France???
With him?
BE CAREFUL!
I don’t know what’s waiting for us in France. Slava hasn’t told me anything except that he needs me with him because he doesn’t trust that I’ll be safe here.
But the insane thing is, I think he’s right.
The back of my skull throbs with a dull persistent ache where Don Leo’s hand connected. But I barely register the physical discomfort because my brain has been running two parallel tracks since we left the penthouse.
On one hand, I can’t stop wondering who the perfume and clothes belong to and why I should be so jealous of her when it’s clear that she hasn’t been in Slava’s life for so long.
On the other hand, I can’t stop wanting him to make me come again, and with more than just his fingers. I want him to finish what he started in that shower instead of walking away.
It’s starting to get obscene.
Every time the plane hits a minor patch of turbulence, I steal a glance at his hands and feel them curling inside me. Every time his eyes drop to my mouth, I feel the ghost of his lips on mine.
But every time I feel my pulse racing and skin flushing from the memories of his touch, the other woman’s perfume wafts up from the silk blouse.
And like clockwork, inconsolable jealousy starts eating me alive until I don’t know how to make either one stop.
“We’ll land in about eight hours if the wind is in our favor,” Slava finally breaks the silence. “You should get some rest.”
“I can sleep here.”
“Come.” He rises and offers his hand to me.
I clench my jaw at that word, nod numbly, and follow him through the main cabin. He opens a door and reveals a private bedroom suite at the rear of the plane.
It’s beautiful. The ambient lighting gives everything a soft and dreamlike quality, and the attached private bathroom door is open, revealing a fully-contained shower.
But there’s only a single bed.
The air shifts just enough to sendherperfume back into my nose. It makes me want to tear my clothes off so that I can finally be rid of her.
But then I’d just be naked and alone with Slava on his plane.
So, I stay still and look as he fluffs a pillow.
Did she sleep in this bed? Did she curl against his chest at 30,000 feet, breathing in the same air that had been in his lungs, feeling safe despite the violence that lived beneath his skin?
Did hefuckher here?
Did he spread her across those sheets and make her scream his name while the engines hummed and the world fell away below them?
His hand moves to my waist as he brings me toward the bed until I’m sitting on the edge. The mattress is soft and inviting. He stands over me, close enough that his cologne finally starts to chase away the faint floral ghost on my clothes.
“What’s on your mind?”
The question catches me off guard. He’s not usually the type to ask about feelings. He’s not usually the type to acknowledge that other peoplehavefeelings.
“What are we?”
His expression doesn’t change. “You’re my PR agent.”
I don’t know what I wanted him to say, but it wasn’t that. A few frantic kisses and mutual orgasms won’t make us anything. And it’s not like he was fine with letting me drown.
