For one panicked moment, I’m convinced I’ve done something catastrophic like split my leggings or started my period all over his expensive leather seats.
He nods at the harness beside me. “I prefer to do it myself. Need to make sure you’re secure.”
“Sure,” I squeak.
Then he moves into my space.
Intoit.
One knee braces against the edge of my seat, his thigh pressing into the cushion so close I can feel the heat radiating through his trousers. The helicopter cabin feels about ten times smaller.
His eyes drop to my chest. “You’ll need to take that off.”
My hands freeze on my lap. What?
“The coat. The harness won’t fit properly over it.”
“Right. The coat,” I mumble, fumbling with the buttons.
When I finally wrestle the coat off, the cool air hits my blouse and suddenly this feels far too intimate.
He reaches behind my left shoulder, and I stop breathing entirely. His chest isright there, inches from my face, while he draws the safety belt across me.
His hands are careful not to brush anything inappropriate, but that almost makes it worse. Like he’s hyperaware of my breasts and actively navigating around them.
I hold my breath, partly because he smells incredible and partly because if I breathe, my chest will rise, and if my chest rises, it might touch his hands. If that happens, I might pass out.
He reaches for the right shoulder strap, his fingers grazing the hollow at the base of my neck. My pulse jumps like it’s trying to get his attention.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, meeting my eyes for the briefest second.
I can’t speak.
His brow creases as he tugs the strap snug. Like this is the most important thing he’s ever done. Like making sure I don’t fall out of his helicopter matters to him.
There’s a scar across the bridge of his nose, another along his temple. Battle scars from some insane adventure with Jake—black diamond runs, off-piste disasters, the kind of risks that sensible people avoid. I heard he lost a toe on one of their Arctic expeditions, though I’ve obviously never seen the evidence.
Do not make this weird, Georgie.
“Need to fasten this last one,” he says, voice lower and rougher than before. Then his gaze drops.
The fifth strap. The one that goes between my legs.
Oh, sweet fucking hell.
This is a five-point harness, and Patrick is about to put his hands between my thighs.
“Right,” I croak. “Safety first and all that.”
I shift awkwardly, parting my knees for him to reach the buckle. The movement feels obscene, like I’m spreading myself open for my boss, which technically I am, but for safety reasons, not sexy reasons. My body doesn’t seem interested in that distinction.
His hand slides between my thighs. Fingers wrap around the strap. He draws it up slowly, the back of his hand grazing the sensitive inside of my leg. Every nerve ending lights up as if I’ve been electrocuted.
The buckle clicks home. His jaw is tight as he runs both hands along the length of the harness—checking tension, pressing everything flat against my body in a way that’s necessary and professional and absolutely going to star in my dreams for the next four decades.
“All secure,” he murmurs, and when his gaze meets mine, the corner of his mouth curves into the faintest, most devastating smirk. “You’re looking at him.”
Words.
