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My lips ripped from him, my upper body arching back, giving him more access. He took it, gladly, his thumb and forefinger grabbing my hardened nipple, twisting to the point of pain, then ever so slightly beyond it, making my thighs clamp to his sides, my hips moving in a circle against him, the pressure building fast. A couple more strokes would be all that I needed.
Except that the jet took that moment to hit a patch of turbulence, catching both of us off-guard, sending me flying backward, head smacking against the closed pocket door, pain exploding across my scalp.
“Shit,” Fenway hissed, hands reaching for me, trying to pull me back from my cramped, painful position.
“No, don’t,” I demanded, rolling away, sliding off the edge of the bed, reaching for the little holes in the door to slide it open.
“Wasp…” Fenway called, voice thick and pleading.
It was tempting.
God, it was tempting.
Which was exactly why I pulled the door, then slid it closed, immediately locking myself in the bathroom, sinking back against the wall.
What the hell was wrong with me?
I literally needed to be whacked in the head to get some sense knocked into me.
That had gone too far.
Not that far, in the grand scheme of things, but too far too soon.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I demanded my reflection, a reflection that looked like the poster girl for sexual desire. My cheeks and neck and chest were flushed. My lips were swollen, redder than usual. My eyes looked heavy-lidded. My hair was bed-messy.
Clearly, I needed to make sure I didn’t have such long dry spells. Especially if I had jobs lined up.
I was horny and needy and he was there.
Sometimes you threw away ideals for pure convenience.
And Fenway Arlington was anything but ideal. To me, at least.
He was over the top and silly and frustrating and lived in his own world by his own rules.
I liked depth.
I craved substance.
I enjoyed people who could navigate on the fringes, but still function in normal society.
I didn’t like superficial playboys.
Not even if they enjoyed classic movies.
Not even if they had great taste in food.
Not even if they were the best kisser I’d ever come across.
“Ugh,” I grumbled, turning on the water, splashing it on my face, hoping the cold would calm the chaos still raging in my body, the unfulfilled desire that was impossible to ignore.
Okay.
It was okay.
A little bit of sexy times that eventually got taken away from him would only make him want it more. Want me more. Which meant he would be willing to do anything to woo me back into it.
That worked in my favor.
I could spin this.
If my damn body would stop trying to co-op my brain with its stupid demands.
And they were stupid.
Wanting to have sex with Fenway Arlington was likely the dumbest thing I could even think of on a rational level.
Which was precisely why it wasn’t going to happen.
Decision made—once again—I tamed my hair, straightened my clothes, worked a kink out of my neck, then made my way back out into the main area of the jet, finding Alvy and Fenway sitting at the table. Joy, the flight attendant, must have moved up into the cockpit.
“Are you okay?” Alvy asked, putting their phone down. “Fenway said the turbulence made you fall out of bed,” Alvy added, and I could feel the heat rising on my neck. “You must have really been out to have flown that far off the bed,” they added.
“Yeah,” I agreed, taking my seat on the couch again, making a slow show of crossing my legs, making sure Fenway’s gaze went there, noticed the hike of my skirt. Oh, yeah, I realized as his gaze lifted, eyes blazing, I had him. “I must have been really out of it,” I agreed.
“Is that what we are calling it?” Fenway asked, tone dark, daring.
“Yep,” I agreed, running a hand through my hair, feeling the smart when my fingers met the little knot on my scalp from the impact. “It won’t be happening again,” I told him. And maybe myself.
“I think it will. Quite a few times, I would say,” Fenway shot back.
“How clumsy do you think she is?” Alvy asked, making the both of us have to press our lips together and break eye contact to keep from laughing.
“How long until we are in Bali?” I asked a moment later.
“Just about an hour,” Alvy supplied.
“Anxious to get to my house, are you, darling?” Fenway asked, back to light, teasing.
I was.
I needed a little space.
My own room.
My own bed.
Then things would get back on track, go back to the plan.
Yes, I really was that naive.
And Bali was everything—and nothing—like I had expected.
As it turned out, so was Fenway Arlington.
SIX
Fenway
I wasn’t sure I’d ever truly known sexual frustration before in my life. There had always been opportunities to deal with it when it popped up randomly.
