by Eve Langlais
Sob.
The private plane Conan chartered proved comfy inside—and expensive I’d bet. Apparently, having access to a large fortune—which he claimed was payment for services rendered—he insisted on paying for it. Being a modern girl, I let him—and made it quite clear that I wouldn’t be paying him in sex for it.
And do you want to know what the big jerk said? “Being allowed to accompany you is payment enough.”
Gag me with a spoon. I couldn’t tell if he sincerely meant it or piled a big ol’ steaming dose of sarcasm on me. In any case, I didn’t care, we traveled in style. Big leather seats, buttery-soft, and not a single duct-taped hole to be seen. A minibar. A bathroom. Even a couch we could use after take-off.
More nerve-wracking, if you didn’t count the captain, was that there were no other passengers. Not even a flight attendant.
Guess I’d be pouring my own booze because, yes, I planned on getting drunk. The flight wouldn’t last long. Under two hours. Long enough that I might get in trouble and it wouldn’t be the booze’s fault, though. Blame Conan for that.
The man oozed sex, and my fingers weren’t a substitute for real sex. The excuse I used to explain my insane attraction.
The plane took off with little fanfare. My nails dug into the armrests. It wasn’t the flying that scared me so much as the water below us the entire way.
So much water. Deep water. Deadly.
I closed my eyes and tried to count sheep. On land. Not drowning in a whirlpool.
A big hand wrapped around mine. “Fear nothing. I am by your side.”
A scoff-worthy statement, and yet for some reason, it soothed me. I took comfort in it. Relaxed. Not enough to loosen my grip, but I did open my eyes.
The door to the cockpit was closed. Aviation rules were now strict about that kind of thing. It meant just me and Conan. Alone. On a plane.
I’d never done it on a plane, which made me wonder, would a craft this small rock like a bed on a hardwood floor? I almost wanted to find out.
“Not worried one bit.”
“Of course, you aren’t,” he said with a snort.
“I’m surprised you can just jet off on a whim. Won’t anyone miss you?” I asked. “Work? Girlfriend?” My job told me if I didn’t show up, they’d replace me. I told them “good luck” with an added hardness on the k that resulted in my shift manager hanging up but not before I heard him shout, “Someone get me a fucking napkin. Damned nose is bleeding again.”
“There are plenty of warriors to take my place in Valhalla.”
I might not know much history, but I did know that word from watching Vikings on the History channel.
“You live in Valhalla? Does that mean you’re dead?” Because my understanding was that Valhalla acted as a Viking Heaven.
“Not dead,” he chuckled. “Valhalla is not just for departed souls of warriors. The living are welcome, too.”
“How did you end up making your home there?” Did he find it via Craig’s List? A realtor site?
“I’ve always lived there. My mother was a mighty Valkyrie.”
“Was?” I asked softly.
“She chose to renew her soul and be reborn again on Earth.”
“Reincarnation exists?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” My dim-witted reply to a stunning revelation. A lot of things I’d grown up thinking were fairy tales had turned out to be real. “Is this your first time living in the real world?” Because Conan had a way of talking that held a hint of the past in it. A formality not often seen among today’s slang-filled generation.
“I’ve ventured forth a few times before.”
“Stalking other women?” A disparagement for sure, yet why the tinge of jealousy hueing the words?
“You are the first. Usually, the women follow me.” He shot me a wink.
Complimented and annoyed all at the same time. The man had a gift it seemed.
“Speaking of sex, you’d better not start sleeping around with all the sirens. This is a serious mission, not a chance for you to add another notch to your bedpost.” A bedpost surely ready to collapse.
“It would be uncouth of me to fornicate with someone given I am pursuing you.”
Surely, my ears popped from the pressure, making me misconstrue his statement. “I’m not available.”
“For other men.”
“That goes for you, too.” Not entirely true. I wanted to be with him. Dammit. He drew me. Made me feel things. “I am not fucking you.”
He leaned close and whispered against my ear. “Yes, you will. Soon.”
No, I wouldn’t. No way. Uh-uh. “Take your raging libido elsewhere, Conan. Not interested.”
But he knew better. His words rumbled against my lobe. “Don’t keep denying it. Admit it. The idea of my lips touching another’s, my hands—”
“Belong to me.” Blurted right out. No take-backs. Worse, I meant them.
“Tell me to touch you.”
Give him permission? “We shouldn’t. We’re completely wrong for each other.” Tell that to the heat sizzling between us.
“The joining of our bodies is fate.”
I stared him in the eye. “I don’t believe in fate.”
“Neither did I, until recently.” He smiled, not a leering one or the kind that said I won. A nice smile.
It tugged a similar one from me in reply. But my response was pure Lana. “It’s probably just an itch.”
“We scratch it and—”
“—go our separate ways after.” Giving fate the finger.
He nodded. “No way are we destined to be together forever.”
“It’s just horniness.”
“Pure lust.”
“Need.”
We stared at each other in hunger.
Then, someone moved. Me. Him. Didn’t matter. We dove at each other. Lips mashing, teeth clashing, we kissed.
Groped. Touched.
Our embrace was a thing born of wild passion. Frantic in its intensity. As he devoured my mouth, my fingers threaded the fine silk of his hair, yanked at the long strands. He tugged me onto his lap, cursing for a second when the seatbelt refused to unbuckle.
He snapped it, his strength as sexy as his impatience. He nestled me on him, his erection nudging against my ass.
A part of me wondered that I’d given in. Would I really let this man seduce me on a plane?
Yes. Yes, I would. I could do nothing about my tension over the coming meeting, but you’re damned straight I could let him do something about the tension between my legs.
I squirmed on his lap, moaning and gasping as he kissed me. Feeling my panties get oh so wet with every touch of his hands on my body.
Dragging his lips from mine drew a protest, then a happy sigh as he nibbled his way across my jawline to my neck. He kissed the spot where I’d once had gills, and inside I felt a strange flutter.
His exploration stopped at the neckline of my shirt. Good thing I’d worn a blouse with buttons. He took his sweet time undoing them with his mouth, spreading the fabric slowly, baring me to his gaze.
“Gorgeous,” he rumbled before nuzzling the valley between my breasts. He tickled the soft skin with his partially shaven jaw, the rough bristles teasing me. I arched my back so that I might offer my breasts to him.
My bra still stood in the way, not that it stopped him. Nor did he remove it. A nudge of the fabric to the side bared my breast. The first swirl of his tongue on my nipple had me crying out. A sharp, high note. I swear I felt him grinning around the mouthful of flesh.
He switched sides, lavishing more attention, biting the tip. Drawing even sharper sounds from me. Pants of pleasure.
And so much wetness between my legs.
He shifted me so that I remained sitting in the chair and then knelt before me. This big, gorgeous man a supplicant wanting to worship. The slacks I wore proved easy to remove. He bared me from the waist down, and I shivered. Spread my thighs, showed him my treasure.
; He didn’t ruin the moment talking. He acted, sliding a hand up my calf to my thigh, the skin-to-skin contact electrifying.
Bypassing my cleft, he stroked through my curls—soft, dragging caresses that had me writhing in desire. He teased.
Wanted me to beg. And I was close to giving him what he desired.
He finally touched a finger to my slick folds, parting them, drawing a groan. He took that wet finger and stroked me, right across my clitoris. I shuddered.
I wouldn’t beg.
Please give it to me.
Conan leaned forward and stared as he touched. Let his burning gaze look upon me. I was exposed to him. My flesh at his mercy.
He blew. Hotly. Moistly.
An unearthly moan escaped me, and everything shuddered.
He placed his hands under my ass and drew me to his mouth. I almost came at the first touch of his tongue. I definitely trembled in his grasp. He took his sweet time. Long lashes over my sex. Hot blows. He parted my sex with his tongue and lapped at me. Stabbed me with his tongue.
I couldn’t take it anymore. All the teasing. “Make me come,” I growled, the words low and breathy.
“Say the magic word,” he teased, his breath fluttering over my sex.
“Now!”
There was no magic in the word, just carnal need. But he obeyed nonetheless. His mouth found my clit, and he sucked it, tugged it. He toyed with my button, drawing the most intense sensations. The most delightful pleasure.
He held tightly to my bucking body. He had to because I was coming apart on his tongue.
Coming apart at the seams and loving it.
Then, I was coming hard, screaming my ecstasy, shuddering in his grasp, trembling with the force of my orgasm.
Which was probably why it took a moment to realize that there was something wrong.
The plane rattled. Shook. But the worst part?
“We’re going down,” Conan announced.
Chapter 10
“It’s all my fault,” Lana moaned as she struggled back into her clothes. “I yelled too loud and killed the pilot.”
Jory tugged at the door to the cockpit as he replied, “If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine. I was the one who made you scream.” And, yes, he said that with pride despite the fact that his balls ached.
“Now is not the time to be thumping your chest.” He could tell she glared at his back from the razor-sharp heat warming his skin. “We are about to die.”
“No, we’re not.” When Jory died, it would be in battle, not drowning in a metal coffin. However, having that belief didn’t mean he could count on any gods reaching from the sky and snaring the plane. Sometimes, a man had to make his own destiny.
He gripped the handle to open the cockpit door again. It didn’t budge. Next, he eyed the hinges welded to the frame meant to keep out a human. The door proved no match for Jory’s determination. He gained entry and found the pilot slumped at the controls. Definitely dead according to the eyes already filming over, but unlike Lana’s fear, it wasn’t her epic orgasmic scream that’d killed him.
An octopus-like creature had clamped itself to the pilot’s face, the tentacles reaching around, its body covering the nose and mouth.
Suffocated by something often served on a plate. An ignoble way to meet the judgement of your god, which was why when the thing twitched, Jory drew his dagger, hidden in his alter-universe sheath, and speared the creature. Jory plucked it from the pilot and then rammed it into the console of the plane, hard enough that the sharp point pierced both the creature and the dashboard underneath.
A new flashing light caused Lana to exclaim, “You idiot! What did you do?”
Judging by her tone, the wrong thing. “Don’t worry.”
“I am worried because we are going to crash. In the ocean.” For some reason, her voice cracked at those final words.
“Nothing wrong with a swim on a gorgeous day.”
She glanced out the window. “There are dangers that lurk beneath the surface.”
“Which is the beginning of numerous horror movies and quests.” And what happened in those? The hero won the day and got the woman.
Words apparently spoken aloud. “No, the hero does not get the woman. In modern-day horror movies, everyone dies.”
“This isn’t a horror movie,” Jory said. Then he almost did something cliché like quote Deadpool. He restrained himself, though, because this was not a love story.
“This is just like something in one of my nightmares.”
“Nothing to be scared of.” Whilst speaking, Jory disposed of the dead sea creature, obviously smuggled purposely aboard. An elaborate way of disposing of someone.
He dragged the body of the pilot out of the way, moving quickly, very much aware of the water rushing towards them from below.
“It will comfort, at first.” Lana’s words held a dreamlike quality. “The gentle embrace of a rocking lover. Then, it becomes cold.” Her voice dipped an octave. “It pulls you down, presses in on all sides. Then they arrive…” Ominous statement. Just missed some dire music.
Time to mix it up with a bit of rock and roll. Which, he might add, the Vikings had taken an instant liking to, especially once the eighties arrived. All that hair. Tight pants. The old-school Norsemen adopted it instantly.
Jory slid into the seat and grabbed the controls. The stick with the knob fit into his hand, the tip of it vibrating. Probably on account of the plane vibrating, too. He held it taut, and some of that shivering lessened.
“You know how to fly?” Lana asked from a spot just behind him.
“Yes, but it’s been a while.” World War Two to be exact, and the planes flew a lot differently back then. At least no one shot at him this time.
He waggled the lever and sent the nose dipping. Rolling ocean waters waved frothily at them.
“Fuck!” She screamed, the sound sharp and wince-worthy.
His hand jerked, and Jory overcompensated, yanking the nose the other way and causing a worrisome shuddering.
“We’re gonna die!”
“Bet you a kiss we don’t,” he suavely interjected.
The slap on his shoulder was joined by her growled, “Now is not the time to be asking for a kiss.”
“Aren’t you going to give me some incentive?” He wiggled the stick and sent the plane rocking a bit.
Her eyes widened. “Fine. A kiss if we get out of this alive.”
“No problem.” Jory managed to steady their path, moving the plane parallel to the water. Coasting so low, he could see movement amidst the peaking whitecaps.
“Might want to hold on to something,” he advised as he began angling the craft away from the churning.
Not quickly enough. The tentacle that shot out in front of him arrived like a rocket, too rapid to avoid. It smacked the plane.
Lana predictably shrieked. Then let out a stream of profanity that made him want to bow to her in homage. Even his brothers and sisters of war couldn’t have cursed better.
“Wish I had a phone.” He totally would have live-streamed it. “Mind repeating that for me later?”
She glared so hotly it was a wonder his clothes survived.
He tilted to the left, heading towards the setting sun and a lone spire of land in the distance. If he could make land…
His attempt to make a run for it was somewhat impeded by appendages rising from the water, slapping against the plane, trying to bring it down.
“Oh, shit. They’re coming for me.” Lana hyperventilated. The brave woman who’d sung to hold back two armies, who’d tried to electrocute him, scared. Of sea monsters.
Which boggled the mind. Sea monsters were a foe like any other with krakens as one of the mightiest. The suckers on their waving appendages held stingers in their very center. Sharp. Pointy stingers. The stabbing hurt. The venom in the bite could cause momentary impotence.
Avoid the kraken. He kept angling the plane, looking for gaps he could slide through while trying to rise.
Except he wasn’t going anywhere. The body of the plane shuddered, and the engines whined as the tentacles coiled around the aircraft.
“Eep.” Lana’s scared squeak tightened his lips.
What had happened to his siren to cause such terror? She should be holding court over the monsters outside, not standing frozen in fear. Something about it wasn’t right. Didn’t mesh with the woman he was getting to know. How to get her to fight back her own trepidation?
“Sing,” he ordered. “Get those tentacles to tie themselves into knots.” He reached into his pocket for a phone.
“My voice doesn’t work against sea creatures. They don’t hear the same as those who walk on land.”
“You’re sure of that? Because you did stop an angel.” More than one. Had somehow drawn him under her spell, too. Surely with her power, she could stop a kraken.
Lana shivered, biting her lip, shaking her head. “I’ve had this dream. It doesn’t end well. But at least I’ll see my mama.” The forlorn words tore at his heart.
“No one is dying, wench. I got this.” Mostly because the idea of giving up had never entered his mind. He also enjoyed deep-fried calamari. The kraken was in that family. Calamari for everyone in Valhalla.
Tentacles gripped the wings of the plane and tilted the craft. Lana, still standing behind him, pitched forward. Jory managed to snare her projected body before she smashed face-first into the glass.
“Hoping you forgot a swimsuit,” he quipped. It now seemed rather certain they’d be going for a swim.
Lana stared out at the kraken arms holding the craft. “We’re going to die,” she calmly stated.
“Says who?”
“The giant octopus.”
“Kraken, actually,” Jory corrected. “And while mighty, not mightier than me.”
She blinked. “You seriously think you can fight off a kraken?”
For some reason, the incredulity in her voice calmed her shaking.
“Fight off implies I will be adopting a defensive position. I intend to attack.”
“It’s suicide!”
“According to my horoscope”—which he read every day online—“I shall achieve a personal victory and claim a luscious prize.”