And there's a helicopter. An actual helicopter. With "StreamEats" written on the side in the same elegant script as Victor’s private plane.
"You own a helicopter," I say to Victor, who's standing beside me looking criminally edible in a charcoal suit that fits his muscular frame like a second skin.
He raises an eyebrow. "I have access to a helicopter. There's a difference."
"That's a very billionaire distinction."
"I only use it a few times a year."
"For what exactly? Dramatic entrances?"
"For nights like this." He reaches out, pulling me close against him, his hand settling possessively on my lower back. "Richard Francis's yacht is anchored off the coast of Santa Barbara. We could drive—three hours in traffic. Or fly commercial—two hours with security and boarding. Or—" His thumb traces a circle against my spine, right above the zipper he did up earlier. "—we could do this in forty-five minutes and spend the saved time doing something more interesting."
Heat pools low in my stomach. "More interesting how?"
His eyes darken. "Use your imagination, Mrs. Kade."
My knees nearly buckle. "You can't say things like that when I'm about to get in a flying death machine."
"Think of it as incentive to survive the flight." He leans down, his mouth near my ear, hand sliding lower on my back, dangerously close to inappropriate. "James is waiting."
James—Victor's driver who apparently also functions as his bodyguard and helicopter pilot wrangler—is standing next to the helicopter wearing a suit that doesn't quite hide the gun holstered at his side.
"Evening, Mrs. Kade," he says with a warm smile. "Your chariot awaits."
"This is not a chariot,” I groan. “This is a metal coffin with propellers."
"It's perfectly safe," Victor says, guiding me forward.
"That's what they say right before the horror movie starts."
"Harper." His hand tightens on my waist. "Do you trust me?"
The question stops me cold. Because the answer should be complicated, should be heavy with everything I'm hiding, everything I haven't told him.
Instead, I hear myself say, "Yes."
"Then trust me now."
James helps me into the helicopter, and I immediately understand why billionaires do this instead of sitting in traffic. The interior is obscenely luxurious—cream leather seats that look more comfortable than my couch, wood paneling, noise-canceling headphones, and what appears to be a full bar.
Victor slides in beside me, his thigh pressing against mine in the confined space.
"First time?" he asks, handing me the headphones.
"In a helicopter? Yes. In a situation where I question my sanity? No. That's becoming a pattern with you."
His smile is slow and breathtaking on his handsome face. "I like keeping you off-balance."
"I've noticed."
His hand finds my knee, thumb stroking the inside just above my kneecap as the pilot's voice crackles through the headphones. "Mr. Kade, we're ready for takeoff. ETA to the yacht is forty-two minutes."
"Copy that, Geoffrey."
The helicopter lifts off, and my stomach does something acrobatic and nauseating as Victor's hand slides higher on my thigh.
“Breathe, sweetheart,” he instructs beside me.
