by Lily Cahill
They shared a look for a moment. She seemed to be searching his eyes for something and he wished he knew what it was.
He was just about to ask, when Kent's voice rang over the speakers, breaking the moment. "We'll be taxiing to the runway in just a moment, sir. So please take your seats if you haven't already.
Sam led her to a seat, allowing himself to touch the small of her back to guide her. He felt the hollow of her spine there, and longed to kiss the spot with his lips.
She sat down and he sat across from her. They buckled in and the plane trundled to the runway then took off. She closed her eyes as it ascended and Sam reached across the table to squeeze her hand.
"It'll pass," he said. "These smaller aircraft always feel a bit scarier."
She said nothing, but gripped his hand. When they finally reached altitude she relaxed her hand and tried to pull away. But he didn't let go.
"Do you mind?" he asked, caressing her with his thumb. "Your skin feels nice."
She paused for a moment, cautious with him as ever, then shook her head.
The chef opened the door to the small kitchen, positioned near them for easier access.
"Good evening, sir," the chef said. "Are you ready for dinner service?"
"Please," he said.
The chef nodded, then turned back to the kitchen and returned moments later with two plates of steamed dungeness crab on a bed of roasted vegetables. She looked up at him, perplexed.
"Did the chef just happen to prepare this?" she asked. "Or did you know it was my favorite?"
"I may have asked around," he said with a smirk.
Frankie leaned back in her seat and pulled her hand away from his. She crossed her arms and got very quiet. Sam felt his gut lock.
"What's wrong? Have I done something to offend you?"
"I don't get it," she said. "I'm sorry, but I don't."
"Don't get what?"
"My last date, the guy ordered pizza and we watched football in his basement."
His bear roared at the thought of her on a date with anyone else, but he did his best to tamp it down.
"The guy before that, it was bowling and nachos."
What kind of jerks had she been dating? His bear roared again at the thought of her being treated so carelessly.
"I can't help it if the other people you dated were idiots, Princess," he said.
"Like that! Why do you keep calling me that? It's a terrible name," she fumed.
Why did the sight of her so piqued make him want to kiss her?
"I'm not going to stop calling you Princess," he smirked. "But you can call me Loser if you want."
"What I'm trying to say is that I'm a simple girl, Sam. I'm no Princess. I don't need all this."
"But you deserve it," Sam said. "You deserve more."
"Well, it's nerve-wracking."
"Why?"
"Why?" She huffed. "Because you're going to so much effort. It makes me feel .... It makes me feel like the bottom's going to drop out at any second."
"I don't deal in trap doors," he said.
"So why are you doing all this?"
"Isn't it obvious?" he asked, reaching out for her hand again. She let him. She wasn't holding on, but she wasn't pulling away, either. "When I want something, I go after it with everything I have. And I want you, Princess. I want you more than anyone or anything I've ever wanted in my life."
Her breath seemed to gather pace with his words, and he chanced a glance at her breasts as they rose and fell, pushing against the neckline of her dress with every inhalation.
"I want to know you. I want you to know me. And I want to treat you the way you deserve to be treated. You deserve more than bowling and beer and whatever else the lug heads you were with before thought was an acceptable way to treat my girl."
He felt a little shiver pass through her, and was afraid his last words might have been too strong. But he was tired of hiding the depth of his feelings for her. If it was up to him, he would have told her everything--all he wanted, all he felt, all he saw for them ahead. But that, he knew, might scare her away before he'd even had a chance. And so he only said, "If you let me, I will show you exactly how you're supposed to be treated. I'll show you what it means to be mine."
Her breath hitched at that, and he knew he couldn't hold himself back any longer. He leaned across the table and took her lips for his own. He cupped her face in his hands and drew her toward him and claimed her with his lips. She was his, and he'd waited far too long to taste her.
She opened to him softly, kissing him back with a gentle fervor. The kiss sent a jolt through him that was rivaled only by how he'd felt the moment he'd first seen her. It was a kiss that erased his loneliness. It was a kiss that undid his soul. It was a kiss that solidified and defined his entire future.
He wanted it to continue. He wanted so much more. But his mate deserved his respect. He would be a gentleman. He pulled away from her with one final brush of her lips.
Her face was flushed and her eyes were wide.
"Let's eat before it gets cold," he said.
Chapter Eight
Francesca
Frankie walked into the Benaroya Hall as though she was walking into a dream. The symphony. They were going to the symphony. For all her love of classical music, she'd never splurged on symphony tickets. Once they'd gone into Portland on a school field trip, but that was the only time she'd ever heard the music live. It always seemed like an extravagant way to spend money, especially now that her mother was gone and she was the only one in the family who would enjoy it. The symphony wasn't something it seemed like you should walk into alone, and buying an extra ticket for someone who'd hate it would be such a waste.
Sam secured his grip on her arm as he navigated them through the crowd and up to a private balcony. She was suddenly glad for the dress. It seemed like exactly the thing you were supposed to wear and nothing in her closet would have even come close to fitting in here. For a moment, she allowed herself to imagine she was the type of woman who owned several of these kinds of dresses, who went to the symphony whenever she wanted. But it was disorienting.
Up until now she'd known who she was. She was the pal. She was the drinking buddy. She was the girl a guy could talk to about other girls--the girl who'd gotten good at pretending it didn't bother her to go unnoticed. She was not the girl who had dinner served to her on a private jet. She was not the girl to land Mr. Universe.
But ever since Sam had appeared in her life, it had felt as though she'd been looking at herself through a carnival mirror. Things were stretching taller, growing wavy, her vision of herself morphing into something new and different. She wasn't yet sure if it was an image she liked or not. At the very least, it no longer terrified her.
"Would you like anything from the bar?" Sam asked as they sat. "I think we still have a few minutes."
"No, thank you," she said. She was too overwhelmed to add alcohol to the mix. She wanted to absorb this moment: the people milling about below, the tall wood walls and enormous pipe organ that dominated the concert hall's main stage, and mostly, the feel of his hand around hers.
It was this last that had her most surprised. She'd expected his touch to send her nerves into overdrive, but it hadn't. It had calmed her, warmed her. And as much as his kiss on the plane had lit a wildfire across her skin, it had also felt as comfortable as breathing. Kissing him had felt like coming home.
"I'd love to know what's going through your mind right now," he said, and she realized that while she'd been staring at everything else, he'd been staring at her. "It's putting the most delicious flush onto your cheeks."
Frankie's breath caught in her throat. Was this night really happening? Was this man really real? It seemed totally impossible.
"I was just--I'm excited for the concert," she said. "Shostakovich is one of my favorite composers."
"I have to admit, that part was entirely by chance."
Frankie smiled. "You're saying you didn't tell the
symphony to change their scheduled performance just to please me? Samuel Ryan, I'm starting to wonder if this date matters to you at all."
Sam smirked, catching every bit of her sarcasm. "If you'd like, I can find other ways to prove myself." He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her so softly it made her ache. Maybe Becky had been right about the underwear. She was suddenly very glad she wasn't wearing her standard cotton numbers that came in a five-pack.
The lights dimmed and a hush settled over the crowd. Then the musicians walked out on stage and took their places amidst a thunder of applause.
The opening chords of Shostakovich's Symphony No. 4 began, and Frankie felt goosebumps prickle over her skin. She realized that it might be the piece of music that most embodied Sam. It was strident and urgent and commanding, but also often just as playful. It was an enticing mix.
She allowed herself to sink into the music, into the moment, into the man.
#
The crowd let out into the cool, thick air of the Seattle night. Fog settled low on the streets, making Frankie feel as though they were back on the airplane, floating on the clouds. She felt so floaty, in fact--so dazed from the incredible music and the incredible night--that she lost her footing on a crack in the sidewalk and was about to fall headlong into the concrete when Sam caught her.
"Whoa, there," he chuckled, bringing her in tight to his body and holding her there.
"Sorry," she said, breathless. His arms felt so good around her. She didn't want him to let her go.
To her delight, he didn't. He held her there as the crowd surged around them, finding their way to cars and taxis. He held her there and kissed her until she no longer remembered that other people existed at all.
When the flow of people finally slowed down, he loosed his grip, but only enough to look into her eyes. "What do you say we take a walk before we find the car? There's still a little time before we're scheduled to fly back."
Frankie hesitated. She didn't want the night to end either, but her feet were killing her. She wasn't used to high heels. Every step in these shoes was pure torture. She didn't know how some women walked around in them all the time. "I'd like to, but I don't think my feet could take it. These shoes are awful."
Sam glanced down at her shoes, then irritation wrinkled his forehead. "Why didn't you tell me you were uncomfortable?"
"It's my own fault," she said. "I let Becky convince me to go with pretty instead of practical."
Something behind Sam's eyes shifted and a sparkle appeared there. Without a word, he scooped her up into his arms.
"Sam! What on earth are you doing?" she said, reaching to pull her skirt over her rear. She was practically giving the whole of Seattle a peep show. And she wasn't exactly a tiny little thing. No one had attempted to lift her since she was a child.
He rumbled the words against her ear as he walked, seeming to not even notice her weight in his strong, muscular arms, "You're going to have to learn to let me help you, Francesca."
It was the first time he'd said her real name, and she loved the sound of it in his mouth. It was the only place it had ever felt like it fit. It was the only place she'd ever felt like Francesca instead of Frankie.
"If you're uncomfortable, I expect you to tell me."
"It's only my feet," she said. "And it's not that bad. I can handle it."
He sat her gently onto a ledge that was about four feet above the ground. It was the concrete retaining wall of a wide flower box that held three enormous trees. Then he knelt on the sidewalk in front of her, and unstrapped her strappy heels. When he pulled them off, relief washed over her. She felt like a reverse Cinderella--happier without the shoes than with them. He set them next to her on the ledge.
He took her left foot into his hands and rubbed, and it was all she could do to contain the moan fighting to rise in her throat.
"You don't have to do that," she said, but he only glared at her and rolled his eyes.
His hands felt so good. He kneaded the feeling back into her toes, flexed her ankles and massaged her calves until the throbbing pain she'd felt was replaced only by a warmth spreading slowly up and up and up. Then he did the same on the other foot.
When he was finished, he kissed her ankle, then traced a hand from her foot to her knee as he stood and settled himself between her thighs.
"Better?" he asked, his hands sliding onto her waist.
"Much," she said, draping her arms around his neck. The movement felt foreign and natural all at once. New, but easy. Could it really be this easy?
"I liked watching you tonight," he said. "Your face doesn't hide from me so much when you're listening to that music."
"Hide from you?"
"You're tough, Princess. You don't let many people past your defenses, do you?"
"Maybe not," she admitted.
"So what is it about the music that opens you up like that?"
"It's beautiful," Frankie said. "And honest. Music can't hide anything. It has no secrets. It just puts itself out there, you know? And yet it always manages to be surprising."
A soft smile spread across Sam's face. "So you like to be surprised?" he asked.
"Yes," she said. And if there was anything more surprising than Samuel Ryan, she hadn't experienced it.
Sam drew close as though to kiss her, but instead swept her up into his arms again, grabbing her shoes in one hand as he whirled her away from the ledge. She giggled this time, trusting him, letting him carry her. With the smile on his face, he seemed just as pleased to do it as she was to be in his arms. She loved how weightless she felt against him. She loved how he was strong enough to hold her. She draped her arms around his neck and planted her lips on his.
He moaned against her lips and Frankie melted into him. Maybe it was dangerous to trust this man so quickly, but she didn't care.
She couldn't deny what she felt for him, and she wasn't going to punish herself any longer with thoughts that he didn't want her. She'd been lying to herself every time. She knew that now, and knew too that the lies weren't just about what he felt about her. They were about what she felt about him too.
She'd be a fool to resist him--to resist them--any more. She was happy with him, and it had been so long since she'd been so happy. Maybe she never had. She made a decision in that moment not to do it, not to resist. If Sam wanted to care about her, wanted to want her, love her even, she would let him. Come what may.
Chapter Nine
Samuel
Sam carried his mate all the way to the car, reveling at the feel of her in his arms with every step. Then they drove to the small airport. The whole time they rarely lost physical contact. When his hand wasn't on her knee, hers was on his. By the time they reached the plane, Sam felt his need for her building to an almost unmanageable point. He wanted to have her, and it would take very little to push him past the edge of control.
They boarded the plane and it felt like Sam could feel the energy crackle between them. Instead of the seat she'd taken before, Frankie sat on the couch. He sat next to her, buckling them both in and wrapping a protective arm around her as they took off. At least this time he wouldn't have to sit so far from her and watch her suffer without him. But instead of closing her eyes, this time she looked up into his as the plane climbed through the air. She held his gaze with those pale blue eyes. Finally, she kissed him.
The kiss was hungry and searching, and as she leaned into him he could feel her full breasts softly mold against his chest. Damn, that was sexy.
His dick was half hard already--it always was, when she was around--but he felt it grow harder as they kissed. He was suddenly very glad they'd left the chef behind in Seattle and that the pilot was behind the door to the cockpit.
He tangled his fingers into her thick, shiny hair and drew her mouth closer to his. The combination of the plane's fast acceleration and the taste of her mouth was more potent than the finest whiskey. He felt himself falling, felt himself hurtling toward a need for release.
&n
bsp; Be a gentleman, he told himself. Hold yourself together.
As if feeling his hesitation, she spoke.
"Make love to me, Sam," she said. "I want you to."
Her words broke the last of his resolve.
"Yes, my love," he said. He hadn't meant to call her that, but it had been bubbling up inside him. And it was the truth. He wouldn't take it back now just because it might be too soon.
As the plane reached altitude, he unbuckled his belt, then hers, then took her in his arms and laid her down on the soft leather. The movement was so fast, so instinctual, he barely registered he'd done it until he was already on top of her, feeling her soft breath against his face as he kissed his way down her neck and cupped a breast in his hand.
He groaned at the feel of it. God, she was lush. Soft as a ripe plum and just as sweet. He buried his face between her ample breasts and breathed in the scent of her skin. It was Ivory soap and crisp, autumn air--everything pure and perfect and wonderful.
Then her hands were on the buttons of his shirt. If she wanted it off, he would comply. He lifted himself off of her just long enough to yank it over his head. Then he was over her again, licking a line from her collarbone to her cleavage.
She wrapped her hand around his head to draw him closer and the feel of her fingernails on his scalp sent a shiver down his spine. Then her other hand explored his chest, gripped him tighter to her, as though she wanted them to fuse. He wouldn't argue with that either.
He slid his hand under her skirt and parted her smooth, thick thighs, brushing his fingers against her panties just to tease her. He could feel that a spot on them was already wet.
A little cry escaped from her throat and it made his dick twitch.
"That's right, baby," he said. "I want you to moan for me."
"Then make me," she said breathlessly, daring him on.
Fuck.
With one hand, he raised her knee around his hips, opening her fully for him. With the other, he tugged her panties to the side and slipped a finger into her wet, tight center. God she was tight. He couldn't wait to feel her grip his cock with her tight pussy.