by Swan, T L
He laughs out loud, and it’s deep and strong and does things to my stomach.
I put my headphones back on and pretend to focus on my screen. I can’t, though, because I just totally embarrassed myself, and I can feel myself blushing.
Stop talking.
Two hours later, I sit and stare out the window. My movie is over, but his scent is not. It’s surrounding me, taunting me with things that I shouldn’t be thinking about.
How does he smell so good?
Unsure what to do without seeming awkward, I decide I’ll take a nap, try to sleep through the next few hours, but first I need to go to the bathroom. I stand. “Excuse me.”
He moves his legs a little but not enough for me to fit through, and I have to lean over him to get past. I stumble and fall and put my hand on his thigh; it’s large and hard to my touch. “I’m so sorry,” I stammer, embarrassed.
“That’s fine.” He smirks up at me. “More than fine.”
I stare at him for a moment. Huh?
“There’s a method to my madness.”
I frown. What does that mean? I make my way past him and go to the bathroom, and then I walk around and stretch my legs a little as I ponder that statement. I’m stumped—I’ve got nothing. “What did you mean by that?” I ask as I fall back into my seat.
“Nothing.”
“Did you give me the window seat so I would have to climb over you?”
He tilts his head to the side. “No, I gave you the window seat because you wanted it. Climbing over me was just an added bonus.”
I stare at him as I struggle to respond. Am I imagining this? Older rich guys don’t usually speak to me like this . . . at all. “Are you flirting with me, Jim?” I ask.
He gives me a slow, sexy smile. “I don’t know. Am I?”
“I asked you first, and don’t answer my question with a question.”
He smirks as he turns his attention back to the television screen. “This is probably where you should start flirting back . . . Emily.”
I feel my cheeks flush with embarrassment as I try to hide my stupid smile. “I don’t flirt. I either want a man or I don’t,” I announce.
“Is that so?” he says as if fascinated. “And how long after you meet a man do you make that decision?”
“Instantaneously,” I lie. That’s not true, but I’ll pretend. Faking confidence is my superpower.
“Really?” he whispers as the flight attendant walks past us. “Excuse me, can we have two more champagnes, please?” he asks her.
“Of course, sir.”
His eyes come back to meet mine. “Well, do tell. What was your first impression of me?”
I pretend to look around for Jessica the flight attendant. “You may need something stronger to drink to hear this, Jim. You’re not going to like it.”
He laughs out loud, and I find myself smiling broadly as I watch him.
“What’s funny?” I ask.
“You are.”
“Why am I funny?” I frown.
“This sense of righteousness that you have.”
“Oh, like you don’t have that too . . . Mr. I’ll Have Two Champagnes.”
Our drinks arrive, and he smiles as he passes mine to me. His eyes linger on my face as he takes a sip. “What were you doing in London?”
“Ugh.” I roll my eyes. “I flew over for a friend’s wedding, and to be honest, I wish I hadn’t gone.”
“Why not?”
“My ex was there with his new squeeze, and he was being over-the-top affectionate with her to piss me off.”
“Which worked, obviously,” he adds as he tilts his glass toward me.
“Hmm.” I sip my drink in disgust. “Just a little.”
“What did she look like?”
“Long bleached-blonde hair and huge silicone lips and boobs and eyelashes and fake tan and everything I’m not.”
“Hmm.” He listens intently.
“Like Backseat Barbie on crack.”
He chuckles. “Everyone loves a Backseat Barbie.”
I look over at him in disgust. “This is probably where you should tell me that all men hate Backseat Barbies, Jim. Don’t you know anything about polite plane-conversation etiquette?”
“Obviously not.” He frowns as he considers my statement. “Why would I do that?”
I widen my eyes to accentuate my point. “To be nice.”
“Oh, right.” He frowns as if bracing himself to lie. “Emily . . . all men are repulsed by Backseat Barbies.”
I smile as I tip my glass to him. “Thank you, Jim.”
“Although . . .” He pauses for a moment. “If they give good head . . .”
What the hell?
I snort my champagne up my nose and choke. That’s the last thing I ever expected to hear come out of his mouth. “Jim,” I splutter as it sprays everywhere.
He laughs as he grabs his napkins and hands them over, and I wipe the drink dribbling from my chin.
“Men who look like you are not supposed to talk about head.” I cough.
“Why not?” he asks incredulously. “And what do you mean, men who look like me?”
“All serious and stuff.”
He looks at me deadpan. “Define stuff.”
“You know, older, rich, and bossy.”
His eyes dance with delight. “And what gives you the impression that I’m rich and bossy?”
I exhale in an overexaggerated way. “You look rich.”
“How do I?”
“Your fancy watch. The cut of your shirt.” I glance down at his shoes. “I’ve never seen shoes like that before. Where did you even get those?”
“In a shop, Emily.” He looks at his watch. “And I’ll have you know that this watch was a gift from a girlfriend.”
I roll my eyes. “I bet she’s a vegan yoga nut.”
He smirks.
“I know your type of woman.”
“Really.” He leans closer. “Please go on—this character analysis is fascinating.”
I smile as a little voice from my subconscious screams, Stop drinking, fool! “I’m assuming you live in New York.”
“Correct.”
“In an apartment.”
“Affirmative.”
“You probably work at some ritzy company.”
He smiles; he likes this game. “Perhaps.”
“You would have a girlfriend or . . .” I glance down. “You don’t wear a wedding ring . . . so perhaps you cheat on your wife when you travel for work?”
He chuckles. “You really should make a profession out of this. I’m amazed at the accuracy.”
I like this game too; I smile broadly. “What do you think about me?” I ask. “What was your first impression when I walked onto the plane?”
“Well.” He frowns as he considers the question. “Do you want the politically correct version?”
“No. I want the truth.”
“Right . . . well, in that case, I noticed your long legs and the curve of your neck. The dimple in your chin. You are the most attractive woman I’ve seen in a long time, and when you smiled, it brought me to my feet.”
I smile softly as the air swirls between us.
“And then you spoke . . . and ruined everything.”
What?
I burst out laughing. “I ruined everything? How did I ruin everything?”
“You’re bossy, with a sarcastic snark.”
“What’s the problem with that?” I stammer in outrage.
“Well, I’m bossy and sarcastic.” He shrugs.
“And?”
“And I don’t want to date myself. I like sweet, demure girls, the ones who do what I say.”
“Ugh.” I roll my eyes. “The ones who clean the house and have sex on Saturdays.”
“Precisely.”
I laugh and hold my glass up to clink with his. “You’re not bad for a boring old guy with weird shoes.”
He laughs. “And you’re not bad for a young, hot smart-ass.”
“Do you want to watch Magic Mike XXL with me?” I ask.
“I suppose, although I should let you know . . . I am an ex-stripper myself, so this is nothing new for me.”
“Really?” I try to hide my smile. “You’re good on a pole?”
His eyes hold mine. “My pole work is the best in the country.”
The air crackles between us, and I have to concentrate on stopping my inebriated mouth from saying something slutty.
He pushes the screen and taps through to Magic Mike XXL . . . and I smile broadly. This man is so unexpected.
First class is definitely the way to fly.
Six hours later
“Okay, next question. The weirdest place you’ve ever had sex?” he whispers.
I smirk. “You can’t ask me that.”
“Yes, I can. I just did.”
“It’s rude.”
“Says who?” He looks around. “It’s just a question, and nobody is listening.”
Jim and I have talked and whispered and laughed our way through the entire flight. “Hmm.” I think out loud. “That’s a tough one.”
“Why?”
“I’m on a bit of a drought at the moment. I can hardly remember any sex.”
“How long?” He frowns.
“Oh.” I look to the ceiling as I think. “I haven’t had sex in like . . . eighteen months.”
His face falls in horror. “What?”
“It’s lame, isn’t it?” I wince.
“Very. You need to up your game. They’re very bad statistics, indeed.”
“I know.” I giggle. Boy . . . we’re so tipsy. “Why am I telling you all this stuff?” I whisper. “You’re just some random guy I met on a plane.”
“Who happens to be very interested in the subject.”
“Why is that?”
He leans in and whispers to me so that the flight attendants can’t hear us. “I don’t understand how someone as hot as you doesn’t get fucked three times a day.”
I stare at him as I feel a tingle all the way to my toes. Stop it. This guy is too old for me and so not my type.
His eyes drop to my lips, and the air between us zaps with electricity.
“How long are you in New York?” he asks.
I watch his tongue dart out and lick his bottom lip in slow motion. I can almost feel it between my . . . “Just the afternoon. I have my interview at six tonight, and then I catch the last flight out,” I whisper.
“Can you change your flight?”
Why? “No.”
He smirks as he watches me, and it’s obvious he’s imagining something.
“What?” I smile.
“I wish we were on a private jet.”
“Why is that?”
His eyes drop to my lips once more. “Because I’d break that drought of yours and initiate you into the Miles-High Club.”
I get a visual of climbing on top of him, right here, right now. “It’s Mile-High Club . . . not Miles,” I whisper.
“No . . . it’s Miles.” He smirks as his eyes darken. “Trust me—it’s Miles.”
Something inside me snaps, and suddenly I want to say something crazy and out of the ordinary. I lean forward and whisper in his ear, “You know, I’ve never fucked a stranger before.”
He inhales sharply as his eyes hold mine. “Do you want to fuck a stranger?” he murmurs as arousal thrums between us.
I stare at him. This is so out of character for me.
This man makes me . . .
“Don’t be shy,” he whispers. “Tell me, if we were alone right now . . .” He pauses as he chooses his words. “What would you give me, Emily?”
My eyes search his, and maybe it’s the alcohol or the lack of sex or the fact that I know I’ll never see him again . . . or perhaps I’m just a total ho. “Me,” I breathe. “I would give you me.”
Our eyes lock, and as if forgetting where we are, he leans forward and cups my face in his hand. His eyes are so blue, and a wave of arousal sweeps through me at his touch.
I want this man.
I want all of this man . . . every last drop.
“Hot towel?” Jessica the flight attendant asks.
We jump back from each other, embarrassed. What must they think of us? They’ve been watching us flirt shamelessly for the entire trip.
“Thank you,” I stammer as I take the towel from her.
“There’s a snowstorm in New York, and we’re going to circle for a while to see if we can land,” she says.
“What happens if we can’t?” Jim asks.
“We will fly on to Boston and have an emergency layover for the night. You will be accommodated in a hotel, of course. We’ll know in the next ten minutes. I’ll keep you updated.”
“Thank you.”
She walks off to the other side of the plane and out of earshot, and Jim leans over and whispers, “I hope New York freezes the fuck over.”
Nerves dance in my stomach. “Why is that?”
“I have plans for us,” he whispers darkly.
I stare at him as my brain misfires. I’ve been prick teasing like a pro, but I’m really not that kind of girl. It’s easy to be brave and slutty when there’s no chance of anything happening. I begin to perspire. Why did I get so damn tipsy? Why did I tell him about my drought? That’s supposed to be kept private, fool.
“Another drink?” Jim whispers.
“I can’t—I have a job interview this afternoon.”
“That won’t be happening.”
“Don’t say that,” I stammer. “I want this job.”
“Good evening, passengers; this is the captain speaking.” A voice comes over the loudspeaker, and I close my eyes. Shit.
“Due to a snowstorm in New York, we will be flying on to Boston tonight and staying there. We will return to New York early in the morning. Sorry for any inconvenience this has caused, but safety is our priority.”
My eyes meet Jim’s, and he gives me a slow and sexy smile and raises his eyebrow.
Oh no.
Chapter 2
“Don’t look so excited.” He smirks.
“Jim . . . ,” I stammer. Oh hell, how do I say this? “I’m not really the kind of girl who . . .” My voice trails off.
“Who fucks on first dates?” he says, finishing my sentence.
“Yes.” I wince at the crudeness of that statement. “I just don’t want you to think . . .”
“I know. I wouldn’t,” he replies curtly. “I don’t.”
“Good.” Relief fills me. “I was being flirty when I thought we were getting off and never seeing each other again.”
“Right.” He smirks in amusement.
“Not that I don’t think you’re great,” I add. “Because if I were that kind of girl, I would totally be into you. We would be fucking like . . .” I pause as I try to think of an analogy.
“Rabbits?” he offers.
“Yes.”
He holds both hands in the air. “I understand; platonic humans only.”
I smile broadly. “I’m so glad you understand.”
Seven hours later
He slams me up against the wall as he struggles to pull my skirt up over my hips, and his open mouth ravages my neck. “Door,” I pant. “Open the damn door.”
Oh God . . . I’ve never felt this chemistry with anyone before. We’ve laughed and danced and kissed our way around Boston, and somehow he makes me feel at ease. It’s as if I do this type of thing every day, and it’s completely natural. The weird thing is, it feels right. The spontaneity of the situation I find myself in has me feeling all brave. This man is witty and funny and dirty as all hell, and in my opinion—which, in truth, could be totally screwed over with alcohol consumption at the moment—he’s worth the risk . . . because I know I will never get the opportunity to be with a man like him again.
I’ve died and gone to layover bad-girl heaven.
Jim fumbles with the key, and we stumble into my room. Then he throws me onto the bed
.
My chest rises and falls as we stare at each other, and the air between crackles with electricity.
“I’m not this kind of girl,” I remind him.
“I know,” he breathes. “I wouldn’t want to corrupt you.”
“But there is a drought,” I whisper. “So . . . so dry.”
He raises his eyebrows as he pants along with me. “This is true.”
I stare at him for a moment as I try to clear my arousal fog. My sex is throbbing and pleading for his body. “It would be a shame to . . .” My voice trails off.
“I know.” He licks his lips in appreciation as his eyes roam over my body. “Such a fucking shame.”
He takes his shirt off over his shoulders, and my breath catches. He has a broad, muscular chest with olive skin and a scattering of hair that runs from his navel and disappears down into his pants. His hair is dark, and his eyes are a brilliant blue—but it’s the power behind them that has me aching for him to take me. There’s an edge to his touch that I’ve never felt before.
He’s all male and pure domination. There’s no mistaking who’s in charge here.
Something about this man has opened up another side of me that I didn’t know existed. I know he could have any woman in the world he wants.
And at this moment, he wants me.
There’s no denying the chemistry between us; it’s raw, honest, and all-consuming. He’s hardly touched me, and I already know that this night is special.
Maybe fate has dealt me an ace for a change.
With his eyes locked on mine and in slow motion, he unzips his pants and pulls his dick out. It’s big and hard, and my chest rises and falls as I watch him. My heart is in overdrive. Is this really happening?
Oh. My. God.
He begins to slowly stroke himself, and my mouth falls open as I stare, transfixed.
I’ve never had a man touch himself in front of me before.
Holy fucking shit. This is off the hook.
He lifts one of his feet to the bed and really begins to let himself have it. The muscles in his shoulders and arms flex as he jerks himself hard, and my insides ripple in pleasure as I imagine it’s me doing it for him.
This is like reality porn . . . only ten times better.
What the hell am I doing here? I’m a good girl, and good girls don’t do bad things with men like this.