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Dom slowly stands, keeping his eyes on me.
He has to duck to avoid the overhead storage, then he sidles into the aisle and straightens.
We stay like that for a beat. Chest to chest. And I watch his nostrils flare, as if he’s holding something back and it’s costing him. Then he swallows and moves out of the way, allowing me to scoot into our row.
My skirt catches on the armrest, flashing a bit of thigh, and I reach down to free myself.
When I make it to the window seat, I slip my backpack off and shift it so it’s on my lap when I sit down.
“Want that up here?” Dom asks.
I look up and see he’s still standing in the aisle. But now his hands are up, resting on the overhead bin.
The position flares his unbuttoned suit jacket out and stretches his white shirt across his torso. Andsweet baby Jesus,those are definitely tattoos covering his body.
Lord, help me. This is going to be the best and worst flight ever.
It’ll be like sitting in front of a giant cheesecake but knowing you aren’t allowed to take a bite.
“Angel.”
My eyes snap up to meet his, and the blush that had finally faded from my cheeks comes roaring back to life. Because he just caught me ogling him.
I bite my lip, but it doesn’t stop the guilty look on my face.
Dom lifts an eyebrow, and I lift a shoulder.
It’s not like he doesn’t know he’s attractive.
In retaliation, he slowly lowers his eyes from my face, down my neck, over my ample cleavage, and down my body to where my skirt is riding up above my knees.
When his eyes move back up to meet mine, it’s my turn to lift a brow. Copying me copying him, Dom lifts a shoulder before dropping his arms back to his sides.
Finally, I remember the question he asked me about putting my bag up.
“You can sit down. I’ll put it under the seat. Wouldn’t want someone to try and steal my new fancy bag.” To punctuate my statement, I shove it to the floor and use my toes to push it forward.
But I’m not used to these spacious first-class seats. And my legs don’t reach far enough to push the bag all the way under the seat in front of me.
Dom lowers himself into his seat with a chuckle, then leans into my space, reaching down between my still-extended feet and pushing my backpack the rest of the way forward.
“Shorty,” he murmurs as he leans back. But he doesn’t lean straight back. Doesn’t take the shortest path. He stays leaned my way, the back of his hand brushing against my bare knee.
I still haven’t acknowledged this particular nickname, but I’m too busy trying to breathe to think of a comeback.
And even breathing is hard, because he’s so close my lungs are filling with his warm cologne scent, and it’s reviving every hormone I’ve ever had.
Finally, Dom settles back against his seat and reaches down to buckle his seat belt.
With his attention elsewhere, I quickly reach for my belt and pull it to the longest length, hoping he doesn’t notice.
Sometimes the seat belts on a plane are a struggle. Sometimes there is more than enough length, and I have to tighten it several inches, and sometimes they seem to be made for only slender bodies—or even men with beer guts who somehow have tiny waists—but not made for wide-hipped, thicker women.
The panic of impending shame edges into my mind, but then the belt clicks, and I realize first class is built differently because the belt is sagging across my lap.
I let out a breath of relief, though I’m not sure why. It’s not like Dom can’t see my body with his own eyes. But the thought of having to ask for a seat belt extender in front of him makes me want to peel off my skin.
Even if you had to, it wouldn’t matter. It’s just a body.
