“Did you just wink?” I ask him, irritated. I look at Brett. “What did you tell him? Does he think we’re going to join the Mile-High Club or something?”
Both men try to contain their laughter.
“Of course not,” Brett says. “I didn’t tell him anything except this would be your first flight.”
Christian backs away, looking embarrassed. “We always stay up front. I didn’t mean to offend you. I hope you enjoy your flight, Emma. I’ll see you after.”
Now I’m the one who’s embarrassed. Maybe he didn’t wink at all. Maybe it was all in my mind. “Thank you, Christian. I apologize. I’m nervous.”
He nods and retreats into the cockpit.
“See?” Brett says, motioning around the plane. “Much bigger than an elevator.”
“It’s huge. I didn’t expect this. I don’t feel claustrophobic at all.”
He looks in the liquor cabinet, then pulls a bottle of wine out of the mini fridge. “You won’t be needing any of this then?”
“I didn’t say that,” I tell him, going in search of glasses.
He chuckles as he opens the bottle and pours us each a glass. “Where do you want to sit? I’d recommend not right over the wing. You’ll have a better view.”
I look out each window, assessing which view might be the best. Then I take a seat, placing my wine in the cup holder next to me.
Brett sits in the seat facing me, our knees almost touching. It’s hot today. I’m wearing a sundress, and he’s in shorts. Our bare knees being inches apart gives me flashbacks of our lovemaking.
“You okay?” he asks. “You kind of zoned out for a second.”
I shake it off and look out the window. “I’m fine.”
Christian’s voice comes over the intercom, telling us we’re going to depart. I feel the plane move, and my heartbeat goes from zero to sixty. I bring the wine glass to my lips and drink until it’s gone.
Brett must notice my growing anxiety. “Are you thinking about your dad?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know. Maybe it’s just the fact that we’re in a tin can that’s about to defy the laws of gravity or physics or whatever.”
He puts a hand on my knee. “Just like a roller coaster ride, remember?”
I blow out a deep breath. “If the roller coaster went up ten thousand feet.”
“More like thirty,” he says.
My head falls back against the seat. “Gee, thanks.”
“Sorry.” He points to the TV. “The video is starting.”
It does nothing to relieve my nerves. “In the event of a water landing?” I say in horror.
Brett reaches for my hand. “That never happens.”
“What about that movie? You know, about the plane that landed in the Hudson.”
“Okay, it rarely happens. But Emma, you’re much more likely to get in an accident in a car than on a plane.”
“I don’t have a car,” I blurt out.
“Okay, a cab then. Hell, even walking the streets of Brooklyn is more dangerous than this.”
The video ends, and the plane moves faster and faster. My heartbeat quickens. I gaze out the window and it looks like we’re going a hundred miles per hour. Probably because we are.
“Do you want me to have Christian turn around?” Brett asks.
I shake my head over and over. “No. I have to do this.”
Brett pulls out his phone and turns on the music. But I can’t hear it over the loud drone of the engines.
“Sorry,” he says. “I forgot my earbuds. I could kiss you, but …” He looks down at the seatbelt anchoring him to his seat.
“I don’t want you to kiss me.”
It’s a lie. I’d give anything for him to be kissing me right now, and not just because it would take my mind off what’s happening. I’ve thought about nothing else for the past few weeks. Nothing but his lips on mine. His hands on my body. Him inside me. But I look at the FDNY logo on the breast pocket of his T-shirt and remember why I can’t let him kiss me anymore.
Suddenly, my stomach is in my throat. I glance out the window to see that we’re leaving the ground. I grip the armrests and squeeze my eyes shut. “Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.”
When I feel like I’m about to throw up, Brett touches my knee. His hand runs up and down my thigh, caressing the skin between my legs in a soft, circular motion. I should push him away, but I can’t get let go of the armrests.
Instead of pushing him away, my body defies me and my legs fall open, giving him easier access. Under my dress, he runs his fingers along a line from my knee to my hip, grazing my panties without touching me there.
Touch me there! I scream silently.
“You want me to touch you?” he asks as the plane shimmies violently back and forth.
I can’t answer. But I’m not sure my silence is because of his question, or the plane.
He teases me relentlessly and my insides shift from fear to desire. I don’t know how long he keeps this up, but him not touching me where I want to be touched is just this side of torture.
I look out the window and see wisps of clouds below us, then realize we’re not rocking anymore. I turn to him, ashamed for letting him touch me when I shouldn’t have.
“I’m good now,” I say, brushing his hand off my leg.
“You’re good now?” he asks, confused.
“Yeah, we’re up. I guess we’ve leveled off. You were right about the roller coaster thing.”
“What if I’m not good now?” he asks, glancing at his lap.
An erection tents his shorts. Warm heat floods my insides. I can’t keep leading him on like this.
“I’m sorry,” I say, focusing my attention back out the window.
“You don’t want me to touch you?”
I shake my head.
“But I’m … Christ, Emma, I’m all worked up here.”
I clamp my lips together.
He stares at my legs, my thighs still exposed from him moving my dress. I cover my legs as best as I can.
“God, you have no idea how much I want you,” he says.
Me, too.
His hand grazes his erection as he looks at me. “I’m not going to touch you if you say I can’t. But you can’t keep me from touching myself.”
“I … what?” Did I hear him correctly?
His lips form a snarky half-smile. “You heard me.”
He unbuckles his seatbelt and then unbuttons his shorts. He pushes his boxer briefs down, exposing his stiff penis. He grips it and gives it a slow stroke up and down. Oh, God. As embarrassed as I am watching him do it, I can’t look away.
“Does this turn you on?” he says, stroking himself faster. “Are your panties getting damp watching me?”
I don’t answer him. I can’t answer him.
“You resist me, but you want me, don’t you? You wish you were touching me. I wish it was you, too, because I love it when you touch me. You stroke my cock just the way I like it.”
His eyes close and his head falls back against the seat. I’ve never seen anything so erotic.
“You like it when I stroke your clit, don’t you? I know exactly how you like to be touched. I know just where your G-spot is. I know you come harder when I put a finger inside your tight little ass.”
I blow out a long, slow breath. I can’t believe he’s doing this. I can’t believe I’m watching him. I can’t believe how incredibly turned on I am right now.
“I want to claim that ass of yours,” he says. “I want to put my cock in it and make you come harder than you’ve ever come before.”
I squirm in my seat, barely able to contain myself. I want him to stop what he’s doing and touch me. I want to reach out and touch him. But I can’t. Because watching him is better than any fantasy I’ve ever had.
A bead of pre-come seeps from the tip of his penis. “I’m going to come. Do you know how many times I’ve come thinking about you? About what we’ve done together? About the things I want to do to you? Look how
flushed you are. I’ll bet you want to touch yourself. Jesus, I’d like to see that.”
He’s breathing hard and his hand moves faster.
“I’ll bet you are soaked. I want to feel how wet you are. I want to taste you.” His face contorts, and he bites his lip. “Christ, Emma!” he shouts. He grabs the napkin under his glass, spilling the wine, and spurts into it.
Watching him make himself come almost has me coming.
He smiles at me when it’s all over. He doesn’t even look embarrassed. That turns me on even more, baffling me.
He buttons his shorts and then uses my napkin to clean up the wine. He laughs. “Better to spill wine than jizz.”
I want to laugh, but I can’t. I’m still reeling.
He puts both napkins in the trash and sits back down. He studies me. “Have you never seen a man do that before?”
I shrug.
“It turned you on, didn’t it?”
I shrug again.
“Emma?”
I’m still unable to speak.
“Do you want me to kiss you now?”
That’s the stupidest question I’ve heard in all my twenty-seven years. Of course I want him to kiss me. I want him to do everything he just said he wanted to do. So, despite my resolve not to, I nod.
He slides off his seat and kneels between my legs, pulling me toward him until our lips meet. He kisses me hard, like he knows I need that right now after going almost two weeks without his lips on me. “Do you want me to touch you?”
I put his hand between my legs.
He moves it up my thigh and under my panties. “Jesus, Emma,” he says when he feels how drenched I am.
He removes my panties and pulls me to the edge of the seat, making it clear he’s about to put his mouth on me. “I’m going to make you come now, Miss Lockhart.”
I feel his fingers inside me. A moan escapes me when his tongue lashes my clit. I look over at his empty seat and still see the image of him stroking himself.
My head falls back and my insides tighten. He pushes me over the edge when I feel the vibrations of him audibly humming against my clit.
Oh.
My.
God.
I grab onto his head, holding him to me as my orgasm crashes down around me. “Yes!” I scream over the engines as I buck myself into him, wanting to feel every last pulse as it washes through me.
“That was damn impressive,” he says after I slump into my seat. He glances out the window. “And I’m not just talking about the sunset.”
It feels good to laugh with him. It feels good to be with him.
He hands me my panties, and I put them on while he pours us more wine.
I drink as I gaze out the window. “Did we just join the Mile-High Club?”
“Technically, no, but we’ve got another hour up here to remedy that.”
I have a hard time not smiling. But it fades when I have an unsettling thought. “Unless you’re already a member.”
He takes my hand in his. “I’m not.”
Even though we can’t end up together, the thought of having a first with him makes me happy. “As long as what happens in Vegas …” I shrug.
He sighs and shakes his head. He gets what I’m saying. But he doesn’t push back.
An hour later, after we’ve joined the club twice, we’re making our approach at the airport.
He holds my hand. “Did you ever stop to think about how we met? You told me your dad always said things happen for a reason. Maybe there was a reason you were taken hostage at the school. Maybe there was a reason I was the one who volunteered to help you.”
“What are you saying?”
He points a finger between us. “You and me. Maybe this is the reason.”
I look out the window and watch the houses get bigger and bigger. “My dad was wrong,” I say. “Not everything happens for a reason, Brett. There was no reason for him dying. No bigger picture. No good that came from it.” I put his hand back in his lap. “He was wrong.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
Brett
I put down my hamburger and look at my little sister. “Do you have any idea how proud I am of you?”
Bria smiles. “I don’t have the gig yet.”
“But you made it to the final cut. And you’re going to meet the band.”
“Eeek!” she screams. “I can’t believe it. If nothing else comes out of this, I’ll get to say I know Adam Stuart and the rest of White Poison.”
“Something will come out of this,” I say. “I know it.”
“Do you really think so? I mean, do you think I have what it takes to be their backup singer?”
“Bria, you have what it takes to be their lead singer.”
“They are a guy band, Brett.”
“I know that. What I’m saying is you’re that good. You should be the lead singer of something. I predict someday you will be.”
She puts her head on my shoulder. “You’re always there for me, aren’t you?”
“You just remember that when you get rich and famous. You remember who supported you along the way.” I nudge her in the ribs. “And maybe get me some backstage passes?”
“You know it.” She bounces in her seat. “Can you imagine if it really happened? This whole thing is kind of freaking me out.” She shows me her hand. “See, I’m shaking. I’m so damn nervous. I don’t even want to think about what a wreck I’ll be when I actually have to sing in front of them.” Her eyes get huge. “What if I throw up? It would be humiliating. What if I have an asthma attack? What if I’m sick that day, and my voice totally sucks?”
I grab her shaking hands. “Bria, you haven’t had an asthma attack since you were ten. You’re not going to throw up. You sing better when you’re sick than most people do healthy, but if you’re worried about it, double up on the vitamin C and maybe stay away from Leo for a week before your audition—that kid is cesspool of germs.”
“That kid is freaking amazing,” she says like a doting aunt.
“He is, but he sticks his fingers everywhere. Up his nose, in his ears, in his dirty di—”
She cups a hand over my mouth. “Will you shut up? I don’t want to think about where his fingers have been the next time I see him. Just … gross.”
Both of us are laughing when I see a group of women enter the restaurant. I become quiet and focused, thinking I see Emma. But when the woman turns around, I realize it’s not her.
“What is it?” Bria asks.
“Nothing. I thought I saw someone I knew, that’s all.”
She looks at the women and back at me. “Speaking of women, how’s the sexy single mom?”
“Still using me,” I say bitterly.
“You mean because she only wants to sleep with you?” She laughs. “You do realize how many guys would kill for that kind of NSA relationship.”
“NSA?”
“No strings attached.”
I shake my head. “Maybe, but not me.”
“Why not you?”
I’ve been asking myself that question for a long time. I’ve just never been honest enough with myself to give the answer. I run my hands through my hair. “Because I think I’m in love with her.”
“No way. Really?” She can’t wipe the smile off her face.
“Yes really. But it’s nothing to smile about. She’s dating other guys.”
“I know. You told me. You also told me her daughter says she isn’t sleeping with any of them.”
I belt out an incredulous laugh. “You mean the twelve-year-old I have a secret relationship with? God, Bria, do you know how fucked up this is? And now Emma wants me to go to Germany with her and her daughter. The woman who doesn’t want a relationship with me wants me to fly halfway around the world with her.”
“She’s full of shit, Brett. She totally wants a relationship with you. Girls don’t ask men to fly to Germany unless they are into them.”
“I never said she isn’t into me. I said she doesn’t want to date
me.”
“So she sleeps with you but doesn’t date you, and she dates other guys she doesn’t sleep with.”
I nod at the absurdity of it all. “Like I said, fucked up.”
She studies me intently. She takes a bite of her salad and then points her fork at me. “She’s seeing if there’s another you out there. One who isn’t like her father. But deep down she’s probably drawn to you because you’re like her father, even if she can’t admit it.”
I narrow my eyes at my introspective little sister. “Maybe you’re in the wrong profession.”
She laughs. “It just so happens I know the inner workings of the female mind.”
“You think I should just sit back and put up with her kicking me out of bed and dating other men?”
“As long as she’s not sleeping with them—yes. Let her keep searching, big brother. She’ll never find another Brett Cash. You’re one of a kind. She’ll come to her senses sooner or later.”
“I hope you’re right. So, you think I should go to Germany with her?”
“Hell yes. Maybe Germany is where she comes to her senses.”
“We’ll be there with her kid. That’s hardly the setting for some kind of romantic epiphany.”
“Mark my words. You go to Germany with her, and she’ll cave.” She looks at her watch and puts down her fork. “I’ve gotta bolt. I have a jam session with some friends.”
“You’re ditching me for a jam session?”
She looks guilty. “I have to practice, Brett.”
“I’m just kidding, Bria, go. I’ve got this.”
She kisses my cheek. “Thank you for dinner. You’re the best.”
“No, you’re the best,” I say. “Just remember that when you’re singing for Adam Stuart.”
She blows me another kiss on her way out.
I finish the rest of my burger and go home, wondering if Bonnie and Leo are back yet. She takes him to a “Grandma and me” class twice a month.
I think of leaving Leo to go to Germany. I hate to do that. It kills me to be away from him when I work twenty-four-hour shifts. But there is no way he could come along. Taking a two-year-old on a plane for that long a flight would be pure torture for him and everyone else. And I wouldn’t want to do anything to take away from the real reason for the trip—to find Evie’s father.
The Men On Fire: A Complete Romance Series (3-Book Box Set) Page 76
