by K. A Knight
A hope.
For us? I don’t know, we are nothing but strangers on standby...but maybe...maybe he isn’t wrong.
“You know how to make a girl feel special, Logan, but I’ve learned words are nothing but empty promises. What a person does, his actions, shows you the truth,” I admit, my voice raw.
“Then, Ryan Shaw, I will have to show you,” he vows.
“How about you start right now?” I reply. “Prove it, Logan, prove how much you want me,” I demand, throwing down the gauntlet. I need this...these words are too much, too soon. I need his body against mine, the bliss and oblivion that comes with release. Just to lose myself in that, to prove to myself more than him that last night was a fluke. A freak accident, two storms colliding in the night to make a whirlwind that couldn’t be stopped, but in the light of day...it settles.
“A challenge I will gladly accept.” He grins and then backs me into the shower wall, pulling my hands up and pinning them against the slippery tiles as he nudges apart my legs and presses his knee against my pussy.
Closing my eyes, I drop my head back against the tile as he covers my lips with his once again, this time filled with passion and need. The pressure of his knee against my pussy has me rocking against him, gasping into his mouth when my clit hits his leg.
“Please, no teasing, I want you,” I plead, ripping my mouth away to pant. I don’t want foreplay or his mouth, I want his cock inside me. Ramming into me, fucking me against this wall. I don’t want sweet, not this time. I want real… “Fuck me.”
He takes me at my word, switching his grip on my hands to hold them with one, and pulls me away from the wall and spins me. My chest smashes into the tiles, his hand yanking on my hip until my ass is pushed out and my face is turned to press into the wall. He keeps my hands pinned above me, stretching me, forcing my body into the position he wants me in as his hand slips between my thighs to find my pussy wet and ready for him.
Before I can rub against him, seeking my own pleasure, he replaces it with his cock, notching it at my entrance, and just like I wanted, rams inside me in one quick, hard thrust. A whimper escapes my lips as I feel my pussy stretch around him. He’s so fucking big it almost hurts, but that edge of pain feels amazing, and I’m pushing back, asking for more, begging for it with my body.
He grunts, his fingers almost cutting into my hip as he pulls out and pummels back in, holding me still as he fucks me. It’s not sweet or gentle, it’s hard, fast, and dirty, and I love it. He doesn’t let up, setting a punishing rhythm that has me gasping and moaning, my hands clawing at his to take out my pleasure when it gets to be too much.
He twists his grip until he can twine his fingers with mine, holding me gently even as he forces his cock through my tight channel again and again. The pleasure blurs until I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore, jumbled words leaving my lips like a prayer.
He gasps my name, his hips stuttering for a moment before he drives into me harder and harder, forcing my release to build. I’m so close, standing on the edge. My stomach clenches, that feeling, the one you get just before you fall, rolling through me. All it takes is one more thrust as he slaps my clit to throw me over the precipice.
He groans my name as I come apart around him, my pussy milking his cock. His thrusts stutter, his hips slapping into my ass with an audible noise as he fucks me harder, losing all control, just ramming into me again and again until he leans closer. His slick body blankets mine as he bites down on my shoulder with a yell, his cock jerking inside me, spilling his cum.
Breathing heavily, we both slump against the wall, his hand going slack on mine as we stand under the warm spray. Only then do I realise we didn’t use a condom. Fuck.
“Well, shit.”
“Need me to prove it again?” he teases.
“You might have killed me,” I grumble, making him laugh, which in turn makes us both whimper as he slips from my sore pussy.
He spins me gently, cupping my face as he drops another sweet kiss on my lips. Fuck, who is this man? He’s beautiful, charming, sweet, and kind. He’s funny and real, but I feel like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. No one is this perfect.
“Let’s get washed up and we can go for breakfast before we head over to the airport.” He smiles and I nod, my mouth dry once again.
He kisses me once more, like he can’t get enough, and neither can I. His kisses have become my new addiction, my drug of choice. Then, using his hands, he breaks down another one of my barriers. He helps me wash. Logan shampoos my hair for me, careful of the knots and tangles, with such gentle, caring fingers. Each swipe of his hand is like a declaration, a promise not to hurt me, but I know that’s wrong. Because everyone hurts you eventually, you just have to decide whether that hurt is worth it.
Once we are washed, he leaves me to get dried and ready. I can hear him moving around in the other room as I run the smoothing serum through my hair and blow dry it so it hangs in loose curls. I don’t bother putting any makeup on, he has seen me without it, but I do brush my fake lashes and then head back to the bedroom with the towel wrapped around me. I don’t see him in here, so I grab my panties and bra, which we washed last night and left to dry, and slip into them before clutching my maxi dress. The red and white spotted fabric hangs to my feet, showcasing my figure with a cinched waist and a split up one leg. It makes my tits look amazing and is very comfortable, I’m glad I packed it now.
I’m just slipping into my shoes when he strolls back into the bedroom, buttoning his shirt sleeve. He stops when he sees me, his mouth opening and closing as his eyes run down my body. “You look beautiful,” he murmurs, and then clears his throat. “Sorry, I can do better than that...you look out of this world.” He shakes his head. “Nope, all that comes to mind are clichés, but they are all true.”
I giggle as he comes over with a cheeky smile and kisses me again. “Ready to get something to eat?” he questions softly, his hands going to my hips and pulling me against his chest. “Or we can just stay here and I can eat you?” he offers, wiggling his eyebrows dramatically. I laugh at his antics, but then my stomach rumbles and he lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Fine, let’s feed you, Stripes.”
He chuckles as he grabs my bag and checks the room for anything we may have left behind before holding the door for me. When I slip through it, his hand caresses my back and he drops a chaste kiss on the exposed skin of one shoulder, making me shiver. “Today is going to be great,” he whispers, the door shutting behind us.
He grasps my hand and links our fingers without even hesitating, and maybe he’s right. Maybe today will be great, after all, I get to spend it on an eight-hour flight with him.
Maybe Cupid wants me to join the Mile High Club, because I don’t know how we’re going to keep our hands off each other for that long.
Seven
We are seated in a booth with Logan opposite me, leaning forward to create our own private bubble as he plays with my fingers on the table.
“So are you a coffee or a tea person, or maybe neither?” he asks, his eyes honest. He’s trying to get to know me even more.
“Tea, I don’t see the fuss about coffee, but I can’t function without a cup of tea in the morning. What about you?” I inquire, rubbing my finger across his knuckles as he watches.
“Coffee, it’s how I function. I drink it like water, especially when I’m writing. Unless it’s at night or a scene that I’m struggling with, then I drink whisky,” he replies.
“Do you struggle a lot? Any scenes I might have read?” I question, genuinely curious. He opens his mouth and shuts it.
“Sorry, you don’t need to pretend to be interested.” He fake laughs and I narrow my eyes.
“I would never. If I’m asking it’s because I want to know,” I argue, and he searches my face before a full-toothed grin flashes across his face.
“A rarity, okay, well—”
“Good morning, what can I get you to eat?” comes a cheerful voice from a you
ng girl waiting beside us in a white shirt and apron.
“I’ll have scrambled eggs and toast please,” Logan orders, and they both look at me.
“Pancakes, please,” I tell her, and she nods, smiling happily.
“Of course, and to drink?” she asks.
“Tea for me and an orange juice.”
“Coffee, black please, and a water,” Logan adds, and she nods and hurries away. I look back at him, waiting for him to continue.
“Okay, scenes. Erm, did you read Water’s Edge?” he queries, seeming almost nervous.
“Yes! I loved it, especially the end where they thought she was dead but she came from the water? Amazing,” I gush, and then almost blush. I must sound like a crazy fangirl.
“I tried to write that scene for three weeks. I couldn’t get it right, I could see it in my head but I couldn’t get it...perfect. I ended up getting blackout drunk one night and just writing whatever came to my head,” he admits sheepishly.
“Wow, you wrote that drunk?”
“Well, kind of, some of it made no sense and was barely English. I had to edit the fuck out of it, but yeah, the premise of it was written when I was so drunk I ended up passing out in my bath tub and waking up in my own vomit.” He laughs and I snigger with him.
“And here I thought authors where these sophisticated unicorns who could write one handed,” I tease.
“I wish.” He snorts as our drinks are put before us.
I add milk and sugar to mine and stir it as I watch him. “So tell me more, tell me everything. Any books you have planned?” I nudge.
“You sure you want to hear my rambling? There are much more interesting topics,” he hedges.
“Not to me, go ahead.” I wave my hand. “Think of me as an idea buddy.”
He sucks in a breath. “Okay, well, the next book is based on a true crime story…”
The more he talks, the more his passion and how much he enjoys his work shines through. It amazes me that he’s able to create such intricate plot webs, characters, and worlds again and again. It’s like magic, but watching his eyes flashing as he gushes about his readers and new plot ideas is better than any book of his I’ve ever read. I can almost see it in my mind, the worlds and places he’s describing. The story is coming to life and I know that no book will ever compare again.
I listen intently, and when he stops and just stares at me, I shake my head. “Don’t stop there, what else?” His smile is slow, but it gets so big I fear his face might crack and I get self-conscious. “What? Do I have something on my face?” I ask, my hand reaching up to touch it.
“No, no!” He reaches across and takes it, twining my fingers with his. “Sorry, it’s just so refreshing to talk to someone who really cares, who actually listens and takes interest. Not because it benefits them, but because they want to. It’s nice, it got my ideas flowing,” he divulges.
“Well...glad I could help,” I reply, my cheeks heating at the compliment.
Just then the food arrives, and I take my hand back to eat, curling my fingers into my palm to conserve the heat from his touch. I don’t know what we’re doing here, I’m not sure I even care, but for the first time in a long time, I feel good, I feel noticed.
He makes me feel special.
Eight
We’re back where we started, waiting in the airport for a flight. This time I’m not alone, I’m not annoyed, and I’m actually having a good time. Logan is standing behind me, his arms wrapped around my waist as we check out the racks of books. He narrates every cover dramatically, almost making up stories, making me laugh in the quiet of the shop.
“That one.” I giggle, pointing out one that has a man on a motorcycle on the front, no shirt, just a leather cut as he stares into the distance.
“Hmm, he’s debating whether the fart he’s holding is safe to let go. He’s looking into the distance, wondering how long it would take to get home and change his trousers. The gun he’s concealing is actually a water pistol, he’s on a competitive team. That’s the club name on the cut there.”
I can’t help it, I snort out a laugh. “Oh, you’re good, no wonder you have so many bestsellers,” I joke, and he nips my ear.
“You know it.” He huffs cockily. “Your turn, that one.” He points at one on the bottom shelf before putting his hand back on my waist. I take in the cover, noticing the woman lying on a bed in a sweater and her underwear, her legs crossed and mouth smiling.
“Oh, that’s easy. She ate way too much and can’t fit into her jeans because of her food baby. That smile she wears as she rubs it is her remembering the way the pizza tasted and the incredulous look of the man she was on a date with as she demolished more of it than he did.”
“What a woman,” he says seriously, and I nod solemnly.
“A true queen,” I concede.
“Want any?” he queries, propping his chin on my shoulder.
“No, I packed some, what about you?” I ask, turning in his arms to face him. He grins down at me, curling a strand of my hair around his finger.
“No, I have a feeling my holiday will be spent in a much more interesting way,” he murmurs. We haven’t discussed that we are both going to Dubai. I mean, obviously he’ll be staying somewhere five star and amazing, maybe even miles away, but surely...surely we could meet up?
He takes my hand and we leave the shop, just strolling around as we wait for our flight. He did ask me if I wanted to go and sit in the first class lounge, but I always enjoy watching everyone get on their flights for some reason, so he decided to stay with me.
We find two seats near the window and both turn to look at each other. “Where about are you staying?” I inquire curiously.
“My friend has an apartment over there, he’s letting me borrow it. It’s at Jumeirah Beach, along the front. What about you?” he questions, his hand landing on my bent knee and rubbing.
“Erm, it’s a Sheridan, I actually think it’s called the Jumeriah Beach Resort,” I rush out, and he grins. He pulls out his phone and types, showing it to me a few seconds later. It’s a search, our two buildings are close...right next to each other actually.
“It’s like fate.” He laughs.
“Or Cupid,” I mutter and then smile. “I suppose I could be persuaded to move my busy schedule of sunbathing and swimming around to maybe meet up with you.”
“Oh, how kind of you!” he exclaims dramatically. “I might even take you out if you’re nice, I am a rich author after all,” he teases.
“Har-har, never going to let me live that down, are you?”
“Nope, sorry, Stripes.” He winks.
Just then there is a quiet clamor, the tittering of someone, and we both look over. What looks like a married couple—a middle-aged, greying man in jeans and a jumper and a middle-aged, skinny blonde woman—are staring at us...well, at Logan, and glancing between their phone and his face.
“Looks like you have some fans,” I murmur to him and he hums.
“It does. Though I have one right next to me as well, if only she would admit it,” he teases, and looks back at me. “I bet I’ll get her to by the end of the week,” he muses, tapping his chin.
“Not likely, book boy,” I scoff. He doesn’t need to know how much of a fangirl I am over his work. It’s bad enough he caught me reading his book like a drug addict taking their next hit.
He makes an amused tutting noise. “Stripes…” He shakes his head. “When will you learn? I always get what I want,” he whispers, leaning closer.
“But you’ve never met me before,” I retort, and he laughs.
Just then the couple must decide Logan is who they think he is and they rush over, both speaking at the same time. “I love your books!”
“It’s you! Mr. Hemsworth, we are huge fans!”
They calm down, the wife blushing under Logan’s dazzling smile. “Sorry, we saw you and wanted to let you know that we love your work. We have been reading them to each other on a night for years.” The husband g
rins. They dart a look to me and smile, including me, so I smile back.
“Thank you, it’s always great to meet a fellow horror fan,” Logan replies and turns to face them. He rises gracefully and offers them his hand not the least bit flustered. How often does this happen? It’s easy to recognize him as someone with money, but to know who he is you would have to be a fan, so maybe more than I would think.
I just sit back and listen, watching him interact with them. He’s so kind and down to earth, answering all their questions and taking pictures with them. He even autographs a piece of paper he grabs from a notebook in his hand luggage and they are overcome. They say thank you a million times and back away, whispering together as he sits down and smiles at me.
“Sorry about that, where were we?” he asks.
“Your life is so…”
“Weird?” He winces.
“Amazing,” I correct, and he grins again.
“So, Stripes, how much of a fan are you?” he questions, leaning closer. I laugh and push him away.
We spend the next hour talking and laughing until we head to the gate. There are ropes across the Emirates section leading to the plane, so I go to sit down and wait, but he tugs me after him and we head straight to the stewardess. She scans our tickets and passports and lets us through so we can wait in a side seating room.
How the rich and famous live.
About thirty minutes later, we are invited to board and we head upstairs on the plane, taking two seats next to each other in a cubicle. The chair turns into a bed, and there’s a massive TV, a tray, a small wardrobe, and cupboard. We are offered champagne, and I sit wide-eyed. It’s different than economy, that’s for sure, no wonder people love being rich.
I try to be discreet as I look around, but Logan watches me, and when he catches my gaze he winks. “Pretty nice, right?”
Taking a sip of the champagne, I lean back in my seat. “It’s not too bad,” I reply, and he laughs.