I bite back the smile because apparently I have some self-respect left. “I’ll wear a helmet.”
“Good idea,” he says, and then he winks, retreats, and leaves me with the treacherous grin that spread, uninvited, over my face.
I flop back and stare at the ceiling again, muttering a prayer to whatever god handles women with too many feelings and too much history: keep me upright, keep me angry, keep me from falling where I’ve already fallen once.
The jet hums as Tuscany draws nearer.
Somewhere between the vineyard tour and the truffle dogs, I’m going to have to decide which part of this is performance and which part is the thing underneath we’re both too stubborn to name.
Decide and annihilate before feelings…deeperfeelings get in the way.
For now, I close my eyes and picture a pergola strung with lights, a table for two, and a man who can make me blush on a plane by toasting my appetite like it’s a virtue.
God…I’m doomed, I think, and the thought tastes like champagne.
###
The next sensation that I’m not alone is when someone dims the cabin light into a hushed gold, the kind that flatters and invites intimacy.
I’m half-dozing on the duvet when the door clicks, and even with my eyes closed I know it’s him; the air changes, like the jet itself leans closer.
“Did I wake you?” Vasso asks, voice pitched low, velvet dragged over a scrape.
“Not really,” I say to the ceiling, which is currently the safest place to look. “I’m not very good at sleeping on planes, as plush as they may be.”
He strolls to the foot of the bed and braces his palms on the mattress, sinking it an inch, putting his body into my gravitywell. His shirt gapes open at the throat, and I fight the urge to stare at his vibrant skin, to push away the vivid memory of how it felt to stroke him there, to feel his steady pulse. To watch sweat slick his skin as he pounded into me.
God, it’s sinful how hot Vasso Dillinger is. How unfairly confident his masculinity overpowers even the strongest woman. Seriously…the line of his forearms could be a religion. Even that faint nick along his jaw I didn’t notice earlier, the kind you get from shaving while making decisions about other people’s futures.
I shift, or more like squirm when the pressure in my pussy builds. Screaming for a repeat of last night. A repeat that isnotgoing to happen. Right?
His eyes gleam and I suspect he knows exactly the cause and effect he’s creating. “Cloud cover is smooth. No turbulence ahead,” he says. “It would be a shame to waste the altitude.”
I tilt my head toward him, attempting boredom while excitement ignites like fireworks in my veins. “Are you… propositioning me with meteorology?”
His mouth curves. “I’m a man of many talents.”
“Really.” I prop on my elbows, then wish I hadn’t when the points of my nipples frame themselves shamelessly across the fabric of my dress. “Name three.”
His lips part and I see the edge of his tongue touch his lower lip. “Negotiation,” he says, and the word somehow sounds indecent. “Navigation. And—” His gaze drops, slow as a caress. “—knowing exactly how you like to be touched.”
Heat licks up my skin as I roll to my side and let my eyes make a circuit…over his strong throat, chiseled chest, that faintest shadow of a scar along his jaw I’ve never cataloged. His body is an argument for unfairness: strong without vanity, cut by work and purpose more than dumb iron. The kind of body that makes you wonder what else he builds when no one is watching.
“I thought you had worlds to conquer,” I say, buying time for a battle I fear I’ve already lost.
“Conquering,” he says, one large hand wrapping around my ankle, “is a group activity tonight, I think.”
I snort, because I’d rather laugh than melt as heat travels up my leg to pool in my pussy. “Are you… asking me to join the mile-high club?”
He straightens, feigning thoughtfulness. “I’m asking you to rebrand it.”
“Oh?”
“Themile-high club,” he says, leaning over me, “is for people collecting stickers. Ours would be… bespoke.”
I arch a brow at him. “Customized sin?”
“Curated pleasure,” he murmurs, eyes on my mouth. “But if you want to call it sin, wife, I’m happy to be devilishly devout.”
