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“You did,” he assured her. “And I refused.” The plane started to move and she sat bolt upright to look out of the window.
“Oh, no,” he said, easing her back. “Don’t watch. That’s the worst thing you can do.”
“I have to watch,” she said, glowering at him. “And how would you know that’s the worst thing I can do?”
“Because my mother was afraid of flying,” he said, trying to distract her. “And she is one hundred percent a control freak. I bet you balance your checkbook every day.” He shoved down the window shade.
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“I don’t.”
“Well, that’s a mistake.” She glowered. “Let go of the window shade.”
“If you don’t look out of the window you won’t know whether or not to question if it’s normal or not.”
“I told you. I have to look.”
“That’s what my mother said, too, and then she tried it with the shade down and it worked. She relaxed instead of spending the entire flight in a tense ball of nerves. Now she’s a travel writer.”
“I’m not your mother.”
“No,” he said softly, his hand dropping from the window, and settling on her leg. “You are most definitely not my mother. And believe me, I am very aware of that fact.” Sexual tension crackled between them, as good a distraction as he could ever hope for. Then the damnable wheels growled beneath the plane, retracting.
“Oh, my God,” she whispered, “did we just take off?”
He flipped up the armrest between them. “Yes,” he answered, turning so that he faced her fully. “See how fast things happen when you aren’t watching every little movement? How about opening that chocolate?”
“I need to look—”
He ran his hand down her arm, keeping her toward him. “Look at me.”
Her eyes met his and the connection was instant. He didn’t remember the last time a woman made his blood boil with nothing more than a look. But this one sure did. “You need another strategy to deal with your fear, other than mimosas and chocolate, if you’re going to make the twenty-city audition schedule.”
“Thirty,” she corrected.
“Thirty,” he repeated. “That’s a lot of cities. It’s going to be hard to keep up that pace if you stay this uptight. Try it my way. Stay away from the window and focus on other things. Like me.”
“I think focusing on you is a bad idea.”
“And why is that?”
“Because I’ve been drinking and I might forget how much I don’t like you.”
“Or alternatively,” he suggested, “you might remember that you actually do like me.”
* * *
THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT SHE WAS worried about. Liking him. Forgetting why she shouldn’t. Forgetting he was just another one of the power-hungry, driven men who attracted her, but later left her emotions bruised. He’d proven that by using her for better ratings. Blake was far more the wrong guy than any of the wrong guys before him, because he could impact her career. She’d been clipped by his potential power already and survived. Next time she might not. So, knowing all of this, why, why, why was she staring at his mouth, wishing he’d kiss her and distract her from the window? Didn’t she care that they were in a semipublic place?
“You might even decide that you want to kiss me,” he said, as if reading her mind. He leaned in closer, so that the spicy male scent of him teased her nostrils.
There was no “might” about wanting to kiss him. It was all she could do not to press her lips to his, which was a clear indication that a mimosa was not the way to cope with travel—or Blake Nelson.
“I’m not going to look at you or out the window.” She shifted in her seat and put her tray table down, setting the bag of chocolate on top and grabbing her book. “I’ll read.” She opened up her romance novel and began reading from where she’d left off.
She shoved him to his back, straddled him. Kissed him. Wild didn’t begin to describe what kissing Lara unleashed inside Damion. One minute they were kissing, the next they were touching, licking, tasting. Her naked backside rubbing against his cock drove him insane with need. He couldn’t get enough of her. Couldn’t make himself stop kissing her, caressing her, couldn’t resist molding her breasts in his hands and swallowing the moan that slid from her lips to his. They melted into one another, the play of tongue against tongue, and wildness turned into an unfamiliar desperation like nothing he had ever experienced with another woman, a need to escape into each other, a need not to speak, not to think.
Damion’s hand slid up her back, into her hair, angling her mouth to deepen the kiss, to take more. Whatever happened beyond this moment, beyond the desire, didn’t matter. There was no right or wrong, no enemies or even friends—there was just feeling, needing, taking.
