I want to taste her again. I’m playing it over and over in my mind. I want to hold her throat and kiss her so deep she won’t know whose air she’s breathing. My cock throbs at the idea of her mouth wrapped around it again. I want to make her come so hard she passes out. I want to hear her scream and moan my name.
Pain shoots through my arm, snapping me back into reality.
It’s Bridger’s fist.
I blink and realize I’m leaning forward, sitting at the edge of my seat, reaching toward her without even thinking. I jerk back, dragging a rough hand over my face.
Bridger stands between me and Lo, glaring down at me. “You okay? You having a stroke or something?”
“What? Fuck off, I’m fine.”
But I’m not.
I want to be a fucking Fruit Roll-Up, and I hate myself for it.
Chapter Ten
MARLOWE
The plane jerks violently, metal groaning beneath me like it’s barely holding together. My ears pop, sharp and painful. My hands grip the armrests so tight my knuckles go white. We’re about to land. Or crash. At this point, I honestly think it could go either way.
Through the grime-streakedwindow, the sun blares down in blinding sheets, unforgiving on the dry vegetation below. The land stretches far and endless, cracked and sun-bleached, a graveyard of dust. Heat distorts the horizon, warping the jagged ridges and scattered brush into something unreal.
The plane lurches. The engines groan. Metal protests in long, aching creaks. My stomach rolls, coiling in on itself like it wants to turn inside out.
The plane drops. My ass lifts off the seat. Then the wheels slam against the ground. The impact rattles through my bones, jarring my teeth. We bounce, the force of it slamming me back into my seat. The brakes shriek, fighting against the sheer force of the landing. The entire cabin rattling so hard it feels like the plane might shake itself apart.
Nausea rolls through me, fast and hot. I swallow hard against it, gripping the armrests tighter.
Then, suddenly, it’s over.
We stop. Still and quiet.
A thick lump claws its way up my throat, but I shove it down, force it deeper, lock it away with all the other things I don’t have time to feel. My fingers tremble. I curl them into fists, willing them to stop.
We actually landed. I’m still alive. For now.
Bridger is already moving. He wrenches the exit door open and jumps down without hesitation, disappearing into the blinding white glare of sun.
I desperately want to get the hell off this plane, but I can’t move. My body won’t cooperate. The floor still feels unsteady beneath me, like I’m trapped between falling and standing still. My fingers clutch the seat, my pulse a frantic drum in my throat.
Damian moves, shifting in his seat, and when I look up, he’s staring at me. His expression is masked, all sharp edges and locked doors, but his eyes…they’re the same. The same ones that burned through me last night. The same ones that drank me in, held me down, left their mark all over me.
His hand moves. A flicker of motion.
An offering. Or maybe a warning.
I don’t know which.
I don’t know if it matters.
“Come on,” he says, voice low, rough. “We need to go.”
I stare at his outstretched hand, at the tension in his arm, the way his fingers flex like he’s waiting for me to make the choice. A heartbeat passes. Then another. My gaze drags up to meet his, and there it is again: a flicker of anger, frustration, and something darker beneath it all.
This shouldn’t feel like a test, but it does.
I reach out and take his hand.
