Tito glanced at me. Rocco caught it. He kept quiet. My brothers were bred to know their places. I wasn’t. If I gave Dario my blessing, all would be settled, whether Rocco liked it or not.
We glided over rough patches, the plane settling into calm once again. I reached for the bottle of whiskey and a glass. I found a book and started to thumb through it, intent on losing myself to mindless reading before joining Scarlett in bed.
“HolyMoly,” Tito breathed out.
A low whistle sounded from somewhere on the plane. Rocco became so still that I glanced at him to see if had fallen asleep suddenly. Not possible. His eyes were wide, glossy like moss in a swamp under the lamplight.
Every pulse of every man rose; in the confinement of the plane, I felt it. The walls trapped and shared like the flow of air through the vents.
I wasn’t sure who had more trouble breathing, her or me. The dress on her body was tight. It was a dress that defied fucking gravity.
The black straps were thin and opened into a mind-blowing V that barely covered her breasts. The dangerous slit ended at her sternum, and then it tightened, lifting the two juicy mounds above.
The only decent thing about the scandalous dress was the length, which fell below the knees, but the length made her seem even more sensual. Her small waist was silhouetted, her hips sloping, giving her an hourglass look. The smell of rose oil wafted off of her skin.
Her body had nothing on her face.
When we left New Orleans, she had been dressed in an old sweatshirt, comfortable tights, and a pair of Italian-made tennis shoes she was fond of wearing. Afterward, she had been curled up in a ball in the center of the bed, asleep.
She shocked me in a big fucking way.
“I—” She tilted her head, eyes lowered, full of wicked intent. “I was trying on some of the things I bought. I got this one on—” she shrugged, real innocent like. “But I can’t seem to get it off. Help me?” She bit her lip.
More turbulence, and her breasts jiggled.
Livio popped up from his seat like a newly sprouted mushroom. “I can assist—”
He caught my eye in time. He retracted his arm, swallowed down the words, and the man next to him yanked him down into the seat. He blinked a few times, seemingly shocked at his own brazenness.
I licked my bottom lip, pulled it in, bit down so hard that I tasted blood, nodded, and then followed her toward the room.
The two stewardesses looked at her with hostility.
Scarlett made eye contact with the one who had asked if I wanted the usual or something new. “Just so you’ll remember,ifthere’s a next time, my husband will always take the usual.” The comment was casual enough, but my wife’s warning was clear and sharp.
The stewardess nodded, turning away.
The door to the bedroom closed with a soft click behind me, and Scarlett turned. Our eyes met. She came closer, whispering something real fucking dirty in my ear. She gasped as my hands slapped against her hips. I seized her to me, uncontrolled desire flooding the blood in my veins. A male sense of dominance roared in my chest—they’d hear her and know—and I used my teeth to get to her breasts. Her nipples were as hard as pebbles, and she was ready—I could smell the scent of her desire like perfume. Sucking, kneading, teasing, and when my teeth bit the edge of her sensitive skin, she let out a moan that echoed around the small space.
“Harder,” she said, her hands twisted in my hair, pushing against my mouth. “Harder, Brando. Please.”
A sudden urge to bend her over, head touching toes, and slam into her, hard, do just like she had asked in my ear, took control. I could already feel her heat, the slippery tightness, her soft ass and taut thighs pressed hard against me, the slap of skin against skin, hear the way she’d cry out, try to move away, yet come back even more ravenous, begging for more, clenching around me as I rammed her deep inside.
The plane hit a pocket of air, and we both bounced. I took her by the waist, securing her, but kept some distance. The sex high came down when sense started to rise. I wasn't capable of thinking about all that was on my mind and having sex. It was one or the other.
“Wha—” she began, but voices outside of the door cut her remark short.
“Is that even legal?” It was the propositional stewardess.
“In Italia,” Rocco said, his voice low and his tone serious, “you will not be able to walk straight for a couple of days.”
Propositional stewardess moaned, and a head, or some other solid body part, hit the door. The noises moved forward, toward the bathroom, and picked up from there.
“Fucking Rocco!” Scarlett tore away, going after him.
She had been using that word quite a bit tonight, and I thought, without humor, that the term covered a few bases for Rocco.
Before I could get to her, she started to pound on the bathroom door, but the noises were too loud, and they didn’t hear. Her pounding ceased for a moment, as the voices went lower. She flinched at whatever she heard before turning to look at me. She began to pound even harder. The beating came from a place of frantic panic.
