My focus shifts when a sweet smell overtakes the scent of marinated drumsticks being overcooked in anindustrial microwave.Although I don’t turn my head to face Isabelle and a lady who needs to cut back on the perfume, I can picture the shock on Isabelle’s face. Not only are her breaths fast, but I also hear her stomach gurgle when the air hostess says, “1A.” She pauses before repeating her comment, then she pivots on her heels and darts away.
Not even ten seconds later, Isabelle clumsily trips over her feet for the second time today. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she mumbles under her breath when I jest about a beautiful woman fallingto my feet twice in one day isa new record for me.
Her cheeks are as barefaced now as they were during her first tumble. However, I’m skeptical all the redness is from embarrassment. She’s heating up everywhere.
“Mr. Holt,” she greets me through the lump in her throat before she all but vaults over my seat, completely missing the ruse I conjured up specifically for her. Not even one of the many lint balls on her dowdy sweatpants caressed my trousers.
Once her delectable ass is sunk into her chair as far as it can go, Isabelle’s hands hunt for her seat belt. She’s jittering so much, even with her finding the ends of her belt remarkably quick, she can’t fasten the silver clips together.
I still her shaking hands by covering them with mine before clasping her belt together. My tug on the light gray teethers is more robust than necessary, but I can’t help but see what her response would be to being harnessed.
Even though it’s clear from her ‘O’ mouth, bondage isn’t something she’s done previously. The lusty glint in her eyes exposes she could very well be interested in testing the boundaries of her limitation.
I would be a liar if I said I wouldn’t immediately sign up to be her teacher if given the opportunity. BDSM isn’t my kink, but I’m as dominant as it comes and that is often implemented in the bedroom as well.
After regulating her breathing, Isabelle lifts her eyes to mine. They’re full of fear, but that isn’t the only emotion they are showcasing. She finds me as fascinating as I do her. “Thank you.”
I dip my chin in acceptance of her praise before taking in her white-knuckle hold of the armrests. She’s clutching them so fiercely, she is at the point of snapping her nails. It all but explains the scent of fear leeching from her pores. “Scared of flying?”
She looks like she wants to laugh but holds back. “Is it that obvious?”
Confident I can coerce her off the ledge, I say, “You do know recent studies have shown—”
“Traveling in a car or a truck is one hundred times deadlier than flying?” For someone on the verge of coronary failure, her tone is amatory and smooth. “Yes, I’m aware of that. It still doesn’t help.”
Unlike Isabelle, I can’t hold back who I am. If I’m not me, I may as well be dead. “Actually, I was going to say recent studies have shown the endorphins released during sexual activities can overtake cortisol and other fear-induced chemicals.” I wait for confirmation about what I’m suggesting to dart through her impressive eyes before adding, “You should consider testing the theory out.”
I have her hook, line, and sinker… then we get interrupted. “Can I help you with anything, Mr. Holt?”
When I crank my head in the direction the voice came from, I’m met with a stunning flight attendant who’d happily ignore the terms of her employment contract to suck my dick mid-flight. She is the type of woman I’d usually go for with long blonde hair and a slender frame, but today, I’m not interested. Who in their right mind orders an appetizer after perusing an enticing main menu?
Happy she has secured my attention, the air hostess flutters her fake lashes. “Perhaps I can take your jacket?” Her offer is genuine, but her tone isn’t close to authentic. She knows what she interrupted because the chemistry between Isabelle and me would have the plane ready for takeoff even without a pilot in the cockpit.
The flight attendant has no right whatsoever to stake a claim, but it is as obvious as the sun shining in the sky that she’s warning Isabelle to back off. I would find her efforts amusing if it didn’t double the unease pumping out of Isabelle. She’s no longer fretting about takeoff. She’s struggling to determine if anything has happened between the flight attendant and me.
Although I would like to settle her worry, the revolving door of women in and out of my life since Ophelia’s death makes that a little hard.
Wow.That’s the first time I’ve felt shame admitting that. Perhaps some of my father’s traits were handed down to me. Even when he shouldn’t be, he is forever a gentleman. My mother used it to her advantage as often as possible after my diagnosis of Hodgkin’s lymphoma when I was five. She milked it for all it was worth, and it wasn’t just my father caught in the crossfires.
Eager for the air hostess to leave so I can get back to my conversation with Isabelle before my wavering moods hit another low, I stand from my seat to remove my jacket. My usually brisk pace is sliced to half its natural speed when I feel the heat of Isabelle’s hooded gaze a couple of moments later. It isn’t scorching the top half of my body. She’s staring at the crotch of my pants, her watch lewd yet spicy.
After licking her suddenly bone-dry lips, she reluctantly raises her eyes to my face, curious as to why I stopped undressing. They bulge out of her head when she spots my gawk before she diverts them away, her cheeks inflaming even more. I have no clue how she can portray sensuality and coyness with one set of features, but she pulls it off convincingly well. She has a saintly face, but a gleam in her eyes that tells you she’s nothing close to angelic.
Determined not the be left out in the cold, the air hostess steps closer, engulfing me with her floral scent when her knee bumps my hand. “Would you care for a drink, Mr. Holt?” She purrs my name in the same manner Isabelle did in the business-class lounge. It doesn’t affect me the same way.
I hand her my jacket, reminding her of her place, before replying, “Teeling 30-Year-Old Single Malt Irish Whiskey.” It is a favorite of mine. Has been since I earned my first million.
“Excellent selection, Mr. Holt.”
The air hostess smiles, pivots on her heels, then stalks away. She barely makes it two steps before my naturally ingrained dominance rears its ugly head. I may have more money in the bank than Isabelle, and the price tag on my jacket could purchase her an entire wardrobe of brand-name sweats, but things weren’t always this way. I was once as poor as Isabelle, if not poorer, and it will do this pretentious snob a world of good to remember that.
With my hold on her wrist a little firmer than intended, the hostess’s green eyes are quick to snap to mine. They’re wide with panic, but if my intuition is anything to go by, she’s more worried she has upset me than she is that I’m about to hurt her.
Still, I loosen my grip before asking, “Are you going to ask Isabelle if she’d like something to drink?”
She nods without pause for thought before peering at Isabelle over my shoulder. “W-would you like something to drink?”
A whoosh fans my nape with air before Isabelle’s seductive voice doubles the goosebumps the brisk blast of air caused. “No, thank you.”
