JADE
I hit pause on the movie, my finger trembling as the screen freezes on Uma Thurman's vengeful face. The cabin plunges into deeper dimness, illuminated only by the soft ambient lighting of the first-class suite.
The sudden silence amplifies everything: the distant hum of engines, the whisper of air conditioning, the thundering pulse in my ears. But most of all, Mateo's presence beside me, a magnetic force I can no longer resist.
"Everything okay?" His voice comes low and rough, as if he's fighting to keep it steady.
I turn to face him. The cashmere blanket shifts across our legs, and I'm acutely aware of every point where our bodies connect. Thigh against thigh, arm against arm, his warmth seeping through the thin barrier of our clothes.
"No," I whisper honestly. "Nothing is okay."
His golden eyes darken, pupils dilating as they fix on mine. I watch his chest rise with a deep inhale, his jaw tightening as he swallows.
"I should go," he says, but his body betrays him. He doesn't move an inch away. If anything, he gravitates closer, the space between us charged with electricity.
"Don't." The single word escapes me, soft but firm.
"Jade..." His voice holds warning, desire, and restraint all at once. My name in his mouth sounds like both a prayer and a curse.
I don't overthink. For once in my carefully controlled life, I simply act.
I lean in before doubt can stop me. Before the rules we've both pretended to obey can rebuild themselves around us.
Or maybe he does. The moment blurs, intention melting into instinct.
His lips meet mine, and the world disappears.
The kiss starts gentle, asking permission, but transforms almost instantly into something else entirely. His hand cradles the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair, gripping with a controlled strength that sends shivers racing down my spine. My lips part on a gasp, and he takes the invitation, deepening the kiss with a hunger that matches the coiled tension I've sensed in him since Bali.
My hands find his chest, feeling the rapid thunder of his heartbeat beneath firm muscle. He tastes likecinnamon and something darker, headier. The kiss is nothing like the practiced, passionless ones from photoshoots, nothing like the calculated seductions of men who wanted me as a trophy. This is raw. Real. A connection that burns away pretense.
His arm snakes around my waist, pulling me closer until I'm almost in his lap. The blanket tangles between us, an unwelcome barrier I want to shove aside. A sound escapes me, half sigh, half moan, and I feel rather than hear his responding growl, vibrating from his chest to mine.
Time suspends. The kiss deepens, intensifies. My fingers grip his shoulders, feeling the coiled strength beneath. His hand at my waist slides lower, squeezing gently, then stops. A last vestige of restraint.
And then, with what seems like physical pain, he pulls back.
The loss of contact leaves me dizzy, breathless. Confused.
Mateo's breathing is ragged, his pupils so dilated his eyes look almost black in the dim light. His hand still cradles my face, thumb brushing across my cheekbone in a tender contrast to the fire of moments before.
"We need to stop," he says, his voice rough-edged and strained.
Rejection washes cold through my veins, dousing the heat. I start to pull away, but his grip tightens, keeping me close.
"No,mi reina. Don't misunderstand." His forehead presses against mine, our breaths mingling in the scantspace between us. "I'm stopping because I have to, not because I want to."
I search his face, looking for truth, for reassurance.
"You have a shoot in less than twelve hours," he continues, his thumb now tracing the outline of my bottom lip, sending renewed sparks through my body. "You need rest."
"I don't care about the shoot," I whisper, though we both know it's not entirely true. My professional commitments have defined my life for too long to dismiss them so easily.
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "I know. But I do." His eyes hold mine, serious now. "Besides, these walls are thin, and the things I want to do to you right now..."
He doesn't finish the sentence, but heat blooms in my cheeks at his implication.
"Exactly," he says, reading my expression. "Unless you want every flight attendant and first-class passenger talking about how Jade Sinclair and her bodyguard shook this plane harder than turbulence, we should behave ourselves."
