Atlas

If Las Vegas isn’t the cure, I don’t know what is. I need a distraction, something—or someone—to take my mind off this constant feeling of unrest.

I’m bored out of my fucking mind.

And that’s a problem.

What kind of prick travels the world doing what they love, what they dreamed of their whole life, and still isn’t happy?

Me. I’m that kind of prick.

I rise, stretching my legs. I never have been able to sit still for very long. Virgin Atlantic offers the perfect solution for restless people like me: you just can’t beat a bar on an airplane. It gets you out of your seat and fills your belly with booze. What could be better?

Pussy. A good fuck is better than a belly full of booze. But I’m in the mood for both.

A woman sits at the bar, her nose in a book and her jet black hair pulled tightly into a bun. Her red pinstriped suit jacket dips in at the waist, then spans out above a plump ass in a matching skirt. I let my gaze dip lower to her feet below the barstool. Black high heels cap off perfectly pale legs, crossed neatly at the ankles. A black pinstripe stretches up the back of each leg, disappearing into her skirt.

I’m going to reinstate my mile high club membership on this flight.

“Can I help you?” the in-flight bartender asks, drawing my attention away from the woman at the bar.

I raise my bottle of Dom in the air and wink as I bring the bottle to my lips. He scowls his disapproval, then resumes his work behind the bar. I take a long drink, step up beside the woman and set the bubbly on the bar, then slide it toward her. Sharing is caring.

She glances up from her book long enough to acknowledge the champagne bottle, giving me an unobstructed view of her blood red pout. Lips so luscious they could lure a celibate monk to the dark side. She frowns at my bottle of Dom, but she somehow manages to make the motion look sexy. “No, thank you. I’m good with my glass.” She taps the base of the flute with her fingernails as if to show me that champagne belongs in a glass.

Her bright red fingernails match her lips, but unlike her soft, full lips, her nails are long and slightly pointed like claws. She’s the perfect contradiction, all sharp edges and plump clouds. I’d like to fuck her until those nails tear into the skin of my back. I lick my lips and bring the bottle to my mouth once more. “Where are you headed?”

“Las Vegas.” She says this with such boredom, like I must be a total moron since this plane is set to land in Vegas in an hour. Hey, she could have a connecting flight at McCarran. How the hell am I supposed to know?

“Cool.” I crane my neck to see if there’s anyone more suitable to talk to in economy. The curtain is closed, but I could always just walk back there. It’s a flight to Vegas, for fuck’s sake. There’s got to be at least one more hot chick on this plane. Maybe I can get Red to drag his ass back to coach and recruit some clientele—

The woman clears her throat.

I look back at her and her blue-gray gaze meets mine, one eyebrow raised.

I flash her a wide grin. “I’m Atlas Reynolds.” Extending my hand, I wait for her eyes to widen at the mention of my name. Everyone knows who Banging Cade is.

She glances down at my hand, then back up at me. “Your nails are black. Are you a mechanic?”

I look down at my hand still hanging between us, then bring it up to inspect my nails. Black polish is stuck around the edges of my fingernails. I was still half-drunk when I scratched it off this morning. I laugh and settle my hand around the bottle. “No, I am not a mechanic.”

She reaches for my free hand and startles me when she wraps her fingers around my palm, turning my fingertips toward her to look them over. “Not a mechanic, so that’s not grease.” She inspects my hand further, and her brow furrows as she looks up at me through thick black lashes. “Nail polish?”

I nod, smirking.

“Black nail polish... callused fingertips...” she whispers the words as she trails her soft, completely un-callused fingers over mine. Her touch sends a spark straight up my arm and right down into my dick. “Should ‘Atlas Reynolds’ ring a bell?”

She says my name like it’s an invitation.

I haven’t been laid since the night of our gig in Boston, and that was like, six whole days ago. I swallow hard. She catches the movement and a slight smile cracks that stony façade. She’s into me. That uptight suit and bun-thing had me fooled, but this chick is down to fuck, and my first night in Vegas is going to be just the distraction I need.

I lick my lips and clear my throat. She’s running her fingers over my palm and down my arm, and this might be the most torturous thing I’ve ever experienced. Each gentle graze of her fingertips might as well connect directly with my cock.

“Can I get you another glass of champagne, Miss?” one of the stewards asks as he steps behind the bar. When she doesn’t respond, he looks at me, then at our hands, then at the side of this woman’s head. His lips twitch, but he doesn’t say another word. He starts to step out from behind the bar—

“A blanket,” she says, her eyes locked on mine. “It’s a bit chilly in here, don’t you think?” She releases my hand and reaches for the bottle of champagne on the bar. “And another bottle of Dom.” She raises her brows as she brings the bottle to her lips, and I nod.

“On me,” I say, not dropping her gaze.

She tilts her head. “I can afford a bottle of Dom Perignon, Atlas.” Amusement sweetens her tone.

It’s really not about the champagne at this point, and neither of us could care less who pays for it. She returns the champagne bottle to the bar, then closes her book and swivels the barstool toward me. Her knees are slightly parted, an invitation for me to step between them. I pull my gaze away from that opening between her legs, only to get stuck on her chest. Her red suit jacket is open, exposing a white dress shirt unbuttoned low enough to expose the curved black lace cupping each tit.

When I think I can speak without sounding like I’ve never seen a set of perfect, store-bought tits before, I clear my throat and go for it. “I never did get your name.” Dropping my hand to her knee, I tuck my thumb just beneath her skirt.

“We seem to have run out of Dom Perignon. Can I get you something else? A bottle of Veuve Clicquot, perhaps?”

The woman’s eyes close on a long blink. “We seem to have taken a major leap in quality.” She shakes her head. “But we’ll take it. If we must.” She dismisses him with a quick flick of her wrist. Looking back at me, she grins, her eyes playful again. “What brings you to Vegas, Atlas?”

I narrow my eyes. Why won’t she tell me her name? Is she famous? Searching her eyes, I wait for a hint of familiarity, but nothing comes to me. She’s older than me, but I’m not sure how much. Her eyes have the faintest smile lines in the corners, but not even a hint of a line between her eyebrows.  She’s taken care of herself. Botox? I focus on her lips, but I can’t tell if they’re naturally full or if they’ve been injected. I really don’t care. She’s one of those women who don’t age. Or refuse to. Either way, I win.

She pulls her bottom lip into her teeth and I meet her gaze. The challenging look in her eyes tells me I should already know who she is.

I want to.

I slide my hand a little further up her skirt, and the calluses on my fingers catch on the thin fabric of her tights. I grip her thigh, then lean forward to whisper in her ear. “I’m here for a distraction, Miss...?”

She runs her tongue over her lower lip, slowly, torturously. Definitely DTF. Gradually, she brings her gaze up to meet mine, and I wait, hopeful, for a name.

“I’m in the market for the very same thing, Atlas.” Her voice drips with honey, smooth and thick, and it’s all I can do not to claim her mouth with mine and taste that honey for myself.

I tighten my grip on her thigh, then watch the motion of her throat when she swallows.

Fuck names.

“I’m heading to Vegas to see my divorce attorney.” She pauses to gauge my reaction, but I give her nothing. “If my husband can screw anything and everything that walks, why can’t I have a little fun?” She brings the bottle to her lips once more, then takes a long pull of champagne. “Plus, I’ve never joined the mile high club.” With these words, she opens her legs further.

I drop my gaze and fight back a moan of pleasure when the skirt slides up to expose the lace tops of her nylons. She’s wearing one of those things that straps to the pantyhose to hold them up. Fuck me. With my hand so close to the bare skin of her thigh, I can barely think straight. Just a couple inches further and I’m in. But would she let me finger her right here in the middle of the first class bar?

If she were a Banger, the answer would be yes. I could fuck her and five of her friends, right here, right now, with little to no hesitation.

But she’s not a Banging Cade groupie. I don’t think she has even the slightest clue who I am.

And that makes me want her even more.

I try to compose myself and drag my focus back to her face. “Sorry about your divorce,” I say, and it sounds like the dumbest thing I’ve ever said. I could have invited her to join the club with me, but I keep us on topic. A topic she’d probably like to get off of.

I’d like to get her off.

“We got married young.” She shrugs. “Once my career took off, I guess he just couldn’t handle not being the bread winner.” She narrows her eyes. “You know, he’s suing me for alimony. Can you believe that?” She laughs, but it’s a bitter sound. “The bastard is a goddamn surgeon who’s fucked every RN west of Texas, and he wants alimony from me.”

If he’s a surgeon and he’s asking her for money, this chick makes bank. Hello, Curiosity, I’m Atlas. “What do you do?”

She pins me with that grayish-blue gaze. “No more questions, Atlas.” She places her hand firmly on my dick and leans forward, bringing her lips to my ear. “I’d like to keep this as impersonal as possible.” She pulls her head back just enough to meet my gaze. “Deal?”

I swallow hard. Maybe I’ve had it wrong all this time. Young chicks aren’t where it’s at. Older women with confidence and experience and a desperate need to get back at their cheating ex-husbands might be my new bag. “Deal.” The word is choked off when she squeezes my cock.

The bartender shows up at the perfectly wrong time and clears his throat.

My new friend removes her hand from my crotch, then laces her fingers together in her lap, perfectly poised. I’d almost think I imagined the way she just groped me, but the spark in her gaze is unmistakable.

Like the pressure in my pants.

He sets the second bottle in an ice bucket, then places two flutes beside it, the blanket folded up neatly on the bar. “Can I get you anything else?”

She shakes her head slowly, holding my gaze. When the bartender leaves, she smiles. “Join me at my seat? Or should we stay here?”

I shake my head. It really doesn’t matter at this point; I’d fuck her right here on the bar. The floor. Against the wall. On the wing of the motherfucking plane, if she’d let me.