MR. CHURCH MUST be hungry.
That’s all I can think as I cross my legs even tighter, fighting against the heat building between them. It’s hard enough not to squirm sitting in a board meeting with Brandon at the head of the table, but with just a small table separating us in a private jet it’s damn near impossible.
I’d shown up at the hangar on time, just as promised, and we’d quickly loaded up into the jet, the personnel taking care of our bags and offering us a glass of champagne as we stepped inside. I’d found it hard not to gasp when I boarded, seeing the beautiful leather interior, complete with three sets of comfortable, reclining chairs with tables between them, and one long couch. The leather was a cross of beige and black, cut with thickly sewn stitching that reminded me of Brandon’s car interior. There were dark brown and maroon suede pillows on the couch and one small one in each chair, pulling all the aesthetics together, making it scream business and comfort all at once.
Brandon had taken a seat at the back set of chairs, the one across from the couch, and I’d followed suit, sitting across the small table from him. He’d been quiet as the flight crew explained our route and how long it would take, offering us more refreshments, and he’d remained silent until just after takeoff. Once we were in the air, he’d started small talk — literally talking about the weather in Atlanta and asking how my midterms went — before he fell back into a quiet state.
Except this time, his eyes weren’t on the newspaper.
They were on me.
And that is when I decided that he must be hungry, and that our first stop when we land will most certainly be a restaurant. Because the way he looked at me, the way he’s still looking at me, is like he’s a starved man and I’m a surf n’ turf buffet of the highest quality.
I glance at the small screen behind Brandon’s head, one with a map of our route and a little white airplane to show us where we are. It also details how fast we’re going and our approximate arrival time, which isn’t too long, being that the trip from Miami to Atlanta is a quick one in a jet. I try to keep my focus on that little screen, but I feel him in my peripheral, boring a hole into my skin with his gaze.
“I have a proposal for you, Miss Daniels.”
Are we back to last names now?
I snap my attention to him, swallowing hard as he steeples his fingers over his lap, his eyes dark and intense.
“And what’s that, Mr. Church?”
He smirks. “For the past month, the two of us have been acting like what happened between us didn’t happen. Which is professional, and certainly the right thing to do.”
I search his face for signs of sarcasm, but find none. So, I just nod in agreement. “Yes.”
“Yes,” he echoes me. Pausing, he watches me for a moment before leaning forward over the small table between us, his hands disappearing underneath it. “However, I’m in quite a predicament, Miss Daniels. Because it seems that you have awakened a rather persistent itch, one that I don’t see going away until I give in and scratch it.”
Warmth crawls up my neck, burning my cheeks as I reach for my champagne glass on the table, draining the last sip of it. Every nerve of my body is at full attention, hanging on his words, waiting for what he’ll say next.
“Now, I could live with this itch,” he says, catching my eyes with his before trailing them down over my chest. “But, judging by the way you’re clenching your thighs together under this table…” He leans forward a little more, and then I feel the warmth of his finger — just one — as it brushes the inside of my knee so slightly I’m almost sure I’m imagining it. “And the way your cheeks flush when I touch you, something tells me you’ve got an itch to scratch, too.”
It takes everything in me, including a tight grip on the armrests of my chair and a tight closing of my eyes, not to moan when the one finger on the inside of my knee turns into a flat, hot palm, sliding just an inch up, just enough to brush the hem of my skirt.
“So, what’s your proposal, Mr. Church?” The words leave my lips in something like a whisper and a groan, my eyelids cracking open again as I find his gaze.
“Until this jet touches down in Miami again, you’re mine,” he nearly growls the words, running his tongue along his bottom lip as he eyes mine. “And I’m yours. No boundaries, no rules, no thought of consequences. Just two people scratching an itch and keeping a little secret.” He shrugs. “And when we land back in reality, it’s hands off again. Responsible. Professional.”
My breaths are silent, almost nonexistent as I watch him, debating. “And you think we’ll be able to do that,” I challenge, uncrossing my legs to spread them just an inch. His nose flares at the bold act, his hand skating up a centimeter more. “You think you’ll be able to fuck me this week and let me go on Sunday night? That you’ll be able to see me in the office every day, knowing you’ll never touch me again?”
I run my fingers through my hair and trail the tips of them down over my neck, my collarbone, running them along the neckline of my blouse with my lip pinned between my teeth.
Brandon inhales a stiff breath, eyes on fire. “I think I’d rather know that torture than continue living in this one.”
My brain is in overdrive, ticking through the possibilities and the consequences if we were caught, but the overwhelming thought pushing everything else down is that the likelihood of us getting caught is slim to none. As long as we keep our hands to ourselves when we’re in public, and we go back to normal when we’re in the office again, no one would need to know.
And, God, how I want to taste him again, to touch him again, to know what he feels like inside me.
Fuck it.
“No one finds out. And when we land again, I’m off limits. No looking at me across the boardroom like you want to fuck me on the table while everyone watches.”
“You have my word,” he says, smirking. “So, do we have a deal?”
He doesn’t move his hand any higher, doesn’t lick his lips or raise an eyebrow — he simply waits.
“We have a deal.”
The last word doesn’t even leave my lips before Brandon clears our glasses and his newspaper off the table in one sweep of his arm, sending them crashing to the floor before flipping the table between us up to hook on the wall. He drops to his knees in front of me, and then his hands are in my hair, and his mouth is on mine, tongue sweeping in to claim me like I was never anyone else’s, like I’ll never be anyone else’s again.
I’m still catching my breath against his kisses when his hands trail their way down, following the curves of my body until both palms are pressed on the inside of my knees. He pushes them apart, earning a gasp from me as he slides his hands up my inner thighs, pushing my skirt up with them.
“This is really stupid of us,” I pant as he kisses his way down my neck, hands still climbing. “You know that, right?”
“Completely idiotic,” he agrees, then he fists the bunched up fabric of my skirt and yanks until my ass is hanging off the edge of the seat.
With slow precision, he unfastens each button on my blouse, tugging it from where it was tucked into my skirt and leaving it open, exposing my simple nude bra. Brandon pulls the cups down until my breasts spill out of the top, pulling both of my nipples between his fingers and thumbs as I arch into his touch with a moan.
“You are so fucking sexy,” he growls, and then his hands drop to my thighs as he reaches up under my skirt for my panties, ripping them down my legs until they fall around my ankles. I can’t even step out of them before his face is buried between my thighs.
A string of curse words leave my lips on a breath as he runs his tongue along the length of me, swirling my clit at the top before diving between my lips like I’m his last meal. My heart is racing like his NSX, running laps as my breaths struggle to keep up, my hands grasping for anything to hold onto — the arms of the chair, the sleeves of his dress shirt, the last shred of my morals. But I can’t catch my grip, not on any of it, so I let go, let him pull me down, two sinners in the clouds just waiting for the fall into hell.
Brandon is an expert with his tongue, sucking and teasing my clit until my legs are quivering on either side of his face. But when he runs two warm fingertips up my inner thigh, coating them in my wetness before sliding them inside, I learn he’s an expert with his hands, too.
“Come here,” he husks, wiggling his fingers deep inside me as his free hand pulls me in to kiss him. His mouth is hot on mine, his kisses hard and demanding as he pushes me closer and closer to release. Every part of me is held captive — his hand locked behind my neck, holding my mouth to his, his fingers inside me, his eyes devouring what little of me is left.
And I let him take me, let him tease me and ruin me and claim me until it’s too much.
“Enough.”
I press my hands hard into his chest, pushing him off me, his fingers taking my breath with them as he slips out and lands with his back against his chair. He eyes me with a wild gaze, licking his lips as I crawl out of my seat and across the floor, propping myself on my knees in front of him as I rip at his belt, desperate to have him as naked as I am.
He helps me, lifting his hips when I finish with the zipper and kicking off his dress shoes, allowing me to pull his pants down and off, flinging them to the side before I spread my legs over his thighs to straddle him. Just the length of him pressed against my center makes my breath catch. I haven’t been with a man since Spring Break, since everything with Bo and me went up in flames. The thought of her shocks my system, coming out of nowhere, and I quickly shove her to the back of my mind again, fingers frantically working the buttons of Brandon’s dress shirt as he fumbles in the pockets of his discarded pants for a condom.
“Up,” he commands when he finds one, ripping the package open with his teeth.
I lift my hips, pressing my lips to his as I pull his dress shirt open, running my hands along the length of his hard chest, his defined abdomen, my nails digging into his flesh.
His hands disappear between us for just a fraction of a second, strapping the condom on before they find my waist, gripping hard, and he lines up the crown of him with the wet opening of me.
And for a moment, everything stops, time suspended between us, our breaths slowing before stopping altogether. My arms wrapped around his neck and his hands framing my face, foreheads pressed together, Brandon searches my eyes with his own, asking permission again.
Slowly, with my mouth finding his again, I slide down, the hard length of him stretching me open centimeter by aching centimeter.
I wince against the pain, laced with overwhelming pleasure, my body in shock at the feel of being reopened after so many months. I dig my nails into his back even more, working as slow as I can to fit him all the way inside.
“Goddamn, Ashlei,” he groans, brows bent together and hands gripping my waist like that’s the only control he has to stop himself from slamming into me. When I finally sink all the way down, the base of me touching the base of him, we both let out a long, almost pained breath.
The first time I tried cocaine, I remember feeling shock and understanding all at once — the rush of blood, the lightheadedness, the intense awareness, the awakening. Still, I hadn’t found it difficult to walk away from. But with Brandon’s arms wrapping all the way around me, his hands curling on my shoulders, head buried in my chest as he flexes his hips into me, stealing my breath again, I realize distantly that this is a real high. This is the high addicts are born from. Walking away from this, from him, won’t be simple. Part of me wonders if it will even be possible at all.
Like a light switch, I turn off my thoughts of the future, surrendering to the now as I ride Brandon steadily, my orgasm mounting with every brush of my clit against him, with every deep thrust of him inside me. When his hands find my ass and squeeze, pulling me harder against him as he sucks the sensitive skin around my nipple, my breath catches and I hold it there, reaching blindly for my climax.
“Say my name when you come,” he growls, sucking my nipple hard before moving up to kiss the skin under my ear. “I want to hear it.”
“Oh, fuck, Mr.—”
“No.” He cuts my words short, stopping his movements altogether. “Wrong name.”
I writhe in his lap, the sensation that had been rising fading off as I try desperately to hold onto it. I rock against him, crying out, nails digging into his arms. “Please,” I beg. “I’m so close.”
He answers my plea, thrusting hard and deep, and sparks fly behind my pinched eyelids, flames licking my skin from the inside out as I come apart. “Oh, God, Brandon. Fuck. Don’t stop.”
He groans at his name, pumping harder, and as I ride out my climax, he finds his. The groans escaping his lips are enough to ignite my orgasm for another round, both of us gripping onto each other, pushing and pulling and scratching and digging until we’re both spent, collapsing into each other in a heap of shallow breaths.
When it’s over, the high receding, my body sore and aching in all the right places, Brandon holds me in his lap. He kisses the skin on my shoulder, soothing his fingertips over my back as I rest. When I peek up at the screen behind him, I see we only have a half an hour before the jet will land in Atlanta.
“We should get dressed,” I whisper.
Brandon pulls back, searching my eyes with his own. “Is that really what you’re thinking right now?”
“Well, we land soon,” I point out, feeling a little self-conscious. “Why, what are you thinking?”
He pauses, eyes flicking to the ceiling as he thinks. “I’m hungry.”
A laugh rips from my throat and Brandon chuckles, too, pulling me into him for one last kiss.
I knew it.