And that scent? Not acceptable. That should’ve been a federaloffense. Cedar and spice, and so unfairly masculine it should be trademarked. Crotch Siren™
Now available in TSA-unapproved levels of potency.
Honestly, the man violated every rule of basic airplane etiquette:
No touching.
No excessive hotness.
No weaponized pheromones.
No existing with that jawline at 30,000 feet.
And sure as hell no reading my spicy scenes out loud like he’s auditioning for the audiobook.
Instead of a vibrator, I should’ve packed a chastity belt and noise-canceling ovaries.
To add insult to injury. I had a sex dream about him.Mid-flight. Somewhere over the Pacific.
One second, I was nodding off to the sound of turbulence and Rishi talking about post-flight oysters to some chick. And the next, I was dreaming about Nolan Rhodes pressed against me in a five-star hotel shower, growling things he has no business knowing how to say.
“Dream” Nolan had his hands everywhere. And they were good hands. Unfairly talented, annoyingly cinematic hands.
The details are fuzzy now—mercifully—but the feeling?
Yeah. A branding iron from the Department of Naughty Thoughts seared that part into my brain.
I woke up breathless, skin flushed, thighs clenched. Sweaty, like I’d just finished a HIIT workout, only theHstood forHorny, theI’sforInvoluntaryandIntense, and theTforThighs-never-closed.
I was wet.
Not metaphorically. Not emotionally.
Literally.
My subconscious had apparently decided to run a full simulation of what it would feel like to straddle Nolan Rhodes as if he was a SoulCycle seat. And I didn’t even get a warm-up.
Two staffers in bright teal polos and wireless earpieces unload our luggage from the jet. It’s a blur of designer suitcases and logo-stampedgarment bags, all tagged and whisked away before we can so much as reach for a handle.
