Page 8

He drags his hand over the zipper of my pants, watching my face the whole time. I bite my lip to keep from making a sound. He notices, and his eyes darken.

“Don’t do that,” he murmurs, his voice a rough growl against my ear. “Let me hear you.”

The plane hits turbulence again, a jolt that presses us together. I gasp, and his fingers slip under the waistband of my pants, warm against my skin.

“You’re so tense,” he says, almost surprised, like he’s discovered something about me I don’t know myself.

I am.

I’m always tense. It’s my default state. But here, now, with his hands on me and no room to think, I feel myself unraveling.

His thumb circles lower, and I stop breathing.

“Breathe,” he tells me, noticing. “I’ve got you.”

The words are almost enough to undo me completely. So sure, so easy, like I’m not teetering on the edge of coming apart in a metal coffin thirty thousand feet over Nebraska.

He slides his fingers inside me, and I press my forehead to his collarbone because the image in the mirror is too much.

I grind against his hand, chasing the release, enjoying the brim of anticipation as it comes for me, creeping up my spine until I can barely stand it any longer…

By the time the pleasure hits, it’s like a punch, a thread snapped, a bright flood that leaves me floating and weightless and totally unmoored.

I want to collapse, but there’s nowhere to go, so I sag against him, still braced on my elbows, the laminate edge of the console biting into my skin.

He’s slow lifting his hand, careful, wiping his thumb along my hip where the fabric’s bunched. He kisses the damp hair at my temple like it means more, and I let him, not sure if I want to be held or let go.

I pull back enough to look at him, to really see him in this moment. His eyes are dark, and focused on me with an intensity that makes my breath catch all over again.

“Your turn,” I whisper, surprised by the fervor in my voice.

I reach for his belt, fingers trembling slightly but determined. He watches me with that same measured blue gaze as I unfasten it, the leather sliding through the loops with a soft hiss. His breathing changes when I touch him, a quick inhale that he doesn’t quite manage to control.

“Laurel,” he says, my name on his tongue like a warning and a plea all at once.

I don’t stop. I can’t.

Whatever this is, this reckless abandon, this momentary surrender, I’m committed now.

The plane hits another pocket of turbulence, throwing us closer still. I use the movement to my advantage.

My hand slides lower, and he groans, the sound rough in his throat. It stirs something primal in me I never knew existed. I’ve never been this bold, this hungry for someone else’s pleasure.

My fingers curl around him, feeling the growing hardness, the heat of his skin, the way his pulse jumps under my touch.

“Fucking hell,” he breathes, his forehead dropping to mine.

I stroke him slowly at first, learning the shape of him, the weight, the way his breathing changes when I tighten my grip. He watches me through half lidded eyes, and the almost helpless intensity of his gaze makes me feel powerful in a way I’ve forgotten was possible.

“Faster,” he murmurs, and I comply, my wrist twisting as I move.

His hand covers mine, adjusting the angle, showing me what he needs. I follow his lead, feeling him growing harder in my palm.

The bathroom is too small, too hot, our bodies pressed together in the cramped space. Sweat beads at my hairline, and the air feels thick with our shared breath.

His hips jerk once, twice, a reflex he can’t seem to suppress, and I like the way his composure frays where mine used to be.

My palm is slick; I keep the pace he showed me. My other hand finds his jaw, beard rough under my thumb, and I bring his face close. We don’t kiss, not exactly, but our lips touch and our warm breath mingles in fast pants, our gazes locked. His eyes search mine, and I let him see that I want this as much as he does.