by Luke Steel
“Stephanie, this is really important. I’m not planning to bomb the plane, I promise.”
She laughs and relaxes. “Okay, I’ve got it. You ready?”
“Fire away.”
“It’s Delta flight 668, leaving at four p.m. from Sea-Tac.”
“Thank you, Stephanie.”
10
Nate
I spin on my heel and bolt out the door.
“Wait, Mr. Stone—” Stephanie calls out behind me. Nothing she has to say will stop me. I cannot let Emma go. If I had time, I might be mad. I could be furious that she would fly to some asshole after—but we made no promises. I didn’t speak, and I should have. I won’t make that mistake again.
Bypass the elevators. Shove open the stairwell door.
Shit.
Fuck.
Hell.
Damn.
My boots boom on the stairs, and I keep time with curses. At the bottom, I burst out of the heavy metal door and into the sun. Ten steps to my bike. I strap the helmet on and step on the kick start at nearly the same time. The sleek machine responds to a feather touch, and I whisper to her, begging her to get me there on time.
She growls reassuringly as I pull into traffic. The fact that I just came from the airport fills me with rage. I pound the handlebars in frustration.
In fifteen feet, turn left.
Of course. I veer through two lanes, assess oncoming traffic, and determine I can make it. I rev the engine and lean into the turn. My back tire skids, but I ride it out. Then I gun it.
A horn blares, but I’m gone and not looking back.
This is my own fault.
I start peppering my curses with a chanted plea for cops to stay away.
Ahead, someone opens a car door into my lane. He never looks my way.
I stand on the pegs and push the handlebars toward the ground on the left side, fast, and jerk it back upright. The driver drops his phone when I buzz him, zigzagging around in the blink of an eye.
More cars join the flow. Fucking rush hour. I slip between cars and sidle up to the light, ignoring the angry looks around me.
In two hundred yards, take the ramp on the right. Stay in the right lane to merge onto Interstate 5.
I pass a black Chrysler sedan and angle in front of it to take the ramp. I can really let my baby fly now. I pick up speed, roaring onto the freeway. Rush hour traffic is heavy here, too, but at least the flow is uninterrupted.
Signs point toward Seattle-Tacoma International Airport, so I close the GPS.
I open the throttle and fly toward Emma.
A cluster of slow moving vehicles has gathered in the right three lanes. I will not lose her to some Spanish dickhead. On an exhale, I give it more and aim my bike between two rows of cars. They slide past in a blur. I shoot into a hole and stay there until another space opens up, and then I aim for that one. The one-mile warning for the airport exit looms.
Desperation clogs my throat.
I won’t make it.
I have to.
I weave through the remaining cars and cut across two lanes to hit the exit ramp at seventy miles an hour.
When I pull up at the airport, I pull up to the sidewalk, sling my helmet on the seat, and run inside. Impound, ticket, whatever. The doors swish behind me, and I realize I ran out without asking the airline. I unzip my jacket and look around, hoping for a miracle. Okay. I can scan the board for all flights on any airline to Spain, or I can have her paged. Or both. Or I can hold a stick in the air and hope magic points me to her.
Definitely page her.
I take off toward the Delta counter nearest me. People in line give me strong stink-eye as edge past them. Waving to get an attendant’s attention, I get ready to explain that this is a dare to be great situation. A movie finale. True love. Then I spot Emma, several lines down and stepping up to the counter.
I will not lose her. Not like this. I will not lose her because I wouldn’t act.
“Emma!” I shout.
She lugs a suitcase onto the scale.
“Emma! Wait!”
People step out of my way as I cut across the lines, calling her name.
Emma turns at the second or third call, her mouth falling open as I shoulder through in my black motorcycle leathers.
“Nate, what’s wrong? Are you flying out, too?”
I take the final steps at a run. Without speaking, I fold her into my arms. When I crush my mouth to hers, her lips part for me without hesitation. Our tongues meet, and I tighten the embrace. Hope surges that there’s still time for me. My kiss asks her the things I can’t speak. Her arms wind around my neck, a gesture that slows my pounding heart for the first time since I got the news of her trip. Mutters around us get louder, so I shuffle us to the side of the ticket line.
Her eyes widen when I pull away.
“Nate, what’s—”
“I couldn’t let you go without telling you. If you’d asked me a month ago if this could happen, I’d have laughed at you. But there it is. No one makes me feel the way you do. No one else challenges me the way you do. Tell me I’m crazy and that there’s nothing here. Emma”—I weave my fingers through her chestnut waves—“I love you. Tell me there’s a chance for us to have something real. Something ours, not tangled up in company business.” I lower my voice because she would want me to. “Something more than sex. Whatever reasons you have for leaving right now, we can make this work. I know I look like a risk on paper, but with you,” My voice cracks. “With you, I’m a sure thing.”
Emma twists her hands into my shirt. She yanks me to her for another passionate kiss, and people begin applauding around us, with light booing and the occasional “Get a room!”
Breathless, we separate enough to gasp for air. “Nate, I feel the same way. I—I think I love you, too.”
“Please stay, Emma. Don’t go to him.”
Her head recoils in surprise.
“What?”
“Your crazy ex-boyfriend, whatever his name is. Your assistant said you were going to Spain. I thought—I thought maybe I didn’t move fast enough. I thought I’d missed my chance with you.”
Her face lights up with a mischievous smile, ear to ear. “This is because you think I’m going back to Rafael?”
“Uh, I did. Maybe not now, though.”
“No. Even without you, I’m done with him. This is a business meeting. Learning Spanish for Rafael opened up some unusual opportunities. I have him to thank for that, at least.” She sways against me as the next person in line jostles us aside to put his baggage on the scale. “But it’s nice to know how you feel.”
I laugh and lift her up to eye level. “I’m an all-in kind of man, Emma. And I want you.”
“I want you too, Nate.” Her face falls into a more serious expression. “But I have a company to run. Fifty percent of it, anyway. And things to do. I won’t be with someone who doesn’t respect that. You might not always get all of me.”
“You remember I run companies, too, right?” I chuckle. “You wouldn’t be the woman I love without passion for your work. It’s half of what I love about you.”
Her eyes search mine. She must find what she wants there, because she relaxes into me. I loosen my grip and let her slide down.
“And the other half?”
“Obviously your ass.”
“Obviously. No one else has one of those.”
Reaching behind her, I grab her suitcase. Her other hands slides naturally into mine. “My plane is already here. Let me take you to Spain, and then to Tahiti. Bungalow. Sun. Aquamarine oceans. All the pleasure your body can take.”
“Just like that? I can’t—”
“Say yes. Tahiti has Wi-fi. Everything you need. Say yes.”
“You’re crazy, but yes.” She stops and pulls me in for a peck on the cheek. “Sweep me off my feet, Nate Stone.”
“Emma Vance, I hereby promise you will spend as much time off your feet as I can manage.” I wiggle my eyebrows and leer at her.
“Deal.”
Epilogue
Nate
After Emma and I finish a morning run along the pristine beach, I settle into a wicker sofa and adjust my laptop over my knees. Emma passes me a fruity tropical cocktail, courtesy of the bunglow’s fully stocked bar. I stir it with the paper umbrella. Emma insists on them in everything, even ice water. A large wicker fan overhead spins lazily, and the crystalline blue water glints in the afternoon sun. No other bungalow mars the view. Marge’s face fills the video chat window.
“I’ve rescheduled this week’s meetings, but there’s a groundbreaking at UC San Francisco next week. You contributed to the new wing of the business school. They’ve asked you to make a few remarks and be part of the golden shovel crew.”
“Thanks, Marge. You can confirm for me. We’ll be back by then.” Behind my screen, Emma wiggles her hips in the red striped bikini she bought in Cadiz. Like always, my body reacts instantly.
Marge coughs. “One more thing, Mr. Stone?”
“Yes?” My eyes follow Emma to the bedroom.
“I’ve sent some documents that require a signature. Esigning should be acceptable, but these have been waiting for approval for some time now.”
“I’ll get those to you by tonight, your time. Promise.”
“Thank you. But I hope you enjoy yourself. I can’t remember the last vacation you took.” Her eyes twinkle with mischief. I’ve got a feeling she knows who I’m in Tahiti with, and that’s okay. I want everyone to know.
“Good night, Marge.”
I end the call and close the laptop. Can’t be too careful. Then I stalk toward the bedroom in pursuit of my woman.
I find her shacked up with her own laptop, typing furiously.
“What are you working on?” I stretch out on my side beside her.
“Feedback on a marketing plan for a major new client.”
“Camera’s not on, is it?”
“Course not.” She doesn’t look, but her nose wrinkles over the bridge. “Why?”
I yank the string behind her neck that holds up the little triangles covering her breasts.
“No reason.”
“Got something on your mind, Stone? Out with it.” She scowls but closes the laptop.
I flatten my palm and rub it in circles over her nipple. A raspy, happy sound bubbles in her throat.
“Just let me—” She laughs as my arm wraps around her belly, holding her in place. “Here, you take this then.”
I lift the laptop from her hands, close it, and roll over to toss it onto a cushioned settee.
She reaches behind her to untie the second bow, a movement that thrusts her breasts outward. Ever the opportunist, I capture one with my mouth.
“Mmmm,” she hums as my teeth skim over her nipple. I suck gently and swirl my tongue over the peak.
Eager hands tug my face up to hers, and our lips crash together. We’re kneeling on the bed, mouths searching. I roll my tongue against hers, and she swipes hers along my upper lip. Then she twists her upper body in some kind of defensive maneuver and shoves my shoulders against the mattress. With a flick of her wrist, Emma unties her bikini bottoms at the sides. Then she swings one powerful leg over my chest. Instead of sliding down, she walks up my body until her pussy hovers over my face.
“Emma,” I groan. “I want to taste that beautiful cunt of yours. Closer.”
She reaches down and fingers her clit while I watch.
“Now slide your fingers in,” I demand. “Let me see you.”
I want to call the shots, and she wants to throw it in my face. She angles her middle finger inside, then drags it back out to rub rapid circles over her clit.
I clutch her thighs and press her lower onto my face. She rocks against my flickering tongue, sighs of pleasure on her lips. I stare over her mound, up the expanse of her stomach, to where her hands cup both breasts. My balls draw up and my dick jumps, but I keep my hands on her. Her head falls back.
I close my lips on her clit and suck gently. The ecstasy on her face, the sweet musky smell of her engulfing me, the slide of her nether lips over my tongue—God, this woman makes me crazy.
I sit up, lifting her above me, and then twist to slam her down on the pillowy mattress. I cover her body with mine and take her mouth again so she will taste herself on my lips.
My dick presses into her belly. She rakes fingernails over my ass, drawing a growl from me. I shift aside and slide my palm over her mound. Her hips thrust toward my hand begging wordlessly. I slide two fingers into her and she cries out.
“Louder,” I say. “There’s no one to hear you.”
“Nate,” she grinds out. “I want you inside me. Fill me up. Fuck me. Now.”
I rise to my knees and position myself between her legs, then I hook my palms under her knees and nudge them up. She gets the idea, and lifts one leg, then the other, to hang her heels over my shoulders. My throbbing dick nudges at her soft folds, and I’m panting with need. Her hands go over her head to hold the headboard, and I push into her exquisitely slow. Her walls envelop me. I pull out, gritting my teeth to maintain control, and then slam into her. We both cry out, and I pump my hips faster, thrusting deeper each time. Her cries climb in pitch, and I pause, buried to the balls in her pussy. She quivers around me. I turn my head aside to kiss the inside of her knee, salty with a light sheen of sweat.
I pull out of her and lower her legs to the bed. In a flash, she rolls over, rises to her knees, and presses a hand on my chest. I fall back to the mattress, pulling her on top of me. My hands nearly meet around her tiny waist, and I slide them around to her ass. Because I’ve wanted to forever, I give it a little smack. She yelps, then gives me an evil grin.
She bends over my chest and flicks a tongue over my nipple. Teeth follow, just enough to sting, and then soft lips soothe. She kisses up to my neck with soft suction until I’m nearly begging.
“Dammit, Emma. You’re so fucking sexy.” Her breasts hang over me like tantalizing fruit. I fill my hands with them and rub my thumbs over her nipples. In response, she moves down my torso, lifts her hips over my dick, and captures me in a tight fist between her legs. She pauses and rubs her wet slit over my head. So close. I grip her waist and shove my hips upward. She gasps and sinks on to me, pleasure written on her face.
Her hands brace against my chest, and she rolls her hips over me. I try to watch her face, but my eyes drift irresistibly closed. The motion of her hips carries me forward on waves of ecstasy.
I give up any pretense of control and let her take me with her to the edge.
“You look gorgeous on my cock, Emma.” I thrust up to meet her with a grunt. “Your pussy is so wet. So goddam good.”
“Right there, Nate.” She leans forward and grinds against me so her clit gets action too. “You’re so big—yes. Don’t stop fucking me. Harder. I’m so close.” Her hips pick up speed until her tits slaps against my chest each time we meet. Our cries merge and overlap, tempo rising.
The first spasms of her climax grip me as she screams my name. My mind blanks. My pulse thunders in my ears almost in time to tide lapping at the shore outside. I let go, spilling my seed into her with a hoarse yell.
She wilts onto my chest, and with effort I lift leaden arms to cradle her. Sweat cools on our skin under the breeze of the fan.
Wind murmurs in the thatch of the bungalow. Birds I don’t recognize call in the distance. Ocean currents eddy around the bungalow’s thick support poles. For a moment, I can’t distinguish the sound of my own breath from Emma’s. A peace that has always eluded me settles over my chest, and I tighten my arms around my woman. She makes a sleepy sound and kisses my chest, just above my heart.
The end.
If you want to read what happens 6 months later, sign up here to receive bonus pages.
Next Door Boss
Here is the first chapter of my other book, Next Door Boss, which is available on Amazon now.
Chapter 1
Gabriel
> I caught the doorman delivering the paper to my apartment front door that morning. Standing in the foyer, the door still open, I stop in my tracks: The front page of the business section, the headline is huge and blaring.
All Work and No Play Makes CEO Gabriel Mangovan a Very Dull Boy Indeed.
A little long for a title, isn’t it? Don’t they have editors at newspapers anymore?
“Mangovan Companies is a multi-national building materials company purported to be worth billions. Fittingly, the man at the head of this cement empire has about as much personality as a building block. Walking into the sparse icebox he calls an office, one gets the impression of having been summoned by the Principal for some misdeed in class, and the ensuing exchange is a waste of his time.”
The accompanying picture for the article makes me look like a goddamn supervillain. There’s no photo of my face. Instead, I’m in semi-profile, staring out my office windows, bent over a report on my desk. These are not the shots I sat for when the photographer declared it was picture time. He must have caught me when one of my assistants brought in a report for review—the interview had already run far over the allotted hour, and this was our none-too-subtle way of letting the reporter know we still had work to do that day. The reporter noticed:
Not long after sitting down we were notified Mr. Mangovan had other pressing matters to attend to, and an assistant forced her way into the room to deliver a report. From this it is evident Mangovan is a man on the move. And by move, we mean he barely had the patience to sit for the interview in the first place.”
I’m still standing in the hall in nothing but a robe and boxers, trying to make sense of this “great profile” my PR firm hounded me into giving The Sun. So far, I’m not seeing how this article is going to do us any favors.
I flip through the rest of the feature piece and wince. Three more pages of ire and upset. Jesus, what the hell did I do to this woman? I’m trying to remember the interview and the reporter. Nothing sticks out. She asked questions about Mangovan, commented on our iconic headquarters, asked some generic questions about mountain biking. How could it have turned out this damn bad?