What gets me is the possessiveness in his tone, even when I don’t quite get what he’s saying.
I don’t know how I’m going to survive Monaco with him…
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Drago
Song- Moon, Austin Giorgio
With my hand resting on the small of her back, I guide her onto the private jet. The contact is brief, controlled, but my nerves light up anyway, hyperaware of the warmth beneath my palm.
She hesitates just inside the doorway, eyes flicking over the empty seats.
“You can sit anywhere; no one else is joining us,” I tell her.
She turns slowly to face me, worry etched into her expression in a way that makes my chest tighten. “Can you sit next to me?”
I see the anxiety she’s trying to hide, and there’s no version of reality where I say no. Even knowing what it will cost me. Sitting that close to her for hours is going to be torture. Especially now, after knowing what it feels like to have her straddling me. To have her hands on me. To feel alive because of her touch.
“Of course I can.”
The truth is, I don’t think I could deny her anything of me. Not ever.
My mind doesn’t function properly when it comes to Lily. She’s a glitch in my system, one I can’t decide whether to fix or let consume me.
She smiles softly, and my heart skips in a way that makes me feel reckless. I’m fucked.
She spins on her heel and takes the window seat, and I settle in beside her. Even on a private jet, my size isn’t exactly accommodated. Our thighs brush, and she glances down at the contact, then quickly out the window, but the blush creeping up her cheeks doesn’t escape me.
The air hostess finishes her checks. As we taxi toward the runway, Lily stares straight ahead, fingers worrying the hem of her cardigan. Her breathing shifts, shallow bursts of three followed by a long, uneven inhale. Her thigh starts bouncing against mine as the plane accelerates.
“Look at me, lastochka,” I order quietly.
She does, and the sight of her steals the breath from my lungs all over again.
“Breathe,” I tell her.
“I am.”
I chuckle, resting my hand over her trembling leg. The contact might be grounding for her, but it’s dangerous for me. “No. You’re diving headfirst into a panic attack because you’re not taking in oxygen properly, Lily.”
Her eyes widen. “Excuse me?”
“What’s your favorite color?” I ask calmly.
She blinks, thrown by the question.
Breathing is survival. I learned that through martial arts and far more painful experiences than I care to remember. Mind over matter only works if the body gets what it needs.
“Give me a color, baby,” I murmur.
Her eyes lock onto mine, and she hesitates for a moment. Just staring.
“Blue.”
I smile. “That’s your favorite?”
She nods.
