by Ophelia Bell
Soon she’s on the verge of wailing, her core clamped around me, her face a mix of shock and desire. I pull her tight against me, slamming deep as I brush my lips against her ear. “I’m gonna come inside you. Tell me it’s okay.”
Her answer is a greedy moan and she bucks into me harder, teeth grazing my neck as she makes her way to my ear to answer. “God, yes. Come inside me, please.”
The second I lose it, her body follows, a harsh, keening cry filling the small space. I frantically cover her mouth with mine to drown out the noise of her orgasm, devouring the scream and enduring the sting of her fingernails sinking into my shoulders as her tight pussy milks my cock dry.
I don’t release her mouth for several seconds, addicted to the taste of her lips, not to mention afraid that she’ll draw more attention from the sleeping passengers or the flight attendants than necessary. Her muscles flex and quiver around my softening dick, but I take a few extra seconds to savor the rush. I wish this didn’t have to end, that we could stay trapped in this moment forever, because I’ve never felt so goddamn lucky in my life.
But the reality of it barrels back. I dip my head to kiss her one more time before pulling back and tucking myself away. She remains perched on the sink for a second, catching her breath. Her legs are splayed, still caging me in with her feet now braced on the wall behind me. Her pussy is pink and wet, coated in my creamy spend. It’s probably the hottest thing I’ve ever seen, and it isn’t until I hear her husky sigh that I tear my gaze away. I reach down to the tissue dispenser just beneath her and grab several, handing them to her to clean up.
She eases up, pausing halfway to pull up her leggings. She gets them partway on before delicately wiping between her legs and tossing the wadded tissue into the toilet.
“I hope there isn’t a line,” she says with a cringe after flushing.
“I’ll handle it. You stay here and count to twenty, then come out.”
I wait until she has her sweatshirt back on and plops her butt down on the closed toilet lid, then unlatch the lock and slip out, blocking the door with my body as I close it behind me. The lock snaps back into place and I’m facing down a cranky-looking older woman with over-styled, bottle-blonde hair.
“You really don’t want to go in there for at least twenty minutes,” I say, wrinkling my nose and waving my hand. “It’s pretty toxic.”
The woman’s irate expression screws up in disgust, but at that moment the door to the opposite lavatory opens and she disappears inside once the previous occupant slips past us to their seat.
I head back to my own seat, buzzed from the endorphins still racing through my blood.
A little later, a flight attendant taps me on the shoulder and says, “Sir, we’re about to land. You need to fasten your seatbelt.”
I look up with a start, realizing I must have dozed off. But Callie hasn’t returned. Frowning, I twist around and look back down the aisle, but I can’t see her. I hope she isn’t still locked in the lavatory, but I remember seeing a couple empty seats back there so maybe she thought it safer to claim one. Her purse is still stowed under the seat, so she has to come back for it. Except she can’t, now that we’re landing.
I’m glancing back down the aisle again when I hear a melodic whistle come from the portly guy in the window seat. It takes a second for me to recognize the notes of “Strangers in the Night” and I stare at him. He gives me a sly smile and a half-shrug. “Either she fell in, or she needs space after doing something out of step with her principles. Maybe let it be what it is?”
I grunt in response because he’s right, but I don’t like it. I don’t want it to end this way. “You got a pen and paper?”
He shakes his head. I see a pen sticking out of her purse and grab it, only to discover it’s the damn pen light she blinded me with earlier. After a bit more rummaging, I find a cheap ballpoint.
Pulling it out, a spark of light flashes off a silver ring that’s hooked around it. I slip it off the pen and stare at the bit of jewelry for a second. It’s an ugly little thing with a circle of tiny reflective specks that might pass for diamonds surrounding a small garnet, which doesn’t fit my image of her at all. It’s neither elegant nor particularly valuable. If this was the so-called engagement ring, she’s better off without the asshole who gave it to her.
“Loser,” I mutter, stashing the ring back in an inner pocket of her bag. Then I fish her book out of the rear seat pocket and scribble a note on the back of the last page, rip the page out, fold it once, then slide it into her wallet right in front of her driver’s license where I’m sure she’ll see it eventually.
The passengers are all up and moving, my seatmate giving me an impatient look. I leave Callie’s purse on her seat and stand, removing her suitcase from the overhead compartment first and setting it on my seat before retrieving the duffel bag full of my own shit. I glance back once more before heading down the aisle, but all I see are bodies, none of them hers, and I have no choice but to keep moving.
Once off the plane I consider waiting, but my conscience kicks my ass and forces me to obey the string of texts from Booth that greet me when I turn on my phone. Evidently he’s been waiting at the airport for me since he arrived this morning, and he is not in a welcoming mood.
“Fucking hell,” I mutter, then head off to find my handler.
10
Callie
It isn’t until the plane is nearly empty that I bring myself to move from the back row and reclaim my belongings. I stayed in the lavatory for a good fifteen minutes after Mason left, overwhelmed by humiliation at my impulsive actions and fresh surges of arousal at each memory of his expert touches and kisses. I couldn’t deal with facing him again.
Eventually a light tap sounded outside and the authoritative, yet gentle tone of the flight attendant brought me back to the present. I spent the rest of the flight huddled under a blanket in the last row, mind replaying every second of the encounter, every expression that played across Mason’s face while we fucked.
Behind his beard, he has a handsome, almost sweet face made dangerous by the bruises that grace it. I remember the look in his eyes when he first thrust into me, something deep and desperate, like he was starved and was finally given leave to take sustenance from me.
My heart races again at the memory, all too present in my mind when I finally find the courage to move toward the front of the plane. I steel myself as I reach our row, but of course he’s gone, my belongings carefully placed on top of the seats within easy reach. Even that small show of courtesy is more than I expected.
I take my purse and sling it over a shoulder, then grab my rolling suitcase and take a shaky breath as I head up the aisle, smiling pleasantly at the flight crew even as my insides are falling apart.
On the way up the gangway, I clench my eyes shut, trying not to cry as the weight of Barnaby’s betrayal crashes over me, the intensity of the encounter I just had only serving to highlight what a farce our relationship was all along. Why it all came crashing in on me after sex with a virtual stranger, I don’t know—perhaps because for the first time I understood what I was missing all along and I was grieving for those wasted years. Or perhaps because being with Mason allowed me to block it out temporarily, but now I have no choice but to face the truth.
On the way down to baggage claim, my mind continually flits between the last time I spent the night with Barnaby and Mason’s eager fucking. No, fucking is really too simple a word to describe what Mason and I just did—what I begged him to do. The encounter was so emotionally charged, I might call it making love if I knew anything about him. Just thinking about that deep-gray gaze of his and the feel of him filling me so perfectly sends a fresh crop of tingles right where it counts. Yet another depressing reminder that I’ve wasted years with a man who is lackluster in bed.
Fuck you, Barnaby, I think, hoping the words will finally banish the last dregs of regret. I deserved to feel every bit of what I felt with Mason, to have that kind of pleasure for
once. But did it have to happen the way it did? Will I ever have the chance to find out if our connection was real?
Christ, I should not have been such a fucking coward afterward. I should have given him my number at least. He didn’t say why he’s in town or where he’s staying, only that he wasn’t going to be around for New Year’s. I would have been happy with just one more night, though. It wouldn’t have to be more than that. Enough to prove to myself that our encounter on the plane wasn’t a fluke. That the experiment could be repeated and produce the same results. Better ones, even.
That thought makes me snort. I totally want to fuck him again, “for science.”
I scan the baggage claim, but don’t see him, and he’d be a hard man to miss if he were here. Disappointed, I sigh and pull out my phone to turn it on. I need to let it go. It was one of those once-in-a-lifetime experiences that I can now claim I’ve had. And I’m officially a member of the mile-high club, so there’s that. Nina’s going to flip out when I tell her.
If I tell her.
I frown, contemplating that conversation. She’ll congratulate me and want to celebrate, of course. But some part of me wants to savor the memory for a little longer before I share. It’s impossible to keep secrets from my boisterous, oversharing best friend who has made brutal honesty into an art form, but she doesn’t need to find out right away.
Out of habit, I start to hit Barnaby’s number, then grimace.
Fuck him, fuck him, fuck him.
Instead I scroll to Nina’s and hit the call button while I watch the luggage start rolling along the conveyor belt.
“You’re here!” she squeals the second she answers. “Please tell me you’re in the mood for a night cap. I know it’s a Monday, but I am all over starting your vacay off right! Want me to come to you? Or are you in the mood to go out?”
Nina’s energy can be exhausting, but I’m relieved she wants to hang out so late. I need a dose of her bubbly enthusiasm to distract me. “I’m just picking up my bags now. Want to come over in about an hour?” I glance at my watch. It’s nearly 1AM., but time has never been a factor with her and I’m too wired to just go to my mom’s apartment and sleep.
“Sure! Why do you sound weird? Was it a bad flight? I know there was a weather delay.”
I grimace and take a shaky breath, realizing she must have heard the brittleness in my voice. “Nin, I ended things with Barnaby right before I left LA. Pretty sure it’s for good this time.”
“Oh!” She sounds excited at first, then says, “Oh,” in a more subdued tone. “Oh, honey. I’m sorry. I’ll bring the big guns, then. See you in an hour, okay?”
“See you, sweetie.”
I hang up and heave a long sigh. It was sweet of her not to blurt out her true feelings. She’s never gotten along with Barnaby, which, in retrospect, should have been the biggest red flag that we were doomed.
Nina has been the one constant in my life since we were kids, even over my family. But Barnaby fit an ideal I had fixed in my head that I still have a hard time letting go of. I guess life just isn’t meant to be that straightforward or easy.
A flash of red bandana on the baggage carousel catches my eye, and I push forward through the milling crowd to grab my suitcase. Ten minutes later, I’m in the back of another ride-share. The driver this time is an older man who is blessedly silent while country music filters through the speakers on our way downtown.
My mother’s Little Raven Street loft is silent and dark, not to mention frigid when I step off the elevator. Why Mom never bothered consolidating after she and Dad divorced, granting her all the Denver real estate, is beyond me. She could net a mint from this place, especially with how trendy this part of town has become. But home values are only going up, so maybe she’s being smart by holding onto it, even though she spends the bulk of her time in either D.C. or Englewood. This place has a spectacular view of the park and river, though, so I can understand why Mom’s attached to it. I am too, if I’m being honest, except for a few details, like its wonky thermostat. I manage to get the heat turned on and a pot of coffee brewing by the time Nina buzzes to come up.
My dark-haired, curvy best friend envelops me in a tight hug when she steps through the door, and I’m inundated in the scent of sweet almond oil and winter air. She steps back and holds up a canvas grocery bag that clinks with whatever’s inside it.
“Got you covered right here,” she says. “Chocolate peanut butter ice cream and White Russians.”
“You are literally the best.”
We’re curled up on the sofa in front of the fireplace a few minutes later, digging into the peanutty, chocolatey goodness of our favorite ice cream. Neither of us says a thing, obeying our code of indulgence whenever we share a pint of this stuff. She eventually lets out a satisfied sigh and sets her empty bowl on the coffee table, then picks up her drink and leans back. Her brown eyes narrow on me as she takes a sip, then smacks her lips and hums in enjoyment while she waits for me to finish.
As if on cue, her first question pops out the second I set down my bowl. “He was fucking around, wasn’t he?”
I don’t know why my instinct is to defend Barnaby. Maybe because I’m an idiot. But even worse is when that feeling passes, I get choked up and have to take a long swallow of my drink before I can answer. Nina waits patiently for me to find my voice.
“Yeah. I don’t know specifics, but he sent me a text meant for someone else this morning. A very suggestive text. I think he intended to skip out on me to go meet someone in Aspen. I didn’t exactly give him time to explain. It was just . . .” I huff, still near tears. “He does this every year. Nina, am I really that stupid that I didn’t figure it out until now?”
She shakes her head and spears me with an intense look. “You are not stupid. Maybe a little misguided, but that’s on me, and maybe on your mom a bit too. You always had this vision of a perfect life with a man who’d put down roots, so I think you just had blinders on to the truth.”
“That he was always unfaithful to me? If you saw signs, why didn’t you say something?” The words come out sounding shrill, and my insides go even more brittle at the mention of my mother, that she and Nina might have agreed on something for once and never bothered to share their opinions with me.
“That’s not what I mean. Barnaby might be the kind of guy who will stick around, who is happy to stay put in one place, but that isn’t who you are. I think you’ve been so wrapped up in this picture-perfect ideal that you’ve lost sight of what you really want.”
“What I want? It’s not that complicated. I want love and mutual respect, and a partner who challenges me intellectually.” She starts shaking her head and I stare at her. “What? You think I don’t know what I want out of a relationship?”
Rolling her eyes, she sets down her glass and leans toward me. “Sure, you want that from a relationship. We all want that, plus mind-blowing sex. What you describe is exactly what your parents had before they split up. You still hold their marriage up as some pinnacle of perfection, but honey, in case you haven’t noticed, they’re divorced. Your dad left.”
I bristle and sputter an objection until she holds up a hand to stop me.
“I know, Adrian Nicolo is a saint among men. Both your parents are amazing pillars of humanity, and there’s nothing wrong with aspiring to greatness like them. But their relationship fell apart when things got bad, and none of the things you listed that supposedly make a great relationship could have held them together.”
“Nina, they lost a child. My brother died. Most relationships would be strained after that.”
I don’t miss the flash of pain that crosses her face before she continues. “Yes, and rather than try to stay and make it work, your dad left to follow his dream, and your mom, bless her, realized she couldn’t stay tied to a man who couldn’t be present. The way I remember it, they didn’t lie about what they needed; they maintained enough mutual respect to recognize that it wasn’t going to work.”
I gri
t my teeth. “You weren’t there for the fights. After Chris died, it got bad. Violent.”
I wince, recalling the sound of breaking glass during one particularly volatile fight when Mom threw her drink at Dad, who narrowly dodged being hit on the head. I’d just finished med school and was home for the summer, regrouping and taking time off before beginning my residency. Chris had been gone almost a year by then, and I thought the three of us were close to finding a new normal.
But I can still hear the argument, the yelling. Dad blaming Mom for what happened, and Mom repeating that Chris had chosen his job and knew the risks. But that Dad was as complicit in encouraging his choice of career as she was. It was not a new argument, but every couple has a breaking point, I guess.
I hated Mom in those moments, despite recognizing how unfair Dad might have been. She was a powerful woman even then and could have made a difference, could have pulled strings to get my brother’s DEA assignment changed. I still didn’t know all the details about how he died, which is one of many sticking points between Mom and me, but as a DEA agent, he frequently came into contact with dangerous people. Still, if Mom could have done something to change things, why wouldn’t she?
When Dad finally left, I hated her even more. I’d lost both my big brother and my father in the span of a year, men who were heroes in my eyes. Dad’s still alive at least, but I rarely see him because he’s too busy flying into war-torn countries to treat the wounded and sick. I can only hope to live up to the heroic ideals he and Chris instilled in me.
Meanwhile, Mom and I barely speak. As a senator, she’s in D.C much of the year, and when she’s home, she typically stays at the Englewood estate, so I have the loft in downtown Denver to myself for most visits.
