My cock hardens, straining painfully against the front of my trousers. I shift in my seat to ease the pressure, but it only makes me more aware of how much I want her.
I part her gently, tracing the slick heat that gathers under my touch. She wasn’t soaked before, but when I stroke along her seam, her body responds instantly, growing wetter with each pass.
I circle her clit lightly, feeling it swell further, and she exhales a shaky breath that fogs the inside of her mask. I sink one finger inside her. She clenches hard, hot and tight, pulling me deeper. I add a second, curling them to find that spot while my thumb keeps steady pressure on her clit.
With my free hand, I press the heel of my palm discreetly against my erection through my trousers, rubbing once, twice,just enough to take the edge off the ache she’s causing. Christ, I could come like this if I let myself.
The blanket over her lap hides everything, but I feel every reaction—the way her inner muscles flutter, her hips trying to rock subtly against my hand while she fights to stay quiet. Her free hand grips the armrest until her knuckles go white. Another stifled sound slips out, soft and desperate.
I build the rhythm gradually, watching her eyes darken above the mask. Every time she gets close, thighs trembling, breath hitching in tiny gasps, I adjust just enough to hold her there. Her gaze locks on mine, pleading and defiant.
When I finally let her fall, I thrust deeper and rub her clit exactly right. She comes silently, body going rigid, a fierce shudder rippling through her as she clamps down hard around my fingers. Her mouth opens behind the mask in a silent cry, eyes squeezing shut, breath held in one long tremor before releasing in tiny, controlled puffs. I draw it out until she’s twitching, oversensitive.
Only then do I ease free. My cock throbs at the sight of my glistening fingers. I bring them to my mouth and taste her—sharp, intimate, addictive. She watches, chest still heaving, pupils blown wide.
Her hands shake as she reaches for her water, takes a long drink, then pulls the mask back up so she can keep hiding behind it.
“What hotel are you staying at?” I ask.
She hesitates, then gives me the name. Mid-range place in Manhattan, the kind that’s clean but forgettable.
“Cancel it,” I say. “You’re staying with me tonight.”
3
AURELIA
The thingabout running for two months straight is that you forget what it feels like to stop.
I’ve been looking over my shoulder for so long that my neck aches. Sleeping in motels where the locks don’t work and the walls are paper-thin. Eating gas station food because sitting in a restaurant means being visible. Every day has been about survival, about staying invisible long enough to get out of the country and disappear for good.
So when Cassian tells me to cancel my reservation and stay with him instead, my first instinct isn’t to run.
It’s to feel relieved.
Because what happened on that plane—his fingers inside me, making me come while I fought hard to stay quiet—that was the first time in two months I’ve felt anything other than fear. The first time my body remembered it was capable of something besides adrenaline and panic.
The thought of being alone in another hotel room, jumping at every sound in the hallway, wondering if tonight’s the night my family finally tracks me down—that’s exhausting.
But the thought of being with Cassian Rourke, a man my family would never expect me to be with, a man who’s dangerous enough that even Victor’s security would think twice before making a move? That’s the safest I’ve felt in weeks.
It’s also completely insane, but I’m too tired to care.
I follow him off the plane, through the terminal, past baggage claim, where he doesn’t even pause because apparently he travels light or has people who handle that for him. My carry-on digs into my shoulder, and the contacts are making my eyes water, but I don’t stop.
A black car is waiting at the curb, the driver already holding the door open, and I slide into the back seat before I can talk myself out of this. The leather is soft and expensive. The interior smells like a new car. Cassian settles beside me and gives the driver an address, and then we’re moving.
Alright, I’m really doing this. With Cassian. A stranger. A criminal. Someone my family has been at war with for years.
But fear requires energy I don’t have, and honestly, the alternative—being alone, being hunted—feels worse. At least this way, if my uncle’s people come looking, they’ll have to go through Cassian first. And something tells me that’s not a fight they’d win easily.
“You’re quiet,” Cassian says.
I glance at him. He’s watching me with that intense focus he had on the plane, like he’s trying to figure out what I’m thinking.
“Just processing,” I say.
“Processing what?”
