by Ember Casey
I twist and grab my pillow, squeezing it tight.
* * *
Apparently, I overestimated my packing abilities when I told Orlando I could be done in half an hour. When the car pulls up the following morning at five-thirty on the dot, I’m still frantically shoving clothes and shoes into my rolling suitcase. I only remember my toiletries bag as I’m rushing out the door, but I guess that’s better than forgetting it altogether. Early flights are the work of the devil.
Still, as exhausted and frazzled as I am, it’s impossible to be in a bad mood. I’m going to L.A. with Orlando, and that’s all that matters. Most people would probably call me crazy—and they’d be right. We’ve only known each other a couple of weeks. Not to mention the fact that he’s a celebrity, and we both know he can do much better than me. He’ll probably dump me the first time some gorgeous young supermodel bats her eyelashes in his direction. But I can’t resist the pull of him. I have to see this through, one way or another. Even if I end up with my heart broken.
I’m nearly to the gate when a hand lightly grabs me by the elbow.
“Fancy meeting you here,” says a voice in my ear.
I jump, twisting and looking up into Orlando’s face. He’s wearing a baseball cap, the brim pulled down low, and wavy bits of hair poke out around the bottom. Between that and his faded T-shirt and jeans, he looks just like an ordinary traveler—at least until you see those hypnotic eyes.
His smile toward me is a touch wicked, but his face is tight with exhaustion, and there are shadows and creases that aren’t usually there. As excited as I am to go to L.A. with him, I haven’t forgotten why we’re leaving today.
Instinctively, I reach up and touch his cheek.
“Did you sleep at all last night?” I ask him.
“About an hour,” he replies with a shrug. “But I can sleep on the plane. What about you?”
Part of the reason I was rushing to pack at the last minute was because I spent almost forty-five minutes in front of the mirror trying to make myself look less like an exhausted ghoul. I’m wearing more makeup than I usually do, and my bun—which is just the right amount of messy to keep from looking like I tried too hard—took an embarrassingly long amount of time to create.
“I’ll probably nap on the plane, too,” I tell him. “Assuming those three cups of coffee I chugged wear off.”
He laughs, and it fills me up, knowing I can lighten his morning just a little. He wasn’t very specific about his father’s condition on the phone last night, but I can tell by how much he didn’t say that it’s probably quite bad. And I’m determined to comfort him in the only way I know how—to keep making him laugh.
We head to the gate together, talking of little, meaningless things—Orlando’s impressions of Atlanta, my advice about where he should visit next time he’s in town, our shared love of mac and cheese. By the time we board, he’s already looking a little better, but I’m still worried about him.
He booked us seats in first class. They’re the size of full recliners, and within minutes of sitting down, a flight attendant comes by to ask if we’d like anything.
“Is it too early for a drink?” I joke. I wonder if she can tell I’m a first class first timer.
“We can offer you a mimosa or a Bloody Mary,” she replies cheerfully.
I order a mimosa, and after a brief moment’s hesitation, Orlando gets a Bloody Mary. He still looks stressed and exhausted, but maybe a little alcohol will help. The drinks arrive within minutes, while the rest of the plane is boarding.
Orlando turns to me, raising his glass. He’s still wearing that hat—apparently he doesn’t want anyone to recognize him, even now—but those eyes burn right into me.
“To us,” he says. “And to the new adventures that await us in L.A.”
“To us,” I echo, clinking my glass against his. It’s impossible not to think about what some of those new adventures might be, especially after last night. My entire face goes as hot as a teakettle as I look into his eyes, and a familiar ache begins forming between my legs, anticipating more of the pleasure this man has already given me. Without even touching me.
“Is everything okay?” Orlando asks, those eyes growing more intent.
Does he not understand by now what he does to me?
“I was just thinking about those ‘new adventures,’ ” I admit.
His eyes darken deliciously, and his smile widens.
“I have some ideas,” he murmurs, reaching over and brushing aside a strand of hair that’s come loose from my bun. “A few things I’ve already promised to do to you, and a few more you don’t even know about yet.” His touch lingers on my cheek, and goosebumps shiver across my scalp.
“Like what?” I whisper back.
“You’re an impatient little thing, you know that?” he says.
“So they tell me.”
“You’ll know soon.” His fingers drift down my cheek, and his thumb rubs across my bottom lip.
I grip the armrest, trying to keep myself from visibly quivering. “Not nearly soon enough.” I can’t even think when he’s looking at me like that, his eyes full of hungry fire.
“Maybe you won’t have to wait so very long,” he tells me. His hand drops to my throat, his fingers sliding down the side of my neck. They toy with the collar of my shirt, grazing my collarbone. His eyes follow his touch for a moment before his gaze meets mine again.
“After the plane takes off,” he tells me, his voice low, “why don’t the two of us take a visit to the lavatory?”
I just stare at him. He can’t actually be serious.
As he continues looking at me, though, that devilish gleam in his eye never fading, I know he’s not just pulling my leg.
“So I guess it doesn’t matter that I haven’t received my final paycheck?” I ask him.
“Circumstances have changed.” There’s a flash of pain in his eyes that he quickly suppresses. “And either way, everyone knows that anything that happens at thirty thousand feet doesn’t really count.”
“Ah,” I say. Maybe there’s more than one way I can comfort him after all. If Orlando wants to use me to distract himself from his concern over his father, then I won’t refuse. And now that the initial shock of his suggestion has worn off, I find myself intrigued by the idea.
I sit back in my seat and sip at my mimosa, trying to look relaxed and nonchalant. I can’t believe I’m actually considering this. Orlando’s eyes are still on me, sending little frissons of pleasure through me, and I try to keep my blush from spreading down to my toes. That ache between my legs is growing more insistent, my body already anticipating what it will be like to actually touch him. That one kiss we shared—what feels like forever ago—only left me thirsty for more.
Orlando, curse him, apparently seems to find it quite easy to play it cool. He crosses his legs and gets comfortable as the plane begins to move, looking like he doesn’t have a care in the world. When we reach the runway, he gently places his hand over mine on the armrest.
You know you’ve got it bad when a simple thing like that—a delicate touch—makes you feel like you’ve been thrown off a cliff into a free fall. I drain the rest of my glass and allow myself another look at him. He’s still watching me calmly, his eyes full of things I can’t even begin to untangle.
I’m in a tangle of my own, and it just grows more complicated the more time I spend with this man. My armpits start to sweat, even though I put on a double layer of antiperspirant this morning.
I turn my attention to finishing the rest of my drink, then to the scenery out the window as the plane climbs higher and higher. It’s been years since I’ve been on a plane—between school and my unemployment, I haven’t had the money or opportunity to travel much—and I want to savor this as much as I’ve savored everything else these past couple of weeks. If I’d thought ahead, I might have packed my journal in my carry-on, tried to capture some of these feelings in words and doodles, but on the other hand, I’m not sure I would have
gotten much done. Orlando has started stroking my arm softly with his thumb, making small, feather-light loops. Back and forth, around and around, caressing me with a single finger until I’m absolutely useless.
My skin keeps getting hotter and hotter, and the ache between my legs becomes a pulse that throbs in time with Orlando’s touch. By the time the pilot turns off the seatbelt light, I’m practically panting. A bead of nervous sweat trickles down my back.
Orlando squeezes my arm and leans over, his lips brushing against my ear.
“I’m going to the lavatory,” he tells me. “Follow me in a minute.”
He gives my arm one more squeeze before rising and walking back to the first-class lavatories. I watch him go, making sure to see which one he enters—with my luck, I’d pick the wrong one otherwise and stumble in on some poor sap who’s just trying to do his business. Just before he closes the door, Orlando’s eyes meet mine, sending a jolt through me that makes me squirm in my seat. I still have the option to stay here, to play it safe, but my body would never forgive me. And I’m not sure I’d ever forgive myself for being such a coward.
When I’m sure no one is looking—even if we’re going to do this, I’d rather not broadcast it to the entire plane—I take a deep breath and rise, making my way quickly back to the lavatories. I don’t let myself hesitate even a moment, for fear I’ll lose my nerve. I grab the door and push it open, slipping in quickly beside Orlando.
The first-class lavatory is only marginally larger than the one I remember using the last time I flew coach. There’s barely enough room for one person in here, let alone two, and that means Orlando and I are already pressed up against each other, chest to chest. The scent of him surrounds me, and my arms automatically slide around his waist. His encircle me, too, holding me against his body.
“I’ve been dreaming of this since our first kiss,” he murmurs, dipping his head.
“You mean me joining you in an airplane bathroom?”
He smiles. “Not quite. When I imagined it, we were somewhere with a bit more room. But I imagine we’ll make do.” And then he drops his mouth and kisses me deeply.
This kiss is just as spectacular as our first one. He tastes even better than he smells, and his lips are both commanding and teasing at once, taking what they want and seducing me, giving and collecting. His tongue is gentle at first, flicking against my lower lip, then more adventurous, sliding past my teeth and tasting me deeply.
I moan gently against his experienced probing. His hands splay against my back, holding me tight against his hips, and my arms rise to his neck, holding his face down against mine. I never want this kiss to end. I never want to let go of this pleasure.
He doesn’t seem to have any interest in that either. We kiss until both of us are gasping for breath, and then we keep kissing, two beggars finally feasting. A week is only a week, but it felt like we had to deny ourselves for so much longer than that. I don’t think anything could pry us apart now.
As we continue to attack each other, our hands become bolder. His move down my back and slip beneath the bottom edge of my shirt, then make their way up my body again, this time right against my skin. He caresses my spine, then my sides, before finally letting his hands sidle between us to cup my breasts through my bra.
I let out another moan.
“Shh,” he murmurs against my lips. “Unless you want the entire plane to know what we’re doing.”
I’m not quite to the point of not caring about that. So I swallow down my whimpers as his hands continue their exploration of my breasts. He’s gentle at first, massaging them, feeling them, cupping them as if measuring their shape and weight. Slowly, my nipples harden into sharp points against my bra, and his fingers find them through the lacy fabric, teasing them and squeezing them lightly, just enough to drive me mad.
“More,” I whisper against his lips.
His answering chuckle is cut off as my mouth closes over his again, but he obeys. Beneath my shirt, he lifts my breasts free of the cups of my bra, and this time his fingers aren’t nearly as gentle. He grips and squeezes my nipples all the way up to the point of pain, making me gasp.
That seems to be the reaction he was hoping for.
“Just wait,” he murmurs. “Wait until we have the time and the space to do this properly. Still…”
He pulls back as far as he can in the small space, which isn’t even enough to put a foot between us. But that is enough space for him to push up my shirt, to leave my bare breasts exposed to him, and he twists himself down so that he can bring one to his mouth. His lips kiss the gentle swell of the side once before closing around my nipple, surrounding it in delicious heat, and his teeth nibble at the delicate nub. I bite down on my bottom lip to keep from crying out. My head falls back against the lavatory’s mirror.
After a moment, his mouth moves to my other breast, giving it the same treatment. He teases and sucks, flicking with his tongue and biting softly with his teeth. I writhe against the mirror, trying desperately to hold back any sound. But I’m terrified that he’s going to make me come like this, and I’m not sure I can hold back anything then.
All too soon, though, he lifts his head.
“We don’t have long,” he says in a rough whisper. “Not if we don’t want people to get suspicious.”
I’m not sure if there’s an unspoken question in his words, but I threw away my good sense long ago. I reach between us, my hand sliding down his stomach and then closing around the hard bulge in his pants. He brought me to the very brink of pleasure, and now I want to do the same for him. Judging by the growling sound that rumbles from the back of his throat, he isn’t exactly opposed to the idea.
I find his fly and undo the button and zipper one-handed. As I push his jeans down his hips, though, I realize he’s pushing mine down in the same way.
I hesitate. The moment he notices, his hands pause, and his face pulls away from mine. He looks down at me, desire darkening his golden eyes to a deep amber, but there’s concern there, too.
“Is this all right?” he asks.
I nod. Slowly.
His hand traces a path across my bare thigh, then between my legs. “What about this?”
Again, I nod. My eyes flutter closed as his fingers dip between my thighs, parting them to dive into the wet heat beneath.
“I’m going to fuck you,” he says. “If you don’t want that, you can walk away right now.”
Maybe I should. Maybe I never should have let myself get caught up in this in the first place. The old me might have walked away. But I’ve become a lot more adventurous in the last couple of weeks.
So I just look up at him, praying my confidence comes through in my eyes, and say, “How do you want me?”
It’s like I’ve let a wild animal off his leash. His mouth falls on mine, capturing me completely, and his hand moves deeper between my legs, the tip of his finger sliding inside me. I can only open my legs so wide in this tiny lavatory—and with my jeans around my knees besides—but otherwise that finger slips easily inside, my body eager to welcome him.
He only teases me for a moment before pulling abruptly away. Then he grabs me by the arms and twists me around so that I’m facing the mirror. My hands fly up to brace me, and his hand slips between my legs again, this time from behind.
“Much better,” he breathes against my hair. “When we get to L.A. I’m going to have you a hundred different ways, but right here, this might be the only way I can bury myself as deep as I want to inside of you.”
He leans down slightly, fumbling with his jeans, and a couple of seconds later he straightens holding a condom. He rips the package open with his teeth before sliding the protection over his hard length. I watch the entire thing in the reflection of the mirror, fighting the urge to press my ass back against him impatiently.
When his hands close around my bare hips, I can no longer resist. I push my lower half back toward him, helping him guide our bodies together. His hard length slips between my leg
s, nudging against me, and I spread my thighs as far as I can.
He tilts his head forward, leaning just above my shoulder, and his eyes catch mine in the mirror.
“I thought this moment would never come,” he says. And then he slips inside me, burying himself to the base in a single thrust.
I gasp, my eyes falling shut at the feeling of him filling me. I never thought this moment would come, either, and now that it’s here, I’m not sure I can handle it.
He begins to move, pulling back and then burying himself in me again, slowly withdrawing and thrusting, withdrawing and thrusting. Each time he rocks toward me, he presses the front half of my body against the mirror, and I spread my fingers on the glass, continuing to brace myself. After a moment, I force my eyes open again. I want to watch this, to take in every moment.
He’s still watching me in the reflection, and when our gazes meet again, the look in his eyes nearly sends me over the edge. I’ve never had a man look at me like that before. Like he’d tear down a brick wall with his bare hands to have me.
He wouldn’t have to tear down a brick wall. Or anything, for that matter. All he has to do is look at me and I’m his.
His pace slowly increases, his fingers digging into me as he fills me again and again. His eyes never leave mine. I’m drowning, caught up in the coiled sensations building in my core, completely possessed by the need for more. One of his hands releases my hips and reaches around my face, clamping across my mouth.
“Quiet,” he murmurs into my hair, his voice ragged.
I’m not sure I can control the sounds rising in my throat, but I try. And he muffles the rest with his hand, pressing his fingers into my mouth. I’m so close now that I’ve started to lose all control over my body. All it will take is one movement at just the right angle and—
I desperately try to swallow a moan as my climax rushes over me, and my eyes squeeze shut. Pure bliss rushes through me, wave upon wave of ecstasy that never seems to end. I’m only dimly aware of Orlando’s grip tightening on my hip, of his final, forceful thrusts that proceed a low, deep grunt that thunders up from his chest.
