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Rough.
Restrained.
Controlled.
If she were mine, I’d have her bending to my whims—feeding from my hand and caving to my needs. I’d accept nothing less than her salty-sweet tears on my tongue. Reveling in the sound of her raw voice belting out a melody of cries as she begs for more and prays for less.
But she’s not mine.
I press down on the pillow and fight back against the groan clawing up my throat. This isn’t me. I don’t react like this to women. So, why am I?
“I’m so sorry. I’ll shut it off now.” Bambi shuffles in her seat, untangling her legs and strapping in. The white sundress she’s wearing rises to reveal thick creamy thighs ripe for my bruising hold and I have to force myself to look away. Get ahold of yourself, Dante. You’re thirty-eight years old, not a prepubescent teen.
The flight attendant flashes a final scathing look at the doe before storming off to the front of the plane and whispering to the cabin crew. Not-so-subtle side glances are thrown in our direction and I sneer at the lot of them. This is ridiculous. Just get on with the safety brief so we can depart for god’s sake. The captain’s monotone voice comes on overhead to relay the details of our flight and the expected weather, snapping the chismosas out of their gossiping huddle.
Slipping my hand under the pillow, I tug on my safety belt to secure it. The pull to palm my painfully erect cock is insanity. I clench my hands into tightly bound fists and think of anything other than the wild doe sitting next to me.
Agave fields.
Soccer.
Court briefings.
Judge Thomasson.
On I go until a familiar cool, calculating calm settles over me like a fine mist at dawn in the fall. I flex my fingers open and closed, releasing the tension and emptying my mind of the trivial. I control my thoughts, not the other way around. I’m not a slave to anyone but myself, my goals, my ambition.
“I love this part,” Bambi murmurs as we take off. A serene smile lights up her face. I’m tempted to say me too, but I refrain. The less we interact, the better.
As the plane levels off, I slip my iPad out of my briefcase and flick through a few pages of notes and the beginnings of a brief I’ve been dreading. This probably wasn’t the best case to work on when I’m barely hanging onto my control by a thread, but fuck if I don’t love to push myself. You’d think I’m a masochist, and maybe part of me is, but I thrive on control far too much to let anyone else pull my puppet strings ever again.
A soft melodic humming infiltrates my brain, warping my thoughts and luring me back towards the sunshine wrapped oblivion sitting next to me. I grit my teeth against the siren’s noise and tune her out. My vision strains as I force my focus to stay pinned on the small black words in front of me.
I own my thoughts.
I control my body.
A ding chimes and the seatbelt light turns off. Reaching up, I jab the call button with a brutal intensity that I can’t bother to feel bad about. I need a drink.
“What can I get you, sir?” a new flight attendant asks a few long minutes later.
“Don Julio 1942, chilled.”
“Sure, and for you miss? Would you like something from the bar?”
“Fuck yes. Do you have Tears of Llorona?”
“No, I’m sorry, we don’t.”
Bambi brings her plump bottom lip between her teeth and nibbles on it. The ease I was slipping into drifts away leaving me awash without a damn life jacket. She has to know what her actions are doing to me. I first thought she was an innocent doe, but that was wrong. She’s a goddamn vixen dressed up as an angel in white.
“Can I get a fresh lime tequila sour?”
“That I can do. I’ll be back with your drinks shortly.”
The flight attendant disappears behind the curtain ahead of us and I adjust my position, angling away from the doe. The pillow that covered my erection rests on the console between us and I’m tempted to put it in my lap again. Fuck knows when I’ll need it.
“Holy hot shit on a stick, this is incredible,” Bambi mutters rubbing the complimentary L'Occitane lotion into her hands.
