Mortified at being busted staring at his crotch, I divert my eyes, catching the mad glare of the flight attendant in the process. She plays the part of a scorned woman well.
“Would you care for a drink, Mr. Holt?” Although her eyes are narrowed into slits, her tone doesn’t allude to her anger. Her performance is remarkable—a genuine ten out of ten.
“Teeling 30-Year-Old Single Malt Irish Whiskey,” Mr. Holt requests, handing her his suit jacket.
“Excellent selection, Mr. Holt.” She folds his coat over her forearm.
When Mr. Holt retakes his seat, the flight attendant walks away. She barely gets two feet away before Mr. Holt’s hand shoots out to snatch her wrist. “Are you going to ask Isabelle if she would like something to drink?”
I am unable to see his face, but from the way the flight attendant’s pupils dilate into saucers, and she swallows several times in a row, I can perceive Mr. Holt’s gaze is infuriatingly angry without needing to look at him.
“W-would you like something to drink?” the flight attendant stammers as her feared eyes drift to me.
I shake my head. “No, thank you.”
With the somersaults my stomach is doing, I can't trust it to hold down anything.
“Are you sure?” Mr. Holt swivels his head to face me.
His intense eyes also cause me to swallow harshly, but unlike the flight attendant, I’m not scared by his angry glare. I’m turned on.
Unable to speak through the lump in my throat, I nod. Spotting my agreeing gesture, Mr. Holt relinquishes the flight attendant’s wrist. She scurries down the aisle, her steps as wobbly as my heart rate.
After offering Mr. Holt a grateful smile, I lean my head on the cool leather headrest. When I take a breath to settle my nerves, a strong aroma overwhelms my senses. Expensive cologne, body wash, and a smell I can’t quite identify make an enticing, mouth-watering scent I’d happily spend hours smelling.
My eyes snap shut when the plane jerks toward the runway.Here it comes, the one part of flying I fear the most.After tightening my grip on the armrests, my teeth gnaw on my bottom lip. The closer the plane gets to the end of the runway, the more my heart palpitates.
A short time later, a jolting buzz electrifies my clenched left hand. When I look down, I spot a long, elegant finger tracing the veins protruding on my hand from my firm grip of the armrest.
My breathing lengthens as my eyes lift. Mr. Holt. He is staring at me, his gaze penetrating, relentless, and utterly consuming.
“How about we test the theory?” The purr of his voice already subdues my nerves.
Too terrified to form words, I fleetingly nod.
The hairs on my body bristle when his finger leisurely runs up my arm. My core tightens it stops at the throb in my neck. When his big manly grips my throat, my pupils widen. His hold isn't tight enough to cause discomfort. It's a domineering hold that has me releasing a husky moan.
After loosening his grip on my neck, he saves my bottom lip from my menacing teeth.
“I’m going to bite that lip.” His words are more a confirmation than a suggestion.
Wetness pools between my legs when his thumb dips into my moist and inviting mouth. Brazenly, I nibble on the tip. I’ve never been so bold, but his demanding eyes are making me reckless. A gruff moan erupts from his lips from my frisky tease.
My body temp turns excruciating when Mr. Holt’s spare hand grips my nape. His hold is tight but painless. The sting of his fingers adds to the tingling in my core, and they turn my breathing ragged.
His dark, intense eyes skim my face before darting to my famished mouth. Air traps in my throat when he tilts his head, as if he is preparing to kiss me.
After snapping my eyes shut, I lick my lips in anticipation of tasting his perfectly structured mouth.
A whoosh of air hitting my cheeks causes my eyes to pop back open only a second later. Disappointment smacks into me when I discover Mr. Holt’s hasty retreat. He is once again sitting on his side of the plush leather seat.
Remaining quiet, he raises a crystal glass from the table between us before taking a hefty gulp of the whiskey stored inside. My core spasms from the sexiness of his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallows the burning liquid without effort.
Once his glass is void of liquid, he places it on the table before shifting his eyes to me. Although his heavy-lidded gaze still shows his hunger, something in them has altered.
Slanting his head, he gestures to the window behind me. I gasp when I follow the direction of his gaze. Nothing but puffy white clouds in a brilliant blue sky reflects back at me.
“I’d say the theory has been proven,” Mr. Holt mutters aloofly.
