for Cherise, I can’t get enough of her exuberance. As the only female on the planet with pure intentions, my defensive walls fall away around her.
My fingers fly over the keys. Normally, I’d speak to her, but the inside of an aircraft isn’t the most private place. Many raise an eyebrow at the way I act around Cherise, but I don’t give a flying fuck what they think.
Me: Cherise, you around?
Cherise: Hawke!!! Where are you?
Me: On a plane.
Cherise: Oh, so much fun. I want you to take me on a plane ride.
Me: I will.
Cherise: You promise? You’re not lying? You know it’s bad to lie.
Me: I’ve never lied to you. And yes, next time I’m home, I’ll take you up in the glider. Or, do you want to go in the helicopter?
Cherise: Oh. The glider!!!
I can practically see her hopping up and down. It doesn’t take much to get my sister excited.
Me: What are you doing? Are you playing with your orchids?
Cherise: Yes!!! Can I voice?
Me: Yes, but I can’t talk back. Tell me all about your lovely orchids and don’t leave anything out.
Leaning back, I put an earbud in my ear. Cherise’s angelic voice fills my world, and her bright and cheery tone brings a smile to my face. Her childish excitement smooths away my stress. For the next two hours, she tells me everything about her orchids and the time passes quickly.
As for my seat companion, she’s out cold. I wave over the flight attendant.
“How many drinks did she have?”
“Two before takeoff.” He presses his finger to his chin. “No, wait. Three with the one you got for her.”
“Hmm…”
“Is there a problem?”
“No.” I give a shake of my head. “She’s afraid of flying and may have overdone it a bit. When she wakes, can you be sure to bring her plenty of water?”
A frequent flyer, I’m very aware of the discomfort dehydration brings. Add alcohol to the mix, especially what she imbibed, and she’s going to wake up regretting her decision to self-medicate.
“Absolutely.”
He leaves me and I continue listening to my sister go on about her orchids, her upcoming show, and which of her favorites she intends to showcase. While I listen, I admire the woman beside me.
Long, auburn hair spills around her shoulders in soft, cascading waves. My fingers itch to slide through the strands and feel their silky texture. Her lids flutter in her sleep and her features relax. Gone are the signs of panic which had her grabbing my hand on takeoff
The vividness of her eyes is something I won’t easily forget. They practically glowed and took my breath away.
The electric jolt when she grabbed me came as a surprise. If my body reacts like that to that simple touch, I eagerly await the main event.
But how do I corral my nameless beauty?
I bet she has a soft, feminine name, something that rolls off the tongue and drips with sin. I spend the next few minutes trying out several names, wondering how close I might be.
An hour before our flight ends, she stirs. Her delicate arms reach overhead and she stretches out her legs, curling her toes in a full-body stretch. Her lids flutter, then slowly open. Soft, gentle fingers go to her eyes, where she rubs away the sleep.
Mesmerized by her every movement, I catalogue them and file them away for future masturbatory use. My hand will be busy for weeks to come.
From her pert, rosebud lips, to the tiny upturning of her nose, she’s a pretty thing. Her tits are a man’s wet dream and I can’t wait to feel them in my hands. Not too small. Not too big. They demand my attention and unadulterated exploration with hands, mouth, and more.
She blinks furiously, clearing her eyes, and just when I think she might curl back with a sigh, she bolts upright and tries to stand. The seatbelt cinched across her lap prevents that, tugging her back into her seat.
“Where am I?” Her gaze darts furiously around the cabin. When it lands on the window beside me, her hand flies to her mouth where she bites her knuckles.
“No. No. No.” Her agitation increases. “I thought it was a dream.” Her chest heaves as she hyperventilates.
“Easy, darling.” I place my hand over hers. “You’re safe.”
“Safe! I’m in a plane.” Her head whips back and forth. “Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.”
I see her panic build and reach for both her hands. Gently pulling her fist out of her mouth, I shift in my seat to face her.
“Calm down, darling. You’re safe.”
“Safe! We’re all going to die.” Her words trail off in an agonized cry.
My grip tightens, letting her know I’m there, but it does nothing to ease her panic. She’s truly terrified of flying. Why the fuck is she on this plane?
“What’s your name?” Maybe if I use her name, I can get her to listen. To relax.
“Huh?”
“Your name? What’s your name?”
“Q.”
Maybe my ears are clogged? Such a harsh sounding letter can’t possibly be her name.
“Did you just say Q?”
She nods. “Well, it’s Quinn, but everyone calls me Q.”
Why would anyone butcher her name like that?
“Well, Quinn, my name’s Hawke, Hawke Sterling, and I promise we aren’t going to die today.”
“You do?”
“Well, I certainly don’t plan on it.” I point to the flight attendant who pays close attention to our exchange. “The flight attendants and pilots don’t either. I promise you’re safe.”
“Hello, Miss Hayes, is there something I can get you?”
The bastard flight attendant needs to back the fuck up. I’m the one taking care of Quinn.
“Can I have something to drink?” She pulls one of her hands free from me and pats her mouth. “My mouth feels like cotton.”
Because she downed three drinks, and if I remember correctly, there’s a high likelihood she took over the counter cold medicine too. She’s going to regret that.
“Yes, what would you like?”
“Water.” I clench my teeth. My specific instructions were for him to only bring her water.
She pulls her other hand out of my grip. Jerks it away actually and clasps her hands in her lap. She keeps rubbing at her left hand. The base of her ring finger actually, but there’s no sign of a ring. No sign of an indentation of where a ring might go if she wore one.
“No. No water. Something stronger. Do you have any more of that champagne?”
“No, Miss Hayes, but I have red or white wine if you’d like.”
“She’ll have water.” The flight attendant jumps at the low growl in my throat.
Quinn flips the release of her seatbelt and pops to her feet. Her sudden movement takes me by surprise.
“Where’s the lavatory?” Her hand goes to her mouth and her eyes widen.
Great. Just great.
The attendant points to the front of the plane where the first-class lavatory sits. Quinn pushes past him and darts to the lavatory. Thankfully, it’s open because I’m pretty sure she’s in there emptying the contents of her stomach.
With Quinn gone, I unbuckle and bring the full force of my towering presence on the flight attendant. A glance at the tag on his vest tells me his name. I press my finger to his breastbone and push hard enough to get his attention.
“Look, Andy, I told you to only give her water.”
“That’s not what she asked for.” Andy’s voice gives a little squeak and I’m pretty sure his balls just drew up a bit.
“I don’t care what you think, or why. Get her a damn cup of water and if you bring back alcohol of any kind, I’ll personally castrate you. Any questions?”
He shakes his head and retreats to the galley while I head to the lavatory to wait. Quinn didn’t seem that steady on her feet.
It doesn’t take long before the door opens. Head down, Quinn doesn’t see me at first, but I’m a large man and her head pops up. When it does, our eyes lock and something weird happens.
The air between us sizzles. It crackles with electricity.
She brushes her arms, smoothing down the fine hairs which stand on end. I feel it too. Like an electric jolt, something passed through my body.
“Feel better?” I brush the pad of my thumb across her forehead.
“I think so.” She wipes at her mouth and her gaze drops.
Placing my hands on her shoulders, I spin her to face down the aisle.
“Let’s get you buckled in.” The seatbelt sign flickers overhead.
“What’s that?” She takes a step back, pressing her tight body against mine. It’s all I can do to hold back a groan. That slight contact takes me from flaccid to rock hard in an instant.
Ignoring my discomfort, I walk her back to her seat and stand over her while she buckles in.
“Aren’t you going to get in?”
“I need to use the lavatory.” And fast.
She gives a tiny nod of her head. Satisfied she’s taken care of, I retreat to the only privacy to be found on this plane and take care of a very pressing need.
Seven
Hawke
Filled with all manner of filthy thoughts about Quinn, it doesn’t take long to ease the ache in my balls. My release takes care of my most pressing issue, but leaves me unfulfilled. I need her. It’s weird, this animalistic craving is new. Sure, I’ve felt an undeniable urge to fuck a woman before, but that was to fulfill a base physical need—to release tension. This woman? I don’t want to just fuck her. I want to lay claim to her. Mark her. It’s a raw, powerful, primal desire. One I don’t understand.
I wash my hands and run my fingers through my hair.
That’s a new one.
I’ve never experienced an instantaneous reaction to a woman’s touch, let alone the powerful need to rub one out like that.
Hawke: Christmas in Paradise (Billionaire Boys Club) Page 5