I glance at her over my shoulder, my glare as unforgiving as the air hostess’s when she noticed Isabelle’s stare at my crotch. “Are you sure?”
Her throat works hard to swallow before she nods. I don’t believe she’s scared. It could be quite the opposite. Her scent is as erotic now as it was when I cleaned her face with my spit-coated thumb. She likes my aggression, particularly when it’s associated with standing up for her.
It has me curious about her family predicament. She’s too confident to have been raised by a woman who believes the only thing she needs to strive for in life is getting married, but it is clear she was loved. She’s far too down-to-earth to display anything but a woman nurtured in a stable, loving home.
Perhaps she was raised in a single-parent environment like I was, even with my parents only divorcing seven years ago?
When Isabelle forcefully swallows for the second time, it dawns on me that I’m still clutching the flight attendant’s wrist. I drop it like the frantic thump of her pulse is a detonator, and I’m seated close to the bomb. Even quicker than that, the hostess bolts down the aisle as fast as her quivering legs can carry her. Just like Isabelle, I don’t believe she’s scared. She is rushing to fix the injustice she made, convinced hard work will place her in my good books. Usually, that would be the case, but once again, nothing this afternoon is as it once seemed.
After offering me a halfhearted smile, Isabelle leans her head into the leather headrest of her seat and sucks in some deep breaths. I take the time to study her more closely. She is unlike any woman I’ve ‘dated.’ Her face is fresh with only the slightest smattering of makeup. A handful of tiny freckles add youthfulness to her age, I’d guess to be early to mid-twenties, and her skin has a hint of coloring I suspect isn’t God-given. The faintest bikini tan line is seen on her shoulder.
It’s ludicrous to admit how green with envy I am realizing the sneak peek I got of her midsection when she tumbled to my feet was only a portion of the skin she’d expose while sunbathing, so I won’t mention it.
I pride myself on my shrewdness. Usually, nothing alters my goals and aspirations, but I can see it dissipating before my eyes, vanishing with every second I stare at Isabelle’s beautiful face. I’m sure it will return full pelt once I’ve had my fill.
That’s how I operate. I keep my business life and personal life separate at all times. It avoids unnecessary conflict and ensures my objectives remain strong.
I’m not sure I can do that this time around, though. My hands are itching to see if her skin is as soft as it looks, to see if my briefest touch will ease her conflict as quickly as it doubles mine. And I’m given the opportunity to test my theory when the jerk of the plane as it commences its trip to the runway causes Isabelle’s teeth to gnaw on her bottom lip. She bites on it so firmly, I’m confident she is seconds from drawing blood.
My reputation is fierce, I am respected as much as I am feared, but today is the first time I act solely on instincts.
The fear pounding out of Isabelle weakens when I trace my fingertip over the veins protruding in her hand. My gentle touch awards me her eyes in less than a nanosecond and her utmost devotion even quicker than that.
“How about we test the theory?” My voice is gruffier than I’ve heard it, almost demanding.
When Isabelle nods, adding to the confirmation seen in her eyes, I drag my finger up her arm, smiling when the fine hairs bristle upon being awarded my attention. The front of my pants tightens when my hand stops a hair’s breadth away from her neck. She’s watching me intently, heating me with a gaze so white-hot, I clutch her throat like we are in a private abode instead of being eyeballed like freaks by the couple next to us. I understand their desire to watch. Our exchange is on the verge of being pornographic, and we’re both fully clothed. Imagine how calamitous it will be when we’re not?
Euphoria pumps through me hard and fast when Isabelle releases a husky moan about my dominant grip. We were strangers a mere hour ago, yet she trusts me enough not to voice a single complaint about my underhanded request for an exchange of power.
After releasing her throat from my domineering clutch, I free her lip from her menacing teeth. “I’m going to bite that lip,” I mutter before I can stop myself.
My comment switches from a statement to a confirmation when I track my thumb over her pillowy lips. She doesn’t accept my grapple for the lead without displaying what she is willing to bring to the table. She nibbles on the tip of my thumb, her gentle sucks felt all the way to my cock. It digs into the zipper of my trousers, doubling its ache.
With all the blood in my body rushing to my lower extremities, I curl my hand around Isabelle’s nape, drag her lips to within an inch of mine, then freeze. I’m not waiting for permission to kiss her, I got that from her eyes long before I told her I wanted to bite her lip. I’m frozen in shock, stunned I’m about to do something I haven’t done since Ophelia died.
I fuck, and I fuck good, but not once in the past six years has that been done with kissing. I’ve done everything else you can imagine, but just like those three little words I spoke to Ophelia the night she died will never be re-spoken, I pledged not to kiss anyone either. It’s an intimate act, deeper and more connected than any other sexual partiality.
In all honesty, I don’t see my kissing stance lasting. I was barely twenty-one when I made an incalculable number of decisions that altered my life plan in an instant. Some I can change, others will remain forever, but shouldn’t those conflictions be reserved for a woman I’ve known for more than an hour or two? Furthermore, my choices were mammoth and not something any woman will take lightly, so why am I acting as if they’re inconsequential just so I can lure an attractive woman into my bed?
I’m often accused of being selfish. Very rarely is the accuser accurate.
I can’t give that same guarantee this afternoon.
I’m leading Isabelle onto a field I know is riddled with landmines without my qualm faltering. That makes me ashamed of the man I’ve become.
With that in mind, I pull back with barely a second to spare. It not only fills me with disappointment, it absolutely shatters the confidence in Isabelle’s eyes when she pops them back open, confused by my retreat.
I down my double whiskey with one large gulp, hopeful it will hide the disappointment in my voice before I mutter, “I’d say the theory has been proven.”
When I nudge my head to the window frosted by the contrasting temperatures of Isabelle’s heated breaths and the coolness of being thirty thousand feet in the air, Isabelle slings her eyes in the direction I motioned. She gasps while taking in the puffy white clouds in the late afternoon sky, but I can still feel her disappointment. It is almost as noticeable as mine when the de-illumination of the seat belt sign has Isabelle jolting back over my legs and racing for the bathroom.
My rejection hurt her.
I doubt it would if she understood the reasoning behind it.
I smile at the stars every night like I know their secrets, where, in reality, they’re the only ones who know mine.
And if I have it my way, that is how it will stay.
