Nodding, I take a hesitant step forward. Loud pounding rings in my ears for every shaky step I take. After walking through the galley, I turn toward the coach section of the plane.
“Can I help you?” asks a smiling flight attendant who is clipping back a pair of dark blue pleated curtains, preparing for our imminent departure.
“Umm, I’m looking for seat 1A.” The shaky tremble of my voice reveals my fear.
Smiling, she moves to stand next to me. Her floral scent engulfs the air from her rapid movements. She glances at the ticket I’m clasping before returning her eyes to my face. “Seat 1A is this way, Ms. Brahn.”
Gesturing behind me, she skirts by before walking through another set of curtains. I apprehensively shadow after her.
After ruffling through the thick curtain, I discover the flight attendant standing near the front of the plane. My brows furl as my eyes bounce around the elegant looking space. Luxurious, well-spaced black leather reclining chairs with matching footstools. Elegantly dressed men and women sipping on glass flutes of champagne and the piquant aroma of wealth is filtering through the air. There must be a mistake. I don’t belong in business class.
I quickly scamper down the wide corridor, not missing the numerous gasps of disdain when my rhinestone-embedded Juicy backside sashays by.
“There must be a mistake,” I inform the flight attendant, my fear not relinquishing its firm hold on my composure.
Her manicured brow shoots into her auburn hair before her eyes turn down to the ticket in my hand. “1A.” She points her French-tipped nail to the 1A marked on my ticket.
“1A,” she repeats, extending her long, skinny index finger to the 1A displayed on the overhead compartment two seats down from where I’m standing.
After rubbing my arm soothingly, she saunters back down the aisle, snubbing the shocked expression masking my face. I stand mute, frozen in both fear and shock.
When the fasten seat belt sign illuminates a few seconds later, I shove my jacket and satchel into an overhead compartment and skedaddle to my assigned seat. I may be scared, but I am not flying without a seatbelt.
When I lift my eyes from the strip of fluorescent lights lining the aisle, I’m confronted by an intense gaze that has me clumsily tripping over my feet.
You’ve got to be kidding me!
“A beautiful woman falling at my feet twice in one day. This has to be a new record,” Mr. Holt banters when I crash into his thigh.
Well, I assume he is joking, but it’s hard to tell with the rich tone of his seductive voice.
“Mr. Holt,” I greet him before scampering past his out-stretched thighs to take my seat in the chair next to his.
Plopping unceremoniously into my chair, my hands lurch out for the seatbelt. My nerves cause me to jitter so much, I have trouble fastening the silver clips together. Mr. Holt leans over and stills my shaking hands before he clasps my belt.
Tugging on the light gray strap, he secures my belt around my waist.
“Thank you.” When I acquire a firm grip on the armrests, the tips of my nails bend painfully from my determined hold.
Mr. Holt’s eyes shift down to my white-knuckled hands before returning them to my face. “Scared of flying?”
My brow arches high. “Is it that obvious?”
“You do know recent studies have shown—”
“Traveling in a car or a truck is one hundred times more deadly than flying. Yes, I'm aware of that. It still doesn’t help.”
“Actually, I was going to say, recent studies have shown the endorphins released during sexual activities can overtake cortisol and other fear-induced chemicals,” he informs me as his entrancing eyes gaze into mine. “You should consider testing the theory out.”
My pulse quickens from his flirtatious tone.Is he propositioning me?
Before I can form an adequate response, our intense stare-down is interrupted by a radiant voice above. “Can I help you with anything, Mr. Holt?”
When I raise my eyes, I am met with a beautiful blonde flight attendant whose eyes are appreciatively roaming over Mr. Holt. “Perhaps I can take your jacket?”
Mr. Holt’s gaze remains on mine as he stands to remove his suit jacket. I lick my dry lips when his suit-covered crotch that is straining to hold in the enormity of his. . . umm. . . manhood is shoved into my peripheral vision.
When my perverted gaze returns to Mr. Holt’s face, the situation becomes ten times more heated. He has a mouth-watering smirk formed on his sculptured lips, revealing he spotted my ogling glance.
