I shifted in my seat as the jet taxied down the runway, the pulses of last night aching low in my core. A noise rattled through me as I struggled to find comfort, part moan, part yelp. And now, it was his turn to laugh. My cheeks—my whole damn face—heated at the memories. But I wasn't embarrassed. I was overcome.
"All right?" he asked.
"Very well, thank you," I lied.
"Doesn't look like it," he replied.
"Thank you for that assessment, Mr. Guillmand," I snapped.
"That tart tongue of yours," he murmured.
We stared at each other through takeoff, a silent exchange of heat and knowledge and mutual irritation. As we climbed in altitude, I battled the urge to antagonize him. This wasn't a healthy means of communication, even if it was entertaining foreplay.
Gus tapped his pencil against his book's ring binding while he gazed at me, his eyes narrowed and a muscle ticking in his jaw. My belly swooped in response to that jaw. My toes curled, my chest lurched. His small, almost invisible reaction to me was enough to refill my courage, my power.
That was when I knew, when I truly believed this wouldn't outlast the weekend. Taking this much pleasure in a twitching jaw wasn't the foundation of a solid relationship.
Gus blinked away when the aircraft leveled off, revisiting his sketchbook. Not waiting for an invitation, I watched while he worked. He didn't appear focused, his gaze fixed on the windows dotting the opposite side of the aircraft while his hand moved the pencil over the page, seemingly independent from the rest of him.
From this angle, I couldn't see what he was drawing. And I wanted to know. Was it mindless doodling? Did professional artistsdoodle?Did they call it that? Or was this how he created—without looking at his work? I had no idea.
"May I ask what you're working on?"
He blinked up at me and then frowned at the page, shaking his head. "Nothing." With a laugh, he added, "Oh, that's right. You're entitled to all my work. I forgot I'm on the clock." He mimed checking off a box. "Must complete masterpiece before noon. On it."
"As I told you yesterday, that is not the case." I shot a pointed look at the pencil in his grip. "I asked because I was curious. About your work and—and how you do it. And I can't determine whether your comments are facetious or you aren't satisfied with this residency."
He tucked the pencil over his ear. "You want to talk about the residency?"
I folded my arms on the table between us. "If you'd indulge me."
"You don't want to talk about how I can see your barbell through that shirt?" He glimpsed at my breasts before shaking his head. "I'd rather indulge in the story behind that than anything associated with the dancing bear portion of my existence."
"I take that to mean you're not satisfied with the residency," I said. "How can I improve your experience?"
He yanked the pencil from its perch and bounced the eraser on the table. "You could start by unbuttoning that blouse."
I slapped my hand over his, stilling the pencil. "Give me five minutes of serious conversation and then I'll play your game for the remainder of the flight."
"You believe this is a game?" When I didn't respond, he continued, "We're not playing, sparrow. It's not a game when it's the way you're wired. You love our tug-of-war almost as much as you love your structure and goals. As much as I love interfering with them."
I ran the pad of my thumb over his knuckles. "If you know all about my wiring, you should know I don't stop until I've met my goals." I dragged my fingers over the back of his hand. "And you, Mr. Guillmand, are one of my goals."
"You scored this goal," he said, his words rough. "Several times over."
"Which means I've earned the right to know why you aren't pleased with this arrangement. With your residency," I added.
"The residency is fine. It's terrible but it's also fine." He turned his palm over, lacing my fingers with his. He stared at our hands as he said, "Silicon Valley is a man-made world. The lines between authentic and artifice are almost invisible and I can't wander here. I can't get lost. I hadn't realized that before coming here. I should've known but I didn't."
"I don't understand," I said. "Why do you want to get lost?"
As if it was the most obvious conclusion in the world, he replied, "That's how I find things."
"Is that why you climbed the tree?"
He laughed. "You're fixated on this tree, sparrow."
"Is it?"
