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Chapter 7
Elena doesn’t leavethe bedroom until the second we land. I sit in the cabin with my legs crossed, nursing the scotch Marcelline handed me, waiting for her to enter and give me a piece of her mind, but the moment never comes.
A dull twinge radiates in my gut, thorns spiraling outward and clawing at the organ beating inside my chest. Something adjacent to guilt, brushing the corner of the feeling without letting it fully set in.
I haven’t felt bad about my actions in years, due in part to the fact that I engage in a lot of charity work at free clinics in order to absolve myself.
Not that it helps me sleep any better at night, but at least it keeps my mother from rolling over in her grave.
Yet now, considering the way I dragged Elena into my mess, and the way I’m leaving her half satisfied, shame worms its way into my brain, cloaking me in its vile shadows.
Downing the rest of my drink, I focus on the burn of the alcohol as it glides down my throat, dwarfing the sensation before it has time to grow roots.
The bedroom door slides open as soon as the pilot tells us we’ve reached Aplana International, and Elena slinks out, wearing black leggings and a thin white blouse.
Her leggings cover the K carved into the inside of her thigh, and my cock twitches at the memory of putting it there.
How she preened as the blade drew against her sensitive flesh, back bowing, pussy cresting around another orgasm. The way her blood tasted as it dripped down her pale skin, and how I lapped at its coppery essence like a man dying of thirst.
And I was.
Dying to drink her, to consume the young virgin the way she had me since the night she asked me to be her first.
I figured that night that it would be the only one we had. I hadn’t realized at the time that our quarters would eventually be so… intimate.
I’ve already broken my own unspoken rule to take things slow by driving my fingers into her tight, needy heat, helpless against the way she looked at me while I ate that fucking apple.
I bit into the soft fruit with more gravitas than necessary, trying to convey what I’d instead love to do with her pussy.
Feast on it, conquer it, ruin it.
She looked like she would die if I didn’t.
It’d taken all my willpower not to drop my slacks, rip my dick from behind the zipper, and thrust into her right then, but these things have to be timed correctly in order to work.
Consummation has to wait.
Marcelline comes over and pops the jet door open, exiting without a word, probably desperate to get back to her regular duties.
Slumping down in the leather seat across from me, Elena leans her head back, staring up at the spotless wood paneling on the ceiling. I flip idly through the Better Homes & Gardens magazine in my lap, waiting for her to say something.
Pinching her eyes shut, she sighs. “You own a private jet.”
Glancing at the dated, yet lavish interior of the lounge area, I nod. “I do.”
She snorts, shaking her head. “Figures.”
I bought the jet—a vintage 1987 McDonnell Douglas MD-87—at an auction a few years back, but since I rarely visit the island, I haven’t had much of a chance to use it.
Mostly, it sits in the private hangar I rent while I take public transportation from one jobsite to the next. Other than short flights from the usual crew and tune-ups, this is the plane’s first actual voyage.
Seems fitting, I suppose, using it as a way to transition my old life into the new.
Cocking an eyebrow, I fold my magazine shut and set it on the conference table between us. “Do you have a problem with private jets, Elena?”
“Aside from the fact that they’re toxic to the environment? Not particularly. I just wouldn’t expect someone like you to own one.”
“What, pray tell, is that supposed to mean?”
