by Shandi Boyes
"I'm underdressed," I explain as my eyes dart down to my Juicy Couture-covered thighs.
This time, my voice comes out sounding more how it usually would. Friendly, without sounding like a total pushover.
I suck in my stomach and roll my shoulders when his eyes leisurely scan my body. When his gaze returns to my face, a smile tugs his lips higher. “You look perfectly fine.”
Unsure of a reply, I return his smile. His eyes snap to my lips for the quickest second before he recommences his quick strides to the business class lounge.
“Mr. Holt,” the doorman greets him without so much of a sideways glance in my direction.
So my mysterious companion’s surname is Holt. I like it. It is direct and stern but edgy—just like its owner.
When we arrive at a countertop bar so well polished I can see my reflection in it, Mr. Holt releases his grip on my hand. An unexpected squeal escapes my lips when he lifts me to sit on a high-backed bar stool. His effortless lift makes it seem as if I am as light as a feather.
He snags a midnight black napkin from the countertop before leaning over the bar. The material of his suit strains against his back, allowing me a glimpse of a spectacular and firm backside. Flipping open a cooler flap nestled in the bar, he removes a handful of ice. My eyes shoot to the bartender, who isn’t batting an eyelid at Mr. Holt assisting himself to their supplies.
He wraps the cubes of ice in the napkin, then raises it to my throbbing eye. “Hold that.” His voice is more chilling to my body than the ice.
Leaning back over the counter, he snags two crystal decanters from a wired rack before signaling for the bartender. Mr. Holt must be a regular at this establishment because the bartender doesn’t ask what drink he would like. He just grabs a bottle of whiskey from the glass shelves behind the bar and sets it in front of Mr. Holt without a word escaping his lips.
Mr. Holt dips his chin in thanks while pouring two generous nips of whiskey into the glasses. He hands one to me.
“It will help with your headache,” he explains to my shocked expression.
He raises his glass to his mouth and downs the shot of whiskey without a snick of hesitation. My mouth becomes parched from the sensual way he swallows the flaming liquid so effortlessly.
When his tongue darts out to remove the remnants of liquor from his lips, a pulse of desire surges through my body.
Grabbing the glass off the countertop, I drink the generous helping in one hit, needing something to sooth the dryness of my mouth. I grimace, hating the harshness of the whiskey that makes my throat feel like it is on fire. My chest warms as the liquor slides into my gut.
I slam the glass onto the countertop as my watering eyes lift to Mr. Holt.
“Another?” he questions, amused.
Not giving me the chance of a reply, he fills my glass with another large nip before sliding it across the ebony counter. Due to the overgenerous serving, whiskey splashes over the rim and lands onto the glistening countertop. I lift my eyes to his, which are glaring into mine. His expression is neutral, even with his lips curved.
I cock my eyebrow, mimicking his earlier expression. “Are you trying to get me drunk, Mr. Holt?”
“Would it make it easier to get into your panties?” he quips back.
The veins in my neck strum as my pulse quickens.
He winks, cockiness oozing out of him. “I’m joking.”
I sigh. It’s a disappointed sigh. Hearing my shameless response, Mr. Holt’s eyes lock with mine. His gaze is primal, commanding and strong. It freezes me in place and heats my face.
My brazenness surprises even me. I’m not usually so bold, but with his self-assuredness and grace, I have no doubt he’d be extraordinary in bed: sheet-clenching, multi-orgasms, can’t-walk-straight-for-days’ sex.
My hand holding the ice trembles as excitement sparks through my body. I turn my gaze to anything but Mr. Holt’s sinfully handsome face.
Even without looking at him, my heart rate still quickens. I can feel him studying my profile even without seeing him.
We sit in silence for several minutes, but my awareness of his closeness is still paramount.
Once the ice has melted, I dump the wet napkin onto the countertop. I run my hand down my thigh, removing the stains the napkin left smeared on my fingers. I gulp when, in the corner of my eye, I spot Mr. Holt’s tongue delving out to lick his thumb.
I take in a shaky breath when he lifts the same spit-covered thumb to my right eye. My pupils dilate wide, shamefully exposing my arousal to his touch. He stiffens, and his nostrils flare before he inhales deeply. When his eyes pop back open, they are darker, demanding, and even more alluring than before.
A short time later, our intense stare-down is interrupted by the shrill of a cell phone. With his eyes darting between mine, Mr. Holt slides his sleek phone out of his dark gray trousers pocket.
“Yes.” His tone alludes to his authority.
“Shit,” I murmur when I notice the time on his Rolex watch. I only have twenty minutes before the check-in for my flight closes.
"Thank you for your assistance, but I must go, or I’ll miss my flight.”
I snag my satchel off the countertop and push off my barstool. Mr. Holt seizes my wrist before I can dash for the exit. He advises his caller to wait before he lowers his phone from his ear. In silence, his eyes once again appraises my face as his spare hand runs along my arched brow.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” His concerned tone forces my lips to curve into a smile.
“Yes, I’m fine, thank you,” I reply graciously.
With reluctance, he relinquishes my wrist from his grasp. After exhaling a long, tedious breath, I hotfoot it to the exit doors of the business class lounge, not once glancing back at the mysteriously captivating Mr. Holt.
Chapter Two
As I splash water on my face to calm the heat spread across my cheeks, I take in my disheveled appearance. My eyes are wide and bright, my massively dilated pupils making them appear darker than usual. Sunbathing for hours has given my beige skin a vivid glow, meaning the hue of my cheeks is less illuminating on my sun-kissed skin, and my lips are plump from the sting of whiskey.
I want to say my rouged appearance isn’t entirely based on the enthralling Mr. Holt, but that would be a lie. At least my clumsy display in front of the most self-assured man I’ve ever met warranted a moment of reprieve from my panicked state. I’ve barely thought about my fear of flying the past thirty minutes.
After exhaling a deep breath, I hook my satchel over my shoulder and pull open the heavily weighted door of the ladies’ restroom. I rush toward my departure gate, hustling to avoid being late since my run-in with Mr. Holt has left my time stretched thin. I swerve, dart and weave between thousands of commuters who appear just as frantic as me.
By the time I make it to my departure gate, my nape is drenched with sweat, and my cheeks are blemished. I blow an unruly hair out of my face before handing my ticket to the immaculately dressed airport staff member behind the counter. Her top lip snarls as her eyes roam my flustered appearance.
“It’s not as it seems,” I stammer.
A tsk escapes her lips as her slit gaze lowers to the computer monitor on her desk. With my bright-eyed expression and flushed cheeks, my appearance could be mistaken for someone who just tumbled out of bed after a night of rigorous activities.
I wouldn’t mind being reprimanded if that was the cause of my late arrival. After all, it’s been a while since I’ve seen my sexually satisfied face in the vanity mirror, but that’s not the reason I’m arriving at the departure gate without a minute to spare. It was my disastrous run-in with the most strikingly handsome man I’ve ever met that has me scampering.
Once my ticket is thrust back into my hand, I head down the gangway. The clanging of my knees becomes more apparent with every step I take. I focus my attention on the male flight attendant standing at the end of the corridor, hoping his light blue eyes that pop right off his fa
ce will distract me enough I board without incident.
They do—somewhat.
My hand tremors when I give him my ticket. “Good afternoon, Ms. Brahn,” he greets me while ripping my ticket in half.
I fleetingly smile. I’ve lost the ability to speak now that fear has once again emerged from deep within.
“Today you’re seated in 1A. Upon entering, take a left at the second corridor.” He hands me back one half of my ticket.
Nodding, I take a hesitant step forward. Loud pounding rings in my ears for every shaky step I take.
After walking through the galley, I turn toward the coach section of the plane.
“Can I help you?” asks a smiling flight attendant who is clipping back a pair of dark blue pleated curtains, preparing for our imminent departure.
“Umm, I’m looking for seat 1A.” The shaky tremble of my voice reveals my fear.
Smiling, she moves to stand next to me. Her floral scent engulfs the air from her rapid movements. She glances at the ticket I’m clasping before returning her eyes to my face. “Seat 1A is this way, Ms. Brahn.”
Gesturing behind me, she skirts by before walking through another set of curtains. I apprehensively shadow after her.
After ruffling through the thick curtain, I discover the flight attendant standing near the front of the plane. My brows furl as my eyes bounce around the elegant looking space. Luxurious, well-spaced black leather reclining chairs with matching footstools. Elegantly dressed men and women sipping on glass flutes of champagne and the piquant aroma of wealth is filtering through the air. There must be a mistake. I don’t belong in business class.
I quickly scamper down the wide corridor, not missing the numerous gasps of disdain when my rhinestone-embedded Juicy backside sashays by.
“There must be a mistake,” I inform the flight attendant, my fear not relinquishing its firm hold on my composure.
Her manicured brow shoots up high into her auburn hair before her eyes turn down to the ticket in my hand. “1A.” She points her French-tipped nail to the 1A marked on my ticket.
“1A,” she repeats, extending her long, skinny index finger to the 1A displayed on the overhead compartment two seats down from where I’m standing.
After rubbing my arm soothingly, she saunters back down the aisle, snubbing the shocked expression masking my face. I stand mute, frozen in both fear and shock.
When the fasten seat belt sign illuminates a few seconds later, I shove my jacket and satchel into an overhead compartment and skedaddle to my assigned seat. I may be scared, but I am not flying without a seatbelt.
When I lift my frenzied eyes from the strip of fluorescent lights lining the aisle, I’m confronted by an intense gaze that has me clumsily tripping over my feet.
You’ve got to be kidding me!
“A beautiful woman falling at my feet twice in one day. This has to be a new record,” Mr. Holt banters when I crash into his thigh.
Well, I assume he is joking, but it’s hard to tell with the rich tone of his seductive voice.
“Mr. Holt,” I greet him before scampering past his out-stretched thighs to take my seat in the chair next to his.
Plopping unceremoniously into my chair, my hands lurch out for the seatbelt. My nerves cause me to jitter so much, I have trouble fastening the silver clips together. Mr. Holt leans over and stills my shaking hands before he clasps my belt.
Tugging on the light gray strap, he secures my belt around my waist.
“Thank you,” I whisper, then acquire a firm grip on the armrests. The tips of my nails bend painfully from my determined hold.
Mr. Holt’s eyes turn down to my white-knuckled hands before lifting them to my face. “Scared of flying?”
My fearful eyes drift to his as my brow arches high. “Is it that obvious?”
“You do know recent studies have shown—”
“Traveling in a car or a truck is one hundred times more deadly than flying. Yes, I'm aware of that. It still doesn’t help,” I interrupt.
“Actually, I was going to say, recent studies have shown the endorphins released during sexual activities can overtake cortisol and other fear-induced chemicals,” he informs me as his entrancing eyes gaze into mine. “You should consider testing the theory out.”
My pulse quickens from his flirtatious tone. Is he propositioning me?
Before I can form an adequate response, our intense stare-down is interrupted by a radiant voice above. “Can I help you with anything, Mr. Holt?”
When I raise my eyes, I am met with a beautiful blonde flight attendant whose eyes are appreciatively roaming over Mr. Holt. “Perhaps I can take your jacket?”
Mr. Holt’s illustrious gaze remains on mine as he stands to remove his suit jacket. I lick my dry lips when his suit-covered crotch that is straining to hold in the enormity of his. . . umm. . . manhood is shoved into my peripheral vision.
When my perverted gaze returns to Mr. Holt’s face, the situation becomes ten times more heated. He has a mouth-watering smirk formed on his sculptured lips, revealing he spotted my ogling glance.
Mortified at being busted staring at his crotch, I divert my eyes, catching the mad glare of the flight attendant in the process. She plays the part of a scorned woman well.
“Would you care for a drink, Mr. Holt?” Although her eyes are narrowed into slits, her tone doesn’t allude to her anger. Her performance is remarkable—a genuine ten out of ten.
“Teeling 30-Year-Old Single Malt Irish Whiskey,” Mr. Holt requests, handing her his suit jacket.
“Excellent selection, Mr. Holt.” She folds his coat over her forearm.
When Mr. Holt retakes his seat, the flight attendant walks away. She barely gets two feet away before Mr. Holt’s hand shoots out to snatch her wrist.
“Are you going to ask Isabelle if she would like something to drink?” he questions her, his tone clipped.
I am unable to see his face, but from the way the flight attendant’s pupils dilate into saucers, and she swallows several times in a row, I can perceive Mr. Holt’s gaze is infuriatingly angry without needing to look at him.
“W-would you like something to drink?” the flight attendant stammers as her feared eyes drift to me.
“No, thank you,” I reply with a shake of my head.
With the somersaults my stomach is doing, I can't trust it to hold down anything.
“Are you sure?” Mr. Holt questions, his head swiveling to face me.
His intense eyes also cause me to swallow harshly, but unlike the flight attendant, I’m not scared by his angry glare. I’m turned on.
Unable to speak through the lump in my throat, I nod. Spotting my agreeing gesture, Mr. Holt relinquishes the flight attendant’s wrist. She scurries down the aisle, her steps as wobbly as my heart rate.
After offering Mr. Holt a grateful smile, I lean my head on the cool leather headrest. When I take a breath to settle my nerves, a strong aroma overwhelms my senses. Expensive cologne, body wash, and a smell I can’t quite identify make an enticing, mouth-watering scent I’d happily spend hours smelling.
My eyes snap shut when the plane jerks toward the runway. Here it comes, the one part of flying I fear the most. After tightening my grip on the armrests, my teeth gnaw on my bottom lip. The closer the plane gets to the end of the runway, the more my heart palpitates.
A short time later, a jolting buzz electrifies my clenched left hand. When I look down, I spot a long, elegant finger tracing the veins protruding on my hand from my firm grip of the armrest.
My breathing lengthens as my eyes lift. Mr. Holt. He is staring at me, his gaze penetrating, relentless, and utterly consuming.
“How about we test the theory?” The purr of his voice already subdues my nerves.
Too terrified to form words, I fleetingly nod.
The hairs on my body bristle when his finger leisurely runs up my arm. My core tightens when his tongue darts out to moisten his lips as his finger stops at the throb in my neck. When he w
raps his big manly hand around my throat, my pupils widen. His grip isn't tight enough to cause discomfort. It's an erotic, domineering hold that has me releasing a husky moan.
After loosening his grip on my neck, he saves my bottom lip from my menacing teeth.
“I’m going to bite that lip.” His stern words are more a confirmation than a suggestion.
Wetness pools between my legs when his thumb dips into my moist and inviting mouth. Brazenly, I nibble on the tip. I’ve never been so bold, but his demanding eyes are making me reckless. A gruff moan erupts from his lips from my frisky tease.
My body temp turns excruciating when Mr. Holt’s spare hand grips my nape. His hold is tight but painless. The sting of his fingers adds to the tingling in my core, and they turn my breathing ragged.
His dark, intense eyes skim my face before darting to my famished mouth. Air traps in my throat when he tilts his head, as if he is preparing to kiss me.
After snapping my eyes shut, I lick my lips in anticipation of tasting his perfectly structured mouth.
A whoosh of air hitting my cheeks causes my eyes to pop back open only a second later. Disappointment smacks into me when I discover Mr. Holt’s hasty retreat. He is once again sitting on his side of the plush leather seat.
Remaining quiet, he raises a crystal glass from the table between us before taking a hefty gulp of the whiskey stored inside. My core spasms from the sexiness of his Adam's apple bobbing up and down as he swallows the burning liquid without effort.
Once his glass is void of liquid, he places it on the table before shifting his eyes to me. Although his heavy-lidded gaze still shows his hunger, something in them has altered.
Slanting his head, he gestures to the window behind me. I gasp when I follow the direction of his gaze. Nothing but puffy white clouds in a brilliant blue sky reflects back at me.
“I’d say the theory has been proven,” Mr. Holt mutters aloofly.
Although he distracted me long enough I survived the take-off without a meltdown, a ping of disappointment hits my chest. The touching, the rush of excitement, the desire, was it all a game? A ploy to lessen my panic?
