Page 8 of Triplet Babies for my Ex's Best Friend

“Terrible idea,” I whisper, though it sounds more like a warning to myself than anything else.

“Not for me.” His thumb brushes once more along my lips. “And now… I might head to the bathroom. If you want to join me…”

I stare at him, trying to process the sentence, the way it hangs between us. Rough-edged and audacious, like he just handed me the decision and dared me to take it.

Because that’s exactly what this is.

A choice.

Walk away… or don’t.

My pulse kicks harder.

And the worst part?

I already know which one I’m going to pick.

I stand. Or at least I try to. My knees seem less reliable than they usually are. The world is unsteady, every vibration and jostle of the taxiing plane ringing through my skin, but I refuse to let him see the effect he’s already having on me.

His gaze follows me, amusement flickering behind those unnervingly blue eyes. He gestures, so casual, toward the back of the cabin.

The lavatory, of course.

The cliché.

I’ve never been one for cheap thrills, but he’s already touched my face, already kissed me, and I want more, even if it’s nothing, even if it’s just this dumb moment.

I mean, this is insane, right?

But I guess I’ll never see this man again.

So… who will ever know?

I head for the bathroom.

It’s the size of a coffin, lit by a fluorescent light that makes everyone look like a serial killer, and I've got enough sense to make a half-hearted check of the mirror before I lock the door.

Jeez.

My cheeks are wild with color, lips bite swollen. I pull my hair back into some semblance of order, but it’s a joke. I look completely fucked.

As if on cue, there’s a soft knock at the door. A gentleman, if such a word could be applied to the six-foot wall of self-assurance currently on the other side.

I pull the handle, and he slips inside with a fluid ease that says he’s done this before. The space is outrageously tight. My hips press into the cold little sink, and his chest is against mine.

The door clicks shut behind him.

No words. He looks at me, and I see it in his eyes. Undisguised want, bordering on catastrophe. His hand slides over my waist, then higher, then back down, fingers grazing along the fabric of my dress, so hot against my bare skin I nearly shiver. His teeth scrape my bottom lip, sharp enough to punish me for every shitty decision leading to this.

It’s frantic and rough, exactly wrong and exactly right, and I don’t care about turbulence or the fact that there are a hundred people not ten feet from where he’s lifting the hem of my dress, somehow both skilled and impatient.

I lean into it, into him, as he hooks his fingers at the edge of the fabric and drags it higher, forcing a gasp out of me that’s way too loud for the tiny space. He covers my mouth with his own, swallowing the sound, biting down until I think he might leave a mark.

I spin around and splay my hands hard against the metal sink. He presses behind me, hand suddenly tight in my hair, bending my neck so I can only see the yellowed ceiling, grimy with sticker residue and disreputable history.

His mouth moves, tongue insistent, and the bathroom fills with the briny taste of sweat and spit and red wine, our breaths tangled and desperate. My hands shake, knuckles whitening around the cold steel basin as the whole world pitches; whether it’s the flight or him, I couldn’t say.

His fingers dig down, anchoring at my hip, and I can’t help but push back, finding a rhythm that’s more violence than grace.