“I need to go to the bathroom,” I tell him.
His gaze lifts to mine. “Good to know.”
I smile at him. “I’m just telling you. Don’t get excited.”
That slow heat returns to his eyes immediately. “Adelaide, if I were excited, you’d work it out.”
I laugh at him as I hand him my empty champagne glass. “Can you hold this?”
He takes it. He holds his own glass too, both balanced easily in one hand for me to pass without bumping them over.
Ace is all long legs and broad shoulders and completely relaxed male inconvenience, stretched out in the aisle seat like he has no natural predators. He’s taking up enough space that getting past him is going to require strategy, flexibility, or prayer.
He doesn’t move.
I narrow my eyes. “You could make this easier.”
“I could,” he agrees.
So that’s how we’re playing it.
Fine.
I swing a leg over his, essentially straddling the space above his lap in a way that would be humiliating if it weren’t already too late for dignity.
It’s in that exact moment that the plane drops slightly through a pocket of turbulence. Nothing major. Just one of those sudden, sharp dips that happen at cruising altitude.
Unfortunately, I come down squarely onto his lap.
Specifically, very squarely onto his groin, on the hardness he’s been trying to conceal.
I know it instantly.
So does he.
There’s half a second of total stillness.
Suddenly, his empty hand closes around my waist now, warm and firm, not yanking, just holding me there so I don’t pitch forward. The other still has both champagne glasses.
Then he leans in, mouth close to my ear. “Baby,” he murmurs, “if this is revenge for making you blush, I respect the commitment.”
Heat detonates through me. I turn my head just enough to look at him. “You think very highly of yourself.”
“Highly of your aim.”
“Turbulence.”
“Sure.”
“It was the plane.”
“And yet somehow I’m still the one benefiting.” His fingers flex once at my waist.
That doesn’t help at all.
“This is not a win for you,” I whisper.
His breath catches and heats up my neck. “Feels a little like one.”
