His touch is gentle, but his eyes are not. They’re dark, intense, watching me with a hunger that has nothing to do with comfort and everything to do with possession.
“Let me help,” he murmurs. His hand slides higher on my leg.
He’s right. I hate that he’s right. My brain is a hamster wheel of worst-case scenarios. I can’t stop it on my own, and he knows that.
I know exactly what he’s doing. He’s building a wall of sensation high enough that I can’t see over it. Replacing one unbearable thing with another, more bearable one. It’s a deflection. It’s a kindness. It might be both.
His fingers trace the inseam of my leggings. Featherlight and devastating, and my breathing turns shallow.
“The attendant...”
“Is behind a curtain and getting paid not to care.”
His fingers slip inside my waistband.
Heat floods my face instantly. My thighs part before I tell them to. He brushes me once through my panties and draws in a sharp breath against my temple.
That tiny sound almost undoes me.
I turn my head and look at him.
His expression is focused in that terrifying, steady way of his.
His fingers slide under the lace and find me already wet.
The corner of his mouth shifts.
I glare at him. “Don’t.”
“Didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
His thumb strokes over me once, lazy and devastating.
Whatever snappish thing I planned to say dies in my throat.
He keeps it slow at first. A soft, maddening pressure that coaxes instead of takes. The hum of the plane fills my ears. The leather seat is cool beneath me. His hand is warm. The curtain stays closed. The whole cabin feels suspended outside normal life, as if we have climbed high enough to leave consequences behind on the ground.
That thought is dangerous.
So is trusting the man sitting beside me.
When he pushes one finger inside me, I bite down hard on my bottom lip. A muffled little whimper escapes anyway.
His gaze flicks to my mouth. “Quiet.”
The command sends a hard pulse straight between my legs.
I hate how much I like that.
He adds a second finger and curls them with deliberate pressure. I jolt. My hand flies to his wrist. Not to stop him. To anchor myself.
“There you are,” he murmurs.
I should resent the satisfaction in his voice.
Instead I cling to his wrist harder as he keeps moving, patient and ruthless in the way only patience can be ruthless.
