by Virna DePaul
“Hello? Can you hear me? Hey!”
It’s only when a hand that is not Jenna’s soft and tender one rests on my shoulder that I pull away from Jenna. It feels like pulling away from everything warm and kind and perfect. The golden haze shifts from the hall as if it’s parting fog.
I turn around and see a security guard from my building staring at me, searching my eyes for a hint of whatever drug I’m tripping on. I want to tell him my dealer sells exclusively to me. He can’t handle this wild, mind-blowing stuff. The distribution of Jenna has ceased. I’m buying up the whole damn supply.
“Sir?”
Behind the security guard, half my floor crowds into the hall. Some have angry faces with crossed arms. Some give me a thumbs up and a high whistle. The old woman a few apartments down from me shakes her head and clutches at the little gold cross around her neck. They all stand there, though, and wait for me to speak.
“Um.” I can’t find my voice. “Can I, um, I mean can we, um, help you?”
The security guard peeks around me to look at Jenna, who blushes and shyly wipes her lips. I can tell she’s holding back a laugh that’s trying to sneak loose.
“I was called up here about a disturbance,” the guard tells me, looking back and forth from her to me.
“Oh, there was a disturbance all right,” I say, grinning down at Jenna.
“Okay, well –”
“In terms of earthquakes, we’re talking a 10.0 on the Richter scale.”
“8.9,” Jenna whispers, burying her head into my shoulder.
“What?”
“8.9 is the highest value on the Richter scale.”
I feel her breath against my sleeve, feel her lips part in a grin.
“Well, the disturbance we made goes off the Richter scale,” I say to the guard. “What’s happened here today is so huge it can’t even be measured.”
The guard looks at me with even more confusion. My neighbors down the hall shift about, looking at each other for answers.
“I was just told there was someone knocking on doors and –”
“Oh, doors weren’t just knocked on today.” I pull Jenna up beside me and smile at her as I speak more confidently now, loud so everyone can hear. “Doors were knocked down. They were smashed, demolished, obliterated –”
“Cut into pieces,” Jenna speaks up, stepping forward. “Run through a chipper, spread out for all other doors as a warning: we’re coming for you, doors. No door will stand in our way.”
I bite my knuckle to avoid laughing at the absolute lack of understanding on the guard’s face. His mouth hangs open, his eyebrows are knitted together, and there’s frown lines burrowing into his forehead.
“I, um …” He fiddles with his flashlight. “I was told someone was shouting.”
“Yes,” Jenna agrees.
“You were, um, well, you can’t –”
“Oh, I’m going to. I’m going to shout that is.”
“The rules –”
“I’m tired of the rules.” Jenna steps forward. Now my jaw drops, as the security guard backs up a step. “I’m tired of being quiet and always whispering and tip-toeing and never shouting.”
“But you can’t –”
“There is nothing I can’t do,” Jenna says, chin held high. “Nothing.”
And with that, she leaves the security guard fumbling for words and trying to decide if he should go after her or not. I simply watch her in complete and utter amazement. There is a woman I want to shout with, one I want to knock down doors with, one I want to cause earthquakes with.
“Lee!” Jenna stops right in the middle of the neighbors, who are parted like the sea. “Don’t we have a plane to catch?”
I smile.
“We?”
Epilogue
Jenna
“Our bus to Cordoba leaves in about an hour,” I whisper as I slide my fingers along Lee’s chest.
“I can think of a few things we can accomplish in an hour,” he says, groggily opening his eyes and rolling over to face me in the huge four poster bed in our private cabana in Chile.
“Like packing?” I murmur as he runs his thumb over my cheek.
Lee grins and shift his hips closer to me. “Can’t you tell I’m already packing?”
I laugh. “Well now that you mention it, I can definitely feel your package.”
I slip my hand between us and grip his already hard cock, stroking it slowly. Lee groans and closes his eyes. The ocean breeze sweeps in past the swaying curtains. It runs against my back, chilling the sweat I worked up an hour ago, after I’d slipped off my bikini top and we’d made love on our own private beach.
It’d been an exhausting day of sex and swimming and sex and walking along the beach and sex and drinking sangria and, oh yeah, sex.
And obviously we’re still hungry for one another.
I run my thumb over Lee’s swollen head, and his fist clenches the white linen bed sheets. I watch a flush creep up over his cheeks, mixing with the light of the sunset flooding into our cabana. Every little thing I do that makes him whimper or jolt or moan my name, I remember. I lean over and nip at his earlobe.
“Faster, baby.”
I know now, after a month of traveling all along the Chilean coast with Lee, that he loves my fast and frantic strokes. But I also know that he loves it even more when I bring him to the edge and then slow down to a painstakingly lazy pace. His hips thrust toward me, trying to fuck my hand.
“Jenna, please.”
His moaning turns me on, to the point where I have to bite my lip and squeeze a fistful of bed sheets to stop from touching myself. He opens his eyes to look at me, and his pupils are blown wide. I can practically see the orange and pink of the sunset reflected in them.
“Lee?”
“Yeah,” he breathes, reaching his hand down to wrap around my own, trying to quicken my pace.
I grip his wrist. He lets me roll him onto his back and pin his arm above his head as I straddle his leg. I resist the urge to grind down on his muscular thigh, and grab his other wrist until I have both pinned to the mattress.
“How long did we know each other before we fucked?” I ask, my own voice husky and breathless.
“Far too fucking long.” He gasps when I move my hand to play with his balls.
“And was it worth it?” I lean forward and skim my tits against his chest. “Was it worth waiting for me?”
He shudders as he says, “Yes.”
“Good things come to those who wait, right, Lee?”
His legs quiver and his hips squirm beneath me.
“Please,” he moans.
If he wanted to, he could easily move his arms from my grip. But he doesn’t want to. He wants to wait until I’m the one who will give him his release. He wants me to be in control.
I let go of his wrists and scoot down the bed until I’m lying in between his legs. His dick leaks, and I flick my tongue to catch the drop. Lee clutches the headboard and stares down at me.
“Did you imagine me, here in between your legs?”
He groans and throws back his head.
“Did you imagine my ass up in the air for you, like this?”
I push up onto my knees, arms on his thighs.
“You’re killing me.”
“Did you imagine my lips around your cock?”
I lick a line along the vein on the underside of his dick.
“Did you imagine the way my tongue felt on your balls?”
I bite his inner thigh. He hisses.
“Did you imagine me swallowing your cum? Did you imagine me licking every drop off my finger while you watched? Did you imagine my tits hard and aching at the chance to make you scream my name?”
His eyes lock on mine, and I see in them the passion and desire and flame I always wanted reflected back at me. We are not just a match. We are a fucking forest fire. An earthquake. A ten point fucking zero earthquake.
I take Lee into my mouth and twist my hand at his base e
xactly the way I know drives him up the fucking wall. The muscles along his torso ripple, and I take a moment to jack him off as I tongue his balls.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
I run my tongue under his head and then I’m done teasing. Now it’s time for business. I suck him off and moan as I hear him gasp.
“Jenna, fuck yeah, I’m so close. Oh, fuck, I’m— yeah, right there. Oh fuck, yes, yes, I’m, I’m, oh yes, I’m gonna—”
The sound he makes as he shoots down my throat is intoxicating. I swallow as I run my fingers down his quivering thighs. I crawl up to cuddle in the crook of his arm as he stares up at the ceiling, chest heaving.
“Well?”
He moves a strand of hair away from my face. “Well, what?”
“Well, was it everything you imagined?”
I grin mischievously up at him as I play my fingers against his chest. He leans over and kisses my forehead.
“There’s no way my brain is big enough to imagine this,” he whispers and I see a seriousness in his face. “My greatest fantasies were nothing compared to this.”
I let him squeeze me tighter against his body. I know exactly what he means. I sometimes pondered a life where my blog was my sole source of income.
But this, what we’re doing now, didn’t ever cross my mind.
I didn’t ever dream that I’d be co-writing a book with Lee while traveling the world, eating the best food from the best chefs. Owen Kiss had not only stuck by Lee, but he’d become my agent too, and together we’d pitched the idea to the publishers he discussed my blog with. It would be the perfect mix: an amateur food critic alongside a star chef, both learning about the greatest culinary traditions in the world.
I’d had a plan all my life, a detailed, well-researched and reasoned plan. Now, I just have an open map and my heart. If it weren’t for Lee I would be back in my office right now, doing the same thing I’d always done. But I know he feels the same way about my influence in his life.
I grab his chin and bring it down so I can kiss him. My lips pressed against his, I say to him, “Think we have time for one more leap?”
With a grin, he slips out of bed and scoops me up into his arms. He’s still kissing me when he walks into the ocean.
I guess that’s a yes.
Book Description
Caleb
As a photographer, I appreciate contrasts. The stiff, snobby brat on the flight from New York turns out to be a scared, vulnerable woman who warms my heart. The icy cold soda she dumps in my lap leads to the hottest sex of my life in an LA dressing room.
When I watch her walk away, I feel something I’ve never felt before. A twinge of regret that I’ll never see her again. Except we do meet again. And she’s driving me insane.
Heather
Clearly, I’ve lost my mind.
Turns out the owner of the deep, sensual voice that kept me from needing the airline barf bag, who lured me completely out of character to indulge in anonymous, semi-public sex, is the photographer for my designs’ first photo spread in Bella fashion magazine.
Worse, our artistic visions clash. And every time we butt heads, our butts somehow get naked.
I can’t let my hormones cloud my judgment. I tried having it all, and it didn’t work out. I have to stop envisioning a life with him, and get my head back in the game…before I lose everything.
1
Heather
Excuse me, ma’am, I’m about to toss my cookies. Could you get me something into which I could toss them?
Sir, I’d rather not ruin my Kate Spade bag by puking in it. Could you help me out? You’re too kind.
Even as I contemplate the politest way to ask one of the flight attendants for a barf bag, I mentally kick myself. I should’ve gotten a ginger ale before boarding my flight, not a caramel macchiato made mostly of whipped cream. I think my reasoning was that if I treated this event like any other and got a ridiculous coffee concoction like I always do, then this whole flying thing wouldn’t be a big deal.
Too bad I’d been so majorly wrong.
Sitting ramrod straight in my coach seat, I take a shaky breath, fists clenched, trying not to puke from sheer anxiety, that stupid macchiato dancing in my stomach like a manic Riverdancer. Oh God, I really, really, don’t want to throw up in my brand-new purse, but the barf bag that would normally be tucked into the pocket of the seat in front of me has been pilfered by my five-year-old neighbor. It and two others like it are covered with crayon scribbles courtesy of the the small child sitting in the middle seat next to me. It would probably be rude to puke on her or even inside one of her artistic masterpieces, but I’m not making any promises at this point.
The last time I flew, I was eight years old. It was a disaster. I was sick before the plane took off, and then while in the air—on a four-hour flight, no less—I couldn’t stop crying. I was convinced we were going to crash. The worst feeling was that I couldn’t get off the flight; I just had to wait until we were safely on the ground. By then, my parents were so exhausted that they promised they’d never, ever make me fly again.
Now I’m twenty-six, and my anxiety about flying hasn’t changed one bit.
Probably because flying is still the last thing human beings are supposed to be doing. People tell me you have a much higher risk of dying in a car crash, but if I drive, at least I’m the one at the wheel. On a plane? I just have to sit and hope for the best, something I obviously suck at.
I cover my mouth to stifle a hysterical laugh. The woman sitting in the window seat gives me a strange look and pulls her young daughter onto her lap.
I motion to the female flight attendant, who walks over to me with an eyebrow raised. “May I have a glass of water?” I croak.
The woman gives me a thin-lipped smile. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to wait until we’re in the air.”
“Please, just some water. I’m feeling nauseous.”
The flight attendant looks like she’d rather do anything else, but she sighs and goes to get me that glass of water. She brings it back, and it’s lukewarm and smelling of disinfectant. I thank her before downing the glass. It helps my throat, but not much else.
As the flight attendants prepare for take off, I try to get my mind off the whole flying thing by reading Bella, a fashion magazine that will be featuring my clothing line. I own a boutique in Los Angeles, Talina, which has been getting great press, and I have a big shoot tomorrow. Bella’s editor in chief, Rebecca Harris, loves my stuff and this shoot with Bella is a huge deal. Normally I’d be taking in every ad between its glossy cover, with an eye for business and making notes on my next line. But now, it’s all colors and words that I can’t seem to read.
As the plane taxis down the runway, then begins to go faster down the track, I give up on reading. I grip the armrests until my fingers ache and I chant in my head, Don’t puke, don’t puke, don’t puke.
“Are you okay?” the woman next to me asks. At some point, she’d returned the little girl to her seat and they’re holding hands.
“I’m fine.” Why didn’t I bring something to calm me down? I’m an idiot. If I weren’t gripping the armrests for dear life, I’d slap my forehead in frustration.
I realize my breathing is coming in gasps. Am I going to have a full-on meltdown here? I bite my tongue, and luckily, the plane is making enough noise that no one but the woman next to me seems to notice my distress. Although I have a feeling she thinks I’m just a weirdo who doesn’t know how to inhale and exhale like a normal human.
When we’re finally in the air, my heart pounds and my breathing evens out a little bit. I’m still anxious and jumpy, but I can at least close my eyes for a second and pretend I’m on the ground. The blessed, beautiful ground.
The woman next to me talks to someone in the aisle behind us. I keep my eyes closed but then feel a touch on my arm.
“Sorry, were you sleeping?” the woman asks. When I shake my head, she says, “If you don’t mind, could you switch seats with my h
usband? They told us we had to wait until we were in the air, otherwise I would’ve asked earlier.” She smiles at me hopefully.
I grip the armrests again, and for some reason, the thought of getting up and standing in the aisle makes me dizzy. I can’t move. How can she ask me that? What if a hole opens up in the floor and I fall straight through it?
I shake my head again. “I can’t, sorry,” I say in a voice that’s embarrassingly curt. If I weren’t such a mess, I’d apologize, but I just look away when the woman is about to ask me a second time.
I hear her confer with her husband, who sounds irritated. I can’t blame him. I must seem like the biggest bitch alive.
“I can move,” a third voice says. “Me, too,” another male voice says. “There’s an empty seat in back.”
Before I know what’s happening, the woman and her little girl are inching out of the aisle (only good thing about being short is that I don’t have to get up to let her out) and then a man I’ve never seen before is standing over me.
“Wanna give me some room to get by?”
I start at the drawling voice. I look up to see a man who I can only describe as yummy. With dark hair and deep green eyes, he’s tall and muscular and has a jaw hewn from marble. He looks like a Greek statue, I realize. Hopefully not with all of the same proportions. Realizing I’m thinking about some strange guy’s dick, I stifle a laugh. Jesus, I’m hysterical, aren’t I?
“Uh,” I say helpfully.
The man frowns and squeezes between me and the seat in front of me, various body parts of his rubbing against various body parts of mine. Then before I know it he’s sitting beside me in the middle seat, crowding me with his hard, delicious body. I hear the woman and her daughter sit down behind us, but not without some muttering from her husband about shitty people being shitty.
