‘Is that what you did with me? Made me fall in line?’
Her hazel eyes meet mine, that spark between us flaring hot and bright. ‘You’re still a work in progress, MacRae.’
Her fingers graze my wrist under the table, featherlight. And yet, my pulse roars louder than the plane.
Hours later, it’s dark, the dim aisle lights glowing like a runway stretching into nowhere. Noise drones steady around us, underscored by twenty-odd rugby lads snoring into neck pillows. Most of the team is either passed out or in that twilight zone between awake and dreaming, headphones clamped on and sleep masks pulled down. Finn’s is a unicorn, for fuck’s sake.
My knee bounces, counting the seconds until Charlie shuts her laptop. Her profile is washed in that faint screen glow. I memorised the slope of her nose months ago, but it still drills straight into the place I don’t let anyone near.
Finally, she settles back, and I put two scratchy airline blankets over us.
‘Everybody’s asleep.’ I say. It lands more breath than voice. ‘Let me hold your hand.’
She hesitates for a second. Wary. Looking around. Then she quickly slips her hand under the blankets and threads her slender fingers through mine, squeezing hard enough to crack bones.
It’s fucking embarrassing how much that touch settles me. I’ve gone without for months before – no sex, no comfort, no one’s hands on me, except the physio’s – but now that I know what it’s like to have Charlie touching me, I can’t go back.
She half-turns and shifts closer a few inches, her hair tickling the side of my neck. She dips her other hand inside my joggers, and I go still.
‘What do you think you’re doing there, Champ?’
She hums and grazes my balls with her nails through the cotton. I bite my tongue. Of course, I’m hard as a rod for her, but that’s not what I’m after right now. She slides her hand into my briefs and wraps her fingers carefully around the precious MacRae Crown Jewels.
Where her future babies live.
She just doesn’t know it yet.
I’ve never let anyone do this before. Every other time, it’s been eager tongues and greedy mouths, like they were trying to win points for enthusiasm. But this – her warm hand on me, still and steady – it’s not about getting off.
It’s about letting her in.
‘That’s right. Hold them. Just hold them.’
Her palm cups me, warm as sunrise, and her thumb strokes the sensitive seam infinitely gently. ‘Like this?’
‘Aye. That’s it.’
My eyes roll back. Saints preserve me. I’m not sixteen, I’m twenty-six, and she’s got me trembling over a handshake with my balls.
My heart’s pounding so loud I’m sure someone’s going to hear it. But no one stirs. Only the hum of the plane and the slow, soothing hold of her soft fingers.
My dick’s raging, and every nerve in my body’s lighting up like a fucking Christmas tree. But that’s nothing compared to what’s going on in my heart right now.
I press a kiss to her temple.
This is it.
I’m going to tell her that I love her. On Table Mountain. With the city lights and that daft cable car and a bottle of fizz.
Her breathing’s changed, slower and heavier.
‘Want me to touch you?’ I whisper against the shell of her ear.
She nods – reluctantly, but she nods – and I work my hand inside her yoga leggings to find her warm and wet. She lets out a quiet gasp.
I trace her with two fingers, never pushing in.
‘Still think you’re the boss?’ It’s not about making her come. It’s about reminding her who she belongs to. ‘Still reckon you own me?’
