His eyes find mine. Too steady. Too knowing. “You have no idea.”
Heat slides up my throat. My fingers dig into the smooth leather of the armrest.
The plane turns toward the runway, engines roaring, air pressure shifting.
And I realize the terrifying truth.
Control is exactly what I want to lose.
I become acutely aware of him again.
Big. Not gym-bro built, but solid. Capable. The kind of strength that looks effortless, like he could lift me without noticing the weight.
His dark charcoal jacket clings to shoulders Michelangelo could’ve sketched in a fever dream. Legs long, confident, stretched into my space without apology.
His lips hover maybe six inches away. One small movement could rewrite everything, and I’ve already debated doing too many out-of-character things today.
“You get off on this, don’t you?”
“On what?”
“My fear of flying.”
“Ah, crap,” I mutter as the plane begins its ascent. It’s smooth, steady, yet my pulse refuses to cooperate. The city falls away, swallowed by cloud. My grip on the armrest tightens until my knuckles ache.
“It’s fine,” I whisper to myself. “It’s going to be fine.”
He leans in. Closer than necessary.
The pain in my wrist disappears, replaced by something sharper. Thrumming. His presence presses against me like gravity itself.
“Breathe in,” he murmurs, voice low enough to vibrate through my skin. His breath brushes the curve of my ear.
And just like that, fear isn’t the only thing making my pulse race.
Fuck, he’s turning me on.
“Hold it in, then let it out. Slowly.”
“I’m fine.” A lie, shaky and thin.
“Just do as I say.”
His voice. Firm, quiet, threaded with command. Why is that so hot?
I fix my eyes on the seatbelt sign, my so-called anchor. If I turn toward him again, I’ll drown in those silvery eyes. And there’s only so much my body can handle at thirty thousand feet.
“Oh no,” I whisper just as the plane jolts.
My stomach drops. The cabin shudders. Metal trembles and so do I.
Another jolt. Harder. I whip my head toward him before I can stop myself.
Yuri is right there. Close enough to taste the space between us.
God, I want him to close it.
“In, zayka, in,” he says, low and steady, his accent curling around the words like smoke.
