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A light rose fragrance hits me and something deep and dark beneath my surface balks at her for changing her scent—obviously, I’ve lost the fucking plot. I don’t know this woman, nor do I plan to, so how can I have a preference on her scent? She is not mine. Why do I have to keep reminding myself of that fact?
Oblivious to my inner turmoil, Bambi leans over the console, unintentionally revealing the swell of her pert breasts to me. My tongue darts out and I trail a wet path along my bottom lip. I bet she tastes like sunshine and poor decisions. Her hand, poised with lotion, freezes mid-air. I get the distinct impression her words have died on her tongue and something about that brings the smugness in me to the surface—not that it takes much. I’m a smug bastard more often than not.
A smirk tips the corners of my lips up and I raise my brow at her. So the little doe is affected by me. Good to know. I zero in on her delicate throat watching it bob up and down as she tries to find her voice. My hands ache to feel her soft pale skin beneath them. The space between us charges with poorly concealed desire. The static is palpable, tempting me to do things that I never do. Not without a contract in place.
Clearing her throat, she asks, “Have you tried this?” Glancing at the tube in her hand and back up to my face.
“No.” I dismiss her and focus back on the notes from earlier. Not that I’m actually retaining any useful information.
“You should. It’s divine, here, let me see your hand.”
Soft fingers wrap around my wrist, sending sparks of fire licking up my skin, and I jerk out of her grasp. “Never touch someone without their consent,” I snap.
Her confusion at my waspish behavior is clear. Our shared air morphs into something thick and cloying, but it’s not my job to educate the doe. She nods a few times before shrugging her shoulders—a gesture meant more for herself than me, if I had to guess—and mumbles an apology, nestling back in her seat.
Silence spans into a suffocating bubble around us and I hate myself for hating it. The previously soft material of the business class seats is scratchy against my heated skin.
Where the hell is my drink?
“Your tequila, sir.” Thank. Fuck.
The flight attendant sets a frosty tumbler of tequila in front of me and I snatch it up, downing the entirety in one gulp like a goddamn savage. The amber liquor slides effortlessly down my throat with practiced ease, generating a warmth that spreads through my limbs and settles nicely in my chest, easing the tension thrumming through me.
Bambi stares at me all wide-eyed and doe like. I smirk at her and lick the rim of my glass. I know I’m playing with fire, but I make no apologies for who I am. Savage. Ruthless. Cocky. Deranged. Bastard. God. I’ve been called a myriad of names for a myriad of reasons, some more accurate than others. It doesn’t matter though, because the real Dante Jiménez is whoever the fuck I want him to be.
“Well okay then, I guess I should have ordered what he’s drinking. Seems it’s so delicious you can’t help but swallow it down in one big ass gulp.”
Mr. Grumpy Pants clucks his tongue like I’m a naughty child, but the smirk playing across his features remains. I beam at him, focusing on a thin white scar above his left eye—careful not to get trapped in his bewitching gaze again. That shit is deadly to my lady bits.
He mutters something incoherent, in what I think is Spanish, under his breath; his grip tightens on the empty glass before he all but shoves it at the flight attendant, wordlessly demanding another. Maybe I should try the tequila he’s having? The way he knocked it back, it’s gotta be smooth, right? I’m sure he’d be happy to share if I just wanted a little sip. A taste test if you will. A mischievous grin splays across my features and I take a sip of my tequila sour to hide it.
Technically, I’m already on vacation, so why can’t the fun start now?
His short-tempered retort from a few moments ago lingers in my consciousness as I contemplate the ways I can rile up this stoic giant. What’s that all about? It seems like overkill for a barely-there touch, but I don’t know him well enough to gauge that properly. I’m not one to judge but I think he can stand to loosen up a little. Regardless, I can respect his need for consent, even if my intentions were purely innocent.
Innocent? Yeah, right.
Fine, maybe not completely squeaky clean, but who wouldn’t jump at the chance to touch a deity incarnate as stupidly gorgeous as him? It’s like placing a bottle of sixteen-year-old single malt Irish whiskey in front of Jesse and telling her not to touch it. Impossible.
With practiced ease, I watch him out of the corner of my eye. As a photographer, I’m always paying attention to the environment around me, you never know when the perfect shot will be just to your left. A familiar tingle ignites in my fingers—the desire to grab my Nikon and shoot a few candid shots of the sexy grump sitting next to me.
He’s dressed in a simple white henley and fitted dark jeans, exuding effortlessly casual and totally off-limits. Old school tattoos like those you’d see on a sailor cover his forearms—some more weathered than others—extending down to his fingers. I wonder how extensive his tattoo collection is? Black swirls peek out above the collar of his shirt, but his neck is free of designs.
The hard angles of his face are meant to lure in only those brave enough to sail through the murky waters around him, uncaring of the danger he radiates. The control this man has wrapped around him is formidable, but even titanium has a breaking point. Hypothetically, how hard would one have to push to see that tightly coiled restraint snap?
Fuck a duck, what is up with me? I comb my fingers through my hair, loosening some of the knotted curls. Jesse and Scarlett are the instigators of our group. I rarely find fun in riling up anyone outside of my babes, but fuck if I don’t want to see just how far I can push Mr. Grumpy Pants.
My libido and I need to have a serious conversation. The attraction buzzing through my veins—pooling at my core—has no business railing through me like a freight train. It’s just rude. I don’t go for the aloof assholes with a proverbial stick up their asses. Kind eyes and a love of nature are my bread and butter. So why the fuck is my vagina weeping for the impressively stoic man next to me.
Squeezing a dollop of lotion into my hand, I take my time rubbing up and down my arm and breathing in the divine scent. It’s reminiscent of an early spring morning at Descanso Gardens—light and floral with a hint of honey. When I’ve had my fill and my skin is smooth as silk, I make a note in my phone to order a full size bottle from L'Occitane when I get back from Mexico.
“Your drink, sir.”
Patty places another glass of tempting amber liquid onto my neighbor’s tray, and my traitorous body reacts before my brain can scream hazardous. In a matter of seconds I’ve stolen his tequila and emptied the liquor into my mouth, swallowing it down in a few quick gulps. Damn, that’s delicious. The burn is there, but it’s mild, and notes of toffee and vanilla highlight the dark, earthy taste.
“What the hell?” Patty sputters.
I lick my lips and shrug. Might as well own up to my decision, though it definitely wasn’t a conscious one.
