“Why not?” I ask, and I hate how soft my voice sounds.
“Because,” he says, “the universe is obviously trying to tell us something.”
I laugh before I can stop myself. Not because I believe him, but because the line should be ridiculous, and somehow, in his mouth, it isn’t.
His eyes stay on me while I laugh.
Slowly, unbearably, I become aware of my body. Of the way my nipples are tightening under my sweater. Of the slick pulse of wetness between my thighs. Of the fact that he hasn’t even touched me, not really, and I’m already aroused enough to feel embarrassed by it.
God.
I shift in my seat and instantly regret it, because the movement only makes me more conscious of the damp heat gathering between my legs.
He notices.
Of course he notices.
Not because he looks down. He doesn’t. He just sees too much. Something in my face must change, or maybe it’s the way I press my knees together, the way my breath turns shallow.
One dark brow lifts. “Are you all right?”
No.
I am absolutely not all right.
I’m sitting in business class by mistake next to a man old enough to know better and handsome enough to make that meaningless, and my whole body is responding to him like it has no interest whatsoever in dignity.
“I’m fine,” I say.
He leans back, one arm resting near his side, his body angled just enough toward mine that I can feel the heat of him even without contact. “That sounded unconvincing.”
I look out the window because it feels safer than looking at him. Rain beads across the glass. Beyond it, runway lights blur in the dusk.
“I’m a nervous flyer,” I say.
“We haven’t even taken off yet.”
“It’s my first time on a plane.”
I shift my attention back to him. The change in his face is subtle, but it’s there. Interest, maybe. Surprise.
“Your first?”
I nod.
“And you wound up in business class by accident.”
“When you say it like that, it sounds glamorous.”
He smiles.
It’s not a kind smile. It’s a deeply male one. The kind that makes my pulse jump and something inside me soften despite every instinct telling me not to trust the effect.
“I’m not sure glamorous is the word I’d choose.”
I swallow. The seat suddenly feels too warm. My sweater feels too thick. My skin is hypersensitive, as if every nerve has turned outward.
A flight attendant appears with a practiced smile and offers him a drink. He asks for whiskey. She turns to me. “Champagne?” she asks.
