She tilts her head. “Like what?”
I brush my knuckles over her knee, up the smooth line of her thigh. “Confident. Creative. Completely unaware of how damn talented you are.”
Her breath hitches, and I feel the pull between us like a live wire. The hum of the jet, the soft leather seats, the faint scent of her shampoo—suddenly, it’s all background noise.
“You really liked it?” she whispers.
I lean in until my mouth is a whisper from hers. “Liked it?” My lips ghost over her jaw. “I want to crawl into your head and live in the way you write. Every word felt like you were writing it for me.”
She shivers under my touch, her knees falling apart just enough for me to slide my hand higher.
“Ash…”
The sound of my name from her lips—half-protest, half-plea—snaps whatever restraint I had left. I kiss her, slow but deep, savoring the way she melts against me. Her mouth tastes like champagne and the last bit of mango from dessert.
When I pull back, her cheeks are flushed, her eyes heavy-lidded. “Finish the book, Olive,” I murmur, my thumb brushing the edge of her lower lip. “And maybe I’ll let you finish what you’re doing to me right now.”
She laughs softly, but her fingers are already curling in my shirt, dragging me back for another kiss—this one hotter, hungrier.
Her laugh is still on my lips when I murmur, “Come with me,” and nod toward the back of the jet.
She blinks. “Ash…” There’s a warning in her tone, but it’s undermined by the way her pupils blow wide.
I lace my fingers through hers, tugging her up from the seat. The hum of the engines swallows our footsteps as I guide her toward the rear cabin. Past the galley. Past the sleeping quarters. Straight to the oversized, marble-and-chrome bathroom that most penthouses would be jealous of.
I lock the door with a soft click.
Olive’s already shaking her head, but she’s smiling—breathless, like she knows exactly what’s coming. “This is… so inappropriate.”
“Good thing I’m not appropriate.” I back her up against the counter, my hands braced on either side of her hips. “Besides—no one’s going to hear us over the engines.”
Her breath hitches when I dip my head, brushing my mouth along the curve of her neck. The soft scent of her skin—sun-warmed and faintly floral—makes me dizzy in the best way.
“Ash…” It’s barely a whisper now.
I meet her eyes in the mirror above the sink, watching her chest rise and fall, the flush creeping across her cheeks. “Tell me to stop.”
She doesn’t.
So I press her against the sink, my body flush against hers, the cool marble digging into my back. Her breath hitches as my hands come up, urgent, possessive. I cup her face, my thumbs brushing her cheeks, and pull her into a kiss that’s anything but gentle. Her lips part under mine, soft and willing, and I groan, the sound vibrating against her mouth. My fingers tangle in her hair, messy and textured like mine, and I hold her there, drinking her in like I’ve been starving for her.
Olive’s hands grip my shirt, her nails digging into my shoulders as she kisses me back with equal fervor. Her body molds to mine, her curves fitting perfectly against my frame. I can feel her heartbeat through her blouse, rapid and frantic, matching the rhythm of my own. The jet’s engine drones on, a distant backdrop to the storm building between us.
I break the kiss, trailing my lips down her jawline, her neck, savoring the taste of her skin. The faint scent of her perfume mixes with the salty sweetness of her sweat, driving me wild. “Olive,” I murmur against her pulse point, my voice rough with need, “I want you so much.”
She tilts her head back, exposing the delicate line of her throat, and her breath catches. “Then stop talking,” she whispers, her voice husky.
I don’t need to be told twice. My hands move down her body, tracing the curves I’ve been dying to explore. I unbutton her blouse slowly, deliberately, my fingers trembling with impatience. The fabric falls away, revealing the lace of her bra, and I pause to admire her, my gaze hungry. Her skin is flushed, her chest rising and falling with her quickened breath. The swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist—every inch of her is a temptation I can no longer resist.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” I say, my voice a raw whisper.
My focus is singular now. I lift her onto the counter, her legs wrapping around my waist as I press closer. The confined space amplifies every sensation—her warmth, her scent, the way her body moves against mine. My hands slide down her thighs, squeezing gently, and I pull her closer, our hips grinding together in a rhythm that’s becoming frantic. The mirror behind her begins to fog up, our reflections blurred in the steam, like we’re in our own world, cut off from everything but the heat between us.
Olive’s fingers dig into my hair, holding me close as she kisses me again, her lips demanding, her tongue tangling with mine. I groan, the sound muffled against her mouth, and my hands move lower, cupping her ass, lifting her to meet me. The friction between us is electric, the promise of what’s to come making my blood boil.
“Ash,” she gasps, her voice breathless, “I—”
I silence her with another kiss, deeper this time, pouring every ounce of desire into it. My hands roam over her, urgent and hungry, like I’m trying to memorize every inch of her. Her skin is soft under my touch, her body responsive, and I’m drowning in her. The sounds of our passion fill the small bathroom—the wet smack of our kisses, the soft gasps, the rustle of fabric as it’s discarded. The jet’s engine humsin the background, a steady reminder of where we are, but it only adds to the thrill. The risk of being caught, the confined space, the urgency of it all—it’s intoxicating.
