Page 17 of Mile High Heist

Jax groaned and pulled out. He was so hard, it looked painful. His eyes flicked over me, taking in my positively debauched state. He grinned. “I guess you owe me one, princess.”

I reached up and ripped the scarf from my mouth. “I don’t owe you anything.” Despite my outrage, my voice was weak.

Jax touched my swollen, spit-slick lips. Then he seemed to make a decision, his jaw tightening. His hand went down, gripping himself. His other thumb popped into my mouth. “Suck,” he commanded.

I did, watching his hand stroke up his shaft. He twisted on the head, and I made notes. All the notes.

The third knock was sharp and pointed. Jax’s eyes flashed. “I’m going to murder this fucker.”

I bit his thumb until he removed it. “You can’t,” I panted. “We have a job to do.”

With a pained groan, he gave himself one last, furious tug. His lower abs clenched, hair falling stiff into his eyes. I imagined watching him finish, my belly hot with desire. Instead, he tucked himself, still hard, back into his briefs.

“Easy for you to say,” he grunted unhappily. “You don’t have to nurse blue balls next to Martha fucking Stewart.”

Without thinking, I reached up and fixed his tie. He froze, like I’d caught him off guard.

“What are you doing?”

I moved onto his hair, smoothing it down. “We have to maintain our cover,” I said. It was a thin excuse. My heart fluttered obnoxiously.

His ears turned pink, a surprisingly boyish reaction on such an unapologetic man. His hand caught mine, his face shutting down.

Guess we were back to hating each other.

Ignoring the lump in my throat, I used my toe to nudge him toward the door. “You go first. Move him so I can leave.”

Jax grimaced and cracked his knuckles. He opened the door with a snap, using his large frame to block the man from seeing in. “This one is blocked,” Jax said. “Fuck off and find another one.”

“Blocked!?” The man spluttered. “You—how—”

“Big lunch.” Then Jax pushed forward, bodily moving the man away. With a last glance toward me, he shut the door. I sagged in relief.

My whole body was humming. My thighs were damp, my lips stinging. I turned to my reflection and gawked at the girl in the mirror, with her glassy eyes, lopsided ponytail, and red-smeared mouth.

I jabbed my finger at her sternly. “Never again. You know better.”

The girl in the mirror didn’t look convinced.

6

MADOC

“Shh, baby, shh. It’s okay.”

Murdering a toddler was about to become my in-flight entertainment. The high-pitched wails, the tiny sneakers kicking into my seat, the spray of drool—I’d killed over less.

I snapped a pen between my fingers and jabbed the pointy end into my thigh. Not hard enough to draw blood, but just enough to keep my homicidal tendencies in check.

It worked. Pain was good. It was reliable, a constant.

Proof of life.

With life, though, came the tediousness of it all. The boredom of existence. I’d slit my wrists if it weren’t so predictable.

On habit, I rolled my head toward the window. Blue skies, low turbulence. The chances of dying in a plane crash were one in eleven million. I never got picked.

Beside me, a pale man shuddered. He was sandwiched in the middle seat. He quickly averted his eyes from whatever expression he caught on my face. I didn’t need to look directly at him to know that he had salami for breakfast, he was sexually impotent, and he was terrified of losing his hair.