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“Come on,” he said.
Curious, I slid my fingers through his. They were big, lean, and his warm palms were rough. As we crossed the sand to the landing strip, I listened to him speak French with a little Italian mixed in. I only spoke English, but I found that rise and fall of his voice comforting.
I’d never been on a private flight before, but I was trying not to make that embarrassingly obvious. There were two rows of pale leather seats and an area behind them with a low table and additional seating. Duran led me beyond it and through a curtain at the back to a private area. There was a short, plush bench against the wall.
He pushed his phone in his pocket and took his glasses off. Baring his midnight gaze.
“Are you going to behave?” he asked.
There was something about how stone cold his face was that sent arousal up my spine like a firework. Our eyes locked and the air between us tingled.
“I don’t know,” I whispered. “Why should I?”
There was a little flush at the base of his throat.
“If I take your bait, will you be a good girl?” he said.
My throat felt dry and my cheeks burned.
“Maybe.”
He stepped back, crossing the small space and sinking into the seat in the corner. He spread his knees and leaned back, arms resting on the top of the seats on either side.
“Come here,” he said.
I hesitated. Something had changed. Perhaps it had been when he rescued me or perhaps it was the second time we made each other come and slept in the same bed. The walls between us felt so weak now. I could have reached out and pushed and watched the bricks come tumbling down.
I went to him. His big hands closed on my hips and he lifted me into his lap, facing him. My stomach fluttered as he brushed a strand of my hair back.
“Did I hurt your feelings, princess?” he said, his voice low.
My brow shot up. Was he about to apologize?
“I don’t have feelings for you to hurt,” I said, but my voice didn’t sound right. It was flimsy, breathy.
His palms were still on my waist and I was acutely aware of how big his hands were. His middle fingers almost met on my lower back. My stomach constricted as I took a sharp breath. He felt it and the corner of his mouth twitched. Flashing the pointed edge of his canine.
Our eyes locked.
He shifted one hand up and my nipples went hard under my tank top. I’d worn a thin bra because it was hot, but now I wished I’d worn something with an actual cup. There was nothing between him and my breasts but two layers of fabric.
His gaze lowered. His mouth parted.
“You have a beautiful body,” he said.
There wasn’t a trace of sarcasm or playfulness in his voice. It was honest and quiet. Surprised, I looked down and scanned myself. I’d never hated my body, but I had dealt with a lot of discomfort over it after being told it was a stumbling block. A tool for ruining men.
That had fucked me up for a while.
“Do you actually think that?” I whispered.
He nodded once. His eyes rested on the outline of my nipples. Heat swelling between my thighs and that intense frustration I always felt around him gathered deep inside. It wiped my brain blank.
Fingers shaking, I reached up and peeled my tank top down around my waist. His chest heaved. The triangle of skin showing between his collar flushed around the medal. This time, I ignored it.
“Take my bra off,” I begged, my voice hoarse.
Both rough, warm palms slid up and undid my bra in a second. The flimsy silk fell away. My nipples tightened even more as cool air hit them. His lids fell and his expression shifted. I could see desire pool in his eyes like inebriation.
