The Men of Laguna

by Kim Karr

  “I’m not,” I protest. “I read porn, remember?”

  “Right.” He grins. “I also remember the Madonna song on your playlist. And that tells me more than some random novel you picked up in the airport in a rush.”

  “How do you know I just bought that? Maybe it’s part of a series that I’ve been reading forever.”

  His laugh is a little wicked. “The receipt fell out when I picked it up. I saw today’s date stamped on it.”

  “Still, that doesn’t mean—” I don’t get to finish telling him I’m not a virgin, if that’s what he thinks. Then again, I doubt he thinks that.

  Suddenly, his fingers are around my wrists, and he moves me until my back hits the door behind me. With my arms at my sides, he’s caging me in. “Are you certain you want to be in here with me?”

  My heart slams against my ribs, and I can’t get control of my breathing. “Yes, I’m sure.”

  Then it happens. Bold and unfaltering, he crushes his mouth over mine. With our lips sealed, he swallows my gasp of surprise in an instant. His lips are soft, his tongue is wet, and our teeth crash as we wildly seal our mouths with a drugging kiss.

  Ripples of passion overtake me and flow through my body. First, it tugs at my nipples, then it melts in my belly, and finally it explodes between my legs in a burst of desire.

  God, I want him.

  Knowing this, knowing this is more than checking an item off a list, I let myself go. When I do, our kiss grows more desperate. We search, demand, explore, lick, and suck. We let it consume us.

  Panting, he trails those lips down my neck and his male scent, the heat of his skin, and the taste of him lingering on the tip of my tongue, all hot and wild, overwhelms me. As desire continues to shoot through me from my head to the tip of my toes, it occurs to me that I’ve never been this turned on from just kissing someone.

  In a moment, or maybe two, he lets go of his hold on my wrists and grips my nape with one hand before sliding the other down to my hip.

  Lower.

  Lower still.

  Excitement fills the air when his fingertips skim the soft flesh of my bare thigh. Thank God I’m leaning against the door because my knees go weak at the feel of that long, thick erection grinding into me.

  That groan he makes in response to my thrusting hips is one I want to eat up. “We don’t have a lot of time,” he whispers like an apology.

  “I know,” I whisper back and start to rip his shirt over his head.

  Before I even have his shirt fully over his head, and before I can raise my gaze from those smooth, muscled abs I ogled earlier, he growls, “Turn around.”

  Yes, he actually growls it.

  And oh God, that sound, it causes a ripple of arousal to flood my veins. Wanting this as much as he does, maybe more, I abandon my attempt at taking his shirt off and leave it for him to finish pulling over his head while I turn around. Once there, I place my palms flat on the cool glass of the mirror and squeeze my eyes shut.

  I’m doing this.

  Really doing this.

  With our bodies touching, the heat around us blazes. This is so incredibly hot, I can’t even remember where I am.

  Which might be a good thing.

  Remember, I said he’s really big, and I’m not going to lie—I’m a tiny bit worried.

  But then all my apprehension melts away when he almost expertly slides his hand down my hip to my thigh, fingers catching the hem of my sundress like it’s second nature.

  Small tingles follow in the wake of his warm skin as he inches my hem up, up, up, up higher until my panties are front and center.

  “Oh fuck,” he mutters.

  Okay, so I have to thank Maggie for insisting I wear the black thong. Very aware of how skimpy it is, I bend a little at the hips and give him an even better view.

  Those talented fingers are running the length of it like a quarterback trying to score a touchdown.

  Wait…the—oh, oh!—quarterbacks don’t…I jump.

  His fingers are rising and then…the stinging dancing across my flesh surprises me.

  He didn’t just do that?

  Yes, he did. He snapped my thong.

  Wide-eyed, I turn to look at him.

  “Sorry, I couldn’t resist.” He grins, and then smooths his palms over my butt cheeks, caressing right down the middle.

  Dirty, dirty boy.

  Hiding my intense like for his dirty side, I turn around.

  As soon as I do, he reaches between my legs and moves his fingers to curve upward to brush my clit on the outside of my very wet panties.

  It feels incredible.

  With my eyes closed once again, I press my forehead against the mirror. This is it—I’m about to fuck a stranger. I’m about to join the Mile High Club. And I love every minute of it.

  When he slides a foot between my open thighs and pushes them open even wider, I pray to God that the split doesn’t cause me to slide and wind up like a wishbone on the floor. Once I feel the gap isn’t too great, that I won’t be torn in half, I shiver in anticipation. But then his fingers circle against me and I shudder from how freaking good it feels.

  It’s been a while since I’ve had sex, and so much longer since anyone has made me feel this desirable.

  More than ready for what’s next, I breathe in and in and in, almost forgetting to let the air release from my lungs until it rushes out in a loud moan of ecstasy.

  That was so not intentional.

  His response isn’t to be missed, though. That shudder of breath. The slight tremble in his touch. The way his body presses closer to mine.

  He likes my noises.

  I take them up a notch, hoping I don’t sound like a porno star.

  With a shift in his stance, his arms snake around me and he comes at my pussy. His rough, callused hands glide down my belly, and his fingers are easily sliding inside my thong.

  That dirty mouth mutters another curse when he touches my bare flesh, and I tremble from both the delicious touch and the arousing sound.

  Oh God, without even giving me time to recover, he’s stroking a finger along my sex, and again, and one more time, as if just liking the way it feels.

  There’s a very real possibility I might explode in anticipation of what’s to come before it actually happens.

  Men cream their pants. Do women do the same?

  His chin presses into my shoulder. “You want this.”

  Not a question, but a command that demands an answer. My belly squeezes again. It’s the first time anyone has talked to me like that in a bedroom situation. I like it. “Yes,” I breathe.

  Soon, I hear the small clatter of a metal buckle being undone, followed by the soft sigh of a button easing from its hole, and then finally I hear the light purr of a zipper parting.

  I try to catch his reflection in the mirror, but my body is covering his.

  Just then another round of turbulence hits. This time, the plane starts shaking. It’s not a small bump. It rocks. First right, then left. Our bodies rock in the same motion. Unlike the last time, the turbulence doesn’t pass in an instant. The bumps are so much more severe, and almost frantically, we try to brace ourselves against the wall.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has turned on the ‘fasten seat belt’ sign. We are now crossing a zone of turbulence. Please return to your seats immediately and keep your seat belts fastened.”

  The turbulence causes the plane to lose altitude, and when it drops, he tries to grab for me, and I attempt to grab for him. We need to anchor each other until the plane levels out.

  Our bodies shift and move and it’s then that I see it—the scrolling letter B on his chest. It’s now that I get the déjà vu moment. This man I’ve affectionately termed Mr. Beach Bum is Mr. Uptight Prick from last night. He’s Cam.

  Removing my hands from his body, I clutch whatever I can. I feel a little sick that I’m in here with him. He let some woman blow him and then dismissed her like she was trash. Is that what he is plan
ning to do to me? Oh, wait, he wouldn’t have to, because we’ll never see each other again.

  I need to get out of here.

  Now.

  It happens before I can stop it. I’m holding onto the small lever that secures the door. He tries to grab my hand, and the movement of the plane causes my hand to jolt to the right. And then, just like that, we’re flying out of the door.

  It’s both of our doing.

  I blame him.

  Horrified, I can’t even move. I’m lying nose first on the carpet, and his body is covering mine. For those who happen to want to watch the show, I’m certain they can’t see much, but they will know. Know without a doubt what we were about to do in there.

  The palpitations I’m feeling in my heart are no longer a result of lust, but complete embarrassment.

  “You need to get to your seats.”

  Mortified, I can’t even look up to see who is talking to us.

  I feel a tugging of my dress, down, down, down it goes. It’s him. The beach bum. The prick. The manwhore. The slut. Thank God the material is cotton and not the cheap stuff that easily rips.

  Soft lips whisper in my ear. “I think you’re good to stand.”

  Regardless of my latest realization, I can’t be mad at him right now. Besides, I wanted this. I practically begged for it. “What about you?” I whisper.

  “Don’t worry about me.”

  A throat clears.

  This can’t be happening.

  Daring to allow my gaze to lift, I know as my eyes make their way up the body before me that it’s Tiffany, the flight attendant with the crush on my seatmate. Soon enough, a frown and blond hair appear in my vision.

  Yep. I was right.

  The Mile High Club is going to be my doom.

  The flight attendant is sitting in her jump seat and she is leering at me. “Federal Aviation Administration regulations mandate a lavatory occupancy of one. I’m going to have to report this incident to the captain.”

  I want to slap that smirk off her face, but that would require standing, not lying horizontal with my partner-in-crime half-naked on top of me.

  In addition to that, aggravating her now won’t do me any good. If she turns me in, I could be accused of a flight violation or even public indecency.

  Slowly, the weight on top of me disappears. The man I was just about to have sex with is rising to all of his six-plus feet.

  Oh, God, his pants. His pants. They’re undone, and without that belt buckled they’re certain to fall as soon as he stands.

  I don’t pray often, but please God, give me a break here.

  “This is a total misunderstanding,” my seatmate tells the flight attendant, twisting to look at her over his shoulder. He’s pulling his shirt over his head.

  I should care about what is going on, but right now all I can think about is that scrolling B disappearing. Puff, it is gone, like it was never there. But it was. And I know who he is. What he is—a manwhore, a slut, a player, whatever term fits.

  Tiffany, or Jodie, or whatever her real name is, scoffs. “I don’t think there is any misunderstanding.”

  Turning around, he holds a hand up as if in surrender. “Can we at least discuss it before you do anything rash?”

  Petrified she’s going to refuse him, I can’t even fully raise my gaze to look at him now that he is facing her for fear that his big, thick cock, the one I never saw, but oh how I felt it, is out on full display.

  Finally, I dare to take a peek. Phew, it’s not hanging out, or sticking out, whichever is the case, for all to see. Somehow in the midst of the chaos he not only managed to push my dress down, but pull his pants up.

  If I didn’t hate him right now, I might kiss his feet. I think he just got us off the public indecency charge at least.

  Slowly, I rise to my feet, more than aware that I am one hot mess. Even so, I try to stay close to him, shield him, give him time to zip and buckle. To make himself presentable.

  The bubbly flight attendant is glaring at me.

  It’s like we’re in a standoff.

  Well, I’m not backing down. In fact, the more she narrows her eyes at me, the straighter I stand. I have to tell myself not to ball my fists for fear I might take the first swing. Probably a time to remind myself that I’ve never been in a fight.

  When Tiffany or Jodie or whatever her name is continues to stand before us in silence, my seatmate pleads with her. “Please.”

  Still with the glare, this time when he speaks, she steps around me. “Well, I guess we can discuss it. Maybe I misunderstood what was taking place,” the flight attendant practically purrs to my seatmate.

  At that, my head snaps in his direction. Oh, please, she didn’t misunderstand a goddamn thing. The physical turbulence might have passed, but the emotional one is just starting to battle within me.

  Although he didn’t have time to fix himself, at least his shirt is pulled down low enough to cover the fact that his pants are undone.

  Thank fuck. Not a word I use often, but it is more than needed right now.

  “Please take your seat,” the flight attendant instructs me, but not my seatmate.

  I narrow my gaze at her. This behavior certainly wasn’t covered during the in-flight safety demonstration.

  My seatmate nods his chin beyond the first-class curtain. “Take your seat. Let me talk to her, alone.”

  There’s that arrogant, domineering bastard I remember from last night.

  Furious, I almost say no, but then I remember I am in jeopardy of being escorted in handcuffs off the plane, so like a good little girl, I start back to my seat.

  “One minute.” It’s the flight attendant telling him her rules. Now this is her game.

  I turn to glare at her.

  “Please sit in the empty row across from your assigned seat. I’m going to have to ask that you sit alone the rest of the flight.”

  The look on my seatmate’s face is one of utter blankness.

  Then again, what else would it be?

  After all, a slut’s work is never done.

  Besides, what happened between us was a hookup gone wrong. I should be thankful that I’m not just another notch in his belt. Let that role go to her.

  Sticking my chin up with pride, I look the fake Tiffany in the eyes. “I wouldn’t want to sit any other way. He’s all yours,” I huff. With that, I pivot and march my hot mess back to my newly assigned seat.

  Stewing, I practically chew my lip raw waiting for the outcome.

  My ex-seatmate is back within five minutes. I want to say, “That was quick,” but I hold my tongue. I know he didn’t do anything with her. Yet. He must have had to make some promise about the next time she’s back in Santa Ana or New York City, depending on where he lives. I never bothered to ask, too caught up in my unusual behavior. He was a stranger and needed to stay that way, so I avoided personal questions. Now, I feel depressed that I’ll never know.

  “Hey, can we talk?” he whispers across the aisle.

  Sensing his sincere concern, I consider it for a moment, but then I remember how he behaved last night and shake my head no. “I’m tired. I’m going to go to sleep,” I tell him. Tell Cam, that is. And then I close my eyes.

  Looks like I won’t be checking the Mile High Club off my list today or anytime in the near future.

  Too bad that’s not what makes me sad.

  7

  That Damn Club

  Makayla

  There are some titles you earn that nobody can ever take away: Mother. Veteran. Ph.D. And, of course, there is the ever-coveted card-carrying member of the Mile High Club.

  Yes, once you’ve done it high in the sky, you’re pretty much set for life when it comes to always winning the never have I ever game.

  But, make no mistake about it—joining the Mile High Club isn’t as simple as you may think.

  Or maybe it was just me who thought that.

  In my defense, Maggie made it out to be so incredibly easy.

  Ma
ybe for her it was.

  For me—not so much.

  In fact, the attempt was downright humiliating.

  Then again, I should have known better. Maggie always makes everything seem easier than it is.

  Across the aisle, light and shadow paint him.

  I haven’t slept, but I have pretended to do so. Still, whenever I move or shift a little, he catches my quick glance his way, and this time is no different.

  “I’m really sorry,” he whispers for the hundredth time.

  I can’t even look him in the eyes.

  In his defense, he doesn’t understand why. He doesn’t know I saw him getting head last night and then treat Megan with a B like she was dirt. Sure, I felt there was a reason, but after today, I wonder if that is just his way with all women.

  Still incredibly embarrassed about everything, I look away without saying a word. Awkward situation equals bitchy woman. It’s how I’ve always been. I can’t help it.

  At last giving up, he stretches those long legs, and from the corner of my eye I can see him rest his head against the window.

  When I can’t take it anymore, I dare to sneak a quick peek his way.

  I know I shouldn’t.

  In that one instant it takes for me to focus on him, my heart starts to beat out of my chest.

  Tall, dark, and handsome—the three perfect words to describe him.

  As if uncontrollable, my breathing also picks up.

  And then I stupidly start to think maybe we could try that again. This time with a lower volume, a little more discretion, and a whole lot more coordination.

  No, I silently tell myself.

  At least this time I listen.

  One embarrassing moment on this flight is enough—for a lifetime.

  With his eyes closed, I can almost pretend we never met and that what just happened never took place.

  Almost.

  Except the feel of his lips on my neck still lingers, and the touch of his fingers against my skin continues to burn, and then there’s my lady parts, which are still tingling wildly to the point of maddening irritation.