My strategy on keeping my focus on objects outside of the plan is thwarted when I spot Isabelle hyperventilating in the corner of my eye. In her nervousness, she can’t get her belt to latch, and the panic it fills her with doubles the wetness brimming in her beautiful chocolate eyes.
“Fuck it,” I mutter, conscious Hunter would have overridden any surveillance devices in this hangar within minutes of it capturing my arrival.
We let Col see what we want him to see, not a second more.
Isabelle’s eyes stalk my approach. They’re still ladened down with worry, but something much more sought-after overtakes them when I bob down in front of her to buckle her in. I clasp the silver clips together before tugging on the strap to ensure she’s strapped in tight.
The scent my tug wafts up causes a low growl to rumble in the back of my throat. She’s scared, but fear will never be her strongest emotion when she’s with me.
After silently advising her with my eyes that her every desire will be answered by me soon, I head back to my seat and recommence staring out the window. Within seconds, the plane commences taxiing toward the runway. Then, just as quickly, Isabelle’s panicked breaths fill the cabin of the private jet.
She’s gripping her armrest so firmly, her nails are digging into the plush leather material, and her face is as white as the clouds we’re about to ascend into.
“Breathe,” I demand when her wheezing loudens. She’s seconds from hyperventilating.
Just like it did in the manager’s office at 57, her body snaps to the clipped command in my tone, but it isn’t enough. She looks seconds from passing out.
With no concerns for my safety, I unclasp my belt, then kneel in front of Isabelle just as she shakes her head, wordlessly advising me she’s too panicked to follow the screaming demands of her lungs.
“Breathe, Isabelle,” I encourage while rubbing my thumb along the veins protruding in her hands.
“Good girl,” I praise when the panic ripping through her eases enough to suck in a shallow, much-needed breath.
With her eyes rested on mine, I brush away the tears staining her beautiful face before lowering my hand to her lips. The salty blobs of her tears moisten the area she dragged her teeth over when her anxiety was sky-high.
The zap my briefest touch causes is catastrophic to my astuteness. The tension is palpable, and not all of it is coming from my side of our exchange. Isabelle is burning up all over, and as her eyes bounce between mine, nothing but unbridled hankering fills her alluring hooded gaze.
I angle my head to the side when another flare darts through her impressive eyes. It isn’t one I’ve experienced before but one I’d give anything to witness again. My empire. My wealth. My health. I’d give it all away in an instant if it guarantees she’ll keep looking at me how she is now.
I’ll even surrender to the devil if I must.
With my mind shut down to the consequences of a hasty decision, I unlatch Isabelle’s seat belt and lift her into my arms.
“What are you doing?” Isabelle gabbers out, her words breathy.
When I walk us toward the back of the plane, her pulse heightens more with hope than worry. Even a novice flyer could anticipate what’s beyond the highly varnished door, and the bed Isabelle is anticipating is exactly what she gets this time around.
Most of Colt Enterprises’ jets are fitted with desks. Only months ago, nothing but business was on mine and Cormack’s mind when we traveled. Right now, it’s the last thought entering my head.
After placing Isabelle onto the bed far smaller than the monstrosity Catherine had designed to fill some of the excess space of the master suite in my private abode, I fall to my knees to remove Isabelle’s shoes. We’re ascending at a rate fast enough for the tubes in my ears to take notice, but my dedicated attention to answering every whim in Isabelle’s hooded gaze has her oblivious to the fact we’re not fastened in our seats during the most dangerous part of every flight.
I love that my presence blinds her good judgment as much as it does mine. It’s almost as tempting as the hungry flare darting through her body when I commence removing the cufflinks on my jacket before shrugging out of the suddenly constricting material. She drags her teeth over her bottom lip again when I toe off my shoes and place them next to hers, doubling their plumpness while drinking in every minute move I make. I go extra slow, teasing her to the point she’s on the verge of pouncing.
When something holds her back, I pluck her off the bed with a pull on her wrist. A growl rumbles low in my chest when my tug flattens her chest to mine. Her nipples are budded, and the scent I was sucking in like an addict while kneeling in front of her greatens.
“Do you want this?” I ask.
I’ll never take anything unwillingly given, but I’d be a liar if I said I’ve asked this question to a bed partner before. Usually, nothing but suffocating urges I can’t live without are on my mind, and the women I used to achieve them were aware I was with them for only one thing.
Well, most of them.
It took Theresa a lot longer to get the hint than the rest.
When Isabelle nods, my lips thin. “No, Isabelle. Say it.”
I’m over the apprehension that forever fires in her eyes when she peers at me and her constant skirting of her body’s desires. If she wants this, it’s time for her to be honest with both herself and me.
Months of reckless yearning highlights her tone when she replies, “I want this.”
