I let my gaze drop briefly, taking in what I can see. Her shirt fits well, and even sitting back in her seat like she is, I can see the curve of her breasts, full and outlined against the fabric. My mind immediately goes to how they’d feel in my hands, what sounds she’d make if I put my mouth on them.
Her breathing has changed too, faster and shallower than it was a minute ago, and I wonder if she can feel the shift in the air the same way I can. If she’s thinking about the same things I am.
I want to strip away that mask and see her face properly when I make her come. Want to fuck her until she forgets whatever has her this jumpy and on edge.
Usually, I’d point out someone I’m interested in and have my people run a background check. Find out who she is, what she does, and whether she’s a liability or an opportunity. I don’t mind waiting a few days for the report to come back. Patience has always been one of my strengths.
But something about this woman makes me want to skip all of that. The intelligence in her questions, the way she’s clearly hiding something but not backing down, the nervous energy she’s trying so hard to contain. I want her now, not after Declan sends me a file with her entire life story.
That should concern me more than it does.
“You never answered my question,” she says, going back to her sketch like she didn’t just call me dangerous and curious in the same breath.
“Which one?”
“Do you ever do things just because they’re a terrible idea?”
I finish my whiskey and set the glass aside, then turn toward her fully. She’s still looking at her sketchbook, but I can see the tension in her jaw, the way her hand has stopped moving.
“All the time,” I say, and when she finally looks at me, I let her see exactly what I’m thinking.
Her pupils dilate, and that’s all the confirmation I need.
The flight progresses in a haze of conversation that feels like foreplay. We talk about nothing important—travel, books, the shitty plane food neither of us is eating—but underneath it all is a current of tension that keeps building.
She asks questions that are too perceptive, and I give honest answers without revealing anything that matters. She’s smart enough to notice what I’m not saying, and I’m intrigued enough to let her keep trying.
Two hours in, and I want to tell her to take the mask off so I can see her face properly, but I don’t. I just watch as she shifts in her seat, crossing her legs in a way that makes her skirt ride up slightly. Not enough to be obvious, but enough that I notice.
I notice everything about her.
The cabin lights dim as we hit the third hour of the flight. Most of the other first-class passengers are asleep or pretending to be, and the flight attendants have retreated to give everyone privacy.The dividers between seats create little cocoons of space, and suddenly it feels like we’re the only two people awake in the world.
She’s put her sketchbook away, and now she’s just sitting there, staring out the window at nothing.
“Catherine,” I say quietly.
She turns toward me, and even with the mask, I can see the want in her eyes. I don’t ask permission before I reach over and rest my hand on her thigh, right above her knee, and wait to see what she does.
She doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t tell me to stop.
Her hand goes to her hair, fingers running through the black strands and pushing them back nervously. The movement makes her chest rise, breasts stretching against the fabric of her shirt, and she takes a sharp breath when my hand stays on her thigh.
I move my hand higher, slowly, testing boundaries and reading every micro-expression I can see. Her breath quickens. Her hands grip the armrests.
I ease my hand higher up her thigh, fingertips grazing the warm skin just beneath the hem of her skirt. I pause there, right at the edge, letting my thumb trace a lazy circle on her inner thigh while I watch her face. Then, testing, I start to draw my hand back.
Her reaction is instant. One of her hands shoots down, fingers wrapping around my wrist in a firm grip. She presses my palm flat against her thigh again, holding it there. “Don’t you dare,” she whispers, voice low and fierce behind the mask.
A quiet chuckle rumbles in my chest. The sound surprises even me. She’s full of contradictions, all sharp edges and guarded secrets, yet here she is, practically demanding more.
I love it.
She doesn’t let go of my wrist. Instead, she guides my hand higher, sliding it fully under her skirt until my fingers brush the soft cotton edge of her panties. I hook the fabric aside with one knuckle and finally touch her bare pussy.
The first contact draws a sharp, involuntary gasp from her. Her hips shift forward in the seat, just a fraction, chasing the touch. Her thighs tense around my hand.
Fuck. The feel of her is perfect—warm, swollen folds with a light dusting of soft hair that brushes against my fingertips like silk. That delicate texture sends a jolt straight through me.
