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“What are you doing?” I ask, craning my neck.
I don’t see anyone nearby, and the overhead lights are down, meaning most people are probably asleep, but still…
Next thing I know, his hand has slid over casually, his voice a murmur: “What you want me to.”
His fingers slowly trace the outline of my thighs, up and down, up and down.
I sink back into my seat, don’t manage to fully swallow back the groan coming out of my throat. Oh, it feels good alright.
But are we really doing this?
A sidelong glance catches his, and he just smirks. I smirk on back. Fuck this guy, new boss/Greyson Storm or no.
If he wants to play this game, we’ll play it.
My hand grabs for his cock, finds it hard.
My eyes meet his with a challenge—How do you like it now?
His other hand grabs mine, while his thigh-resting one strokes up, higher and higher, applying more and more pressure, until he presses the firm pads of his fingers into… there.
Fuck. Yeah, I’m wet.
I don’t bother fighting his other hand as it moves mine away from his cock. What he’s doing now, where he’s touching me, feels too damn good.
Although something flits at the edge of my consciousness, half-remembered, yet still annoyingly important.
“What about…” I begin.
He presses a finger to my lips. “Shh.”
His other fingers slip under my velour track pants and press into the wet of my panties.
I arch my back as a moan rolls out of my throat. My eyes flutter shut. Goddamn does it feel good.
His fingers press and swirl and dip under the wet satin. Until they’re all under, playing with my opening, until they’re…
“Oh, fuck,” I mutter.
Inside me. He flits his finger in and out expertly, and I can feel myself getting close. The problem is my groans: they keep getting louder. I can’t keep this up unless…
He presses the heel of his other palm into my mouth as he places his lips on my ear. “That’s it, baby, come for me. I want to see you moan my name.”
Already my body is spasming, pleasure exploding through me as his fingers slap into me as hard and fast as ever.
“Greyson!” I shrill muffled into his palm as my orgasm crests and takes over, my whole body shaking.
And still he’s not finished. As he fingers me with a fury, it occurs to me that I’m dreaming, that this can’t be real, that it doesn’t matter, that with pleasure like this, the only thing that matters is…
His palm lifts and I wail, “Fuck yes, Greyson!” as I come.
The plane jolts and my eyes snap open.
“Sorry about that, ladies and gentlemen,” the chirpy voice overhead says. “Just encountering some minor turbulence. We should be back to our smooth flight in a few minutes.”
I’m barely paying attention. The main thing is that I’m alone. Flushed and horny, but alone. The dream was just that—a dream.
Thank God. Although it was crazy hot, I’m not about to get finger-banged on some airplane when anybody could walk by at any time.
Hearing footsteps, my spine stiffens. But it’s just Horatio, the flight attendant. As I relax back into my seat, Greyson strides up. He looks like he’s slept as little as I have, with his adorably rumpled dark hair and dark under-eye circles, and yet he looks different from when I saw him last. Less frustrated, obviously, but there’s something else in his dark eyes. Excitement?
“Few more hours and we’re there,” he says. “You’re new, so if there’s anything you need clarified or don’t feel comfortable doing, tell me. Even if it means you have to go home and we need to find a new cinematographer, I don’t want to pressure you into anything, especially with the rainforest being as dangerous as it is. Those shots we gave everyone before the flight can’t protect us from everything.”
I eye him. Is this guy trying to let me go already?
“Got it,” I say. “But unless we’re eating pineapples for every meal, I should be fine.”
His serious expression cracks with the beginnings of a smile. “Least favorite food?”
I nod. “That and pickles.”
At this, his eyebrows fly up. “But pickles are—”
“Horrible?”
“Not at all.”
“Slimy and gross?”
“What pickles have you been having?”
I smile at him. “The only kind there are—the gross kind.”
“No, pickles are…” he trails off, probably just realizing that he’s arguing with his employee about pickles, of all things. “Also, I just got word that our plans have changed. The plane won’t be able to land as close to the camp as expected, so it’s going to be a bit of a hike there. And not an easy hike, either. You OK with that?”
“Definitely. I’ve always wanted to see the rainforest anyway.”
“Not like this, you haven’t.” Greyson’s face darkens. “There’s poisonous snakes, disease-ridden mosquitoes, and sometimes more rain than you can believe.”
He studies my face, but if he’s looking for fear, he isn’t going to find it.
