“Tell me again why we’re flying to Morocco instead of enjoying a day off in Florence.” Ronan’s voice is tight. He hadn’t been happy when I told him about the sudden change in plans.

“Apparently my paygrade isn’t high enough to justify that kind of information. I’m supposed to fly where I’m told and not ask any questions.” I study the panel of controls before me. The plane has leveled out and is flying at a good clip. I put it on autopilot. “Feel free to call HQ. You’re a guy, so they might actually answer your questions.”

“And we’re not getting any time off once we land in Morocco? It’s land, let the passengers unload, fuel up, and go to Johannesburg?”

“Correct.” His use of the word fuel has my attention automatically shifting to the fuel gage. The needle is right where it’s supposed to be.

“Does this happen often? Changing plans at the last minute?”

I shrug and sigh. “It’s been happening more and more frequently. Sometimes it’s to help pick up the slack from a delayed flight and cut back at the number of angry passengers the airline has to deal with. I’m not sure if that’s what Northwest does, or if they simply get hired by some big wig who promises to pay extra if they can make the flight happen right away.”

“It looks like we’re supposed to have about five hours off. Not enough time for much sightseeing.” But plenty of time for some afternoon delight.

The thought sends heat rushing to my face and triggers a strange prickling sensation in my pussy. I’ve barely known Ronan for twenty-four hours, but apparently, it’s enough for him to get into my blood. I’m like a junkie who can’t wait to get their next fix.

“I’m not interested in sightseeing.” Ronan continues staring straight ahead.

“Oh.” My blush deepens. “What are you interested in?”

“Finding someplace quiet at the airport and getting a couple hours of sleep. I didn’t get much last night.”

Strange. I feel fully rested. I can’t dwell on that, I’m more concerned about what his statement means. If there’s one thing I know, it’s that a sleepy pilot is even more dangerous than a drunk driver. One mistake can cost hundreds of lives. More, if the mistake happens at the airport.

“Is this going to be a problem?” I ask softly. I can handle the flight on my own, but I need a heads up.

Ronan shakes his head. He glances briefly at me before turning his attention back to the blue sky stretching before us. “No. I’m alert, but I don’t know if that’ll be the case on the Johannesburg leg. I’ll feel better if I can get a couple hours sleep before taking off.”

I shoot him a stern glance. “I’d strongly advise it.”

Ronan takes a deep breath. “On the topic of last night…” he starts saying.

My stomach clenches. I know that we need to discuss what happened and how we’re going to handle it, but I really don’t want to. I haven’t even begun to sort out my feelings on it, or what I want to come of it.

“I don’t want to talk about last night. Or this morning.” There’s a definite quiver in my voice. I hate how it makes me sound small and insecure, two words I rarely, if ever, associate with myself.

“Not wanting to talk about it doesn’t mean we shouldn’t have the conversation.” Ronan’s voice isn’t loud, but the undercurrent of determination running through his words makes it powerful.

I glance down at the control panel in front of me, half wishing that the autopilot will suddenly fail, forcing me to fly the plane manually, that would keep me busy enough to avoid this particular conversation.

“Why do we have to talk about it?”

I don’t have to look to know that Ronan has pulled his gaze away from the windscreen and is now staring at me. His stare seems to burn my skin. It takes a great deal of self-control to not slap a hand over the side of my face.

“What do you want?” he asks.

I blink. That wasn’t what I expected to come out his mouth. “What do you mean?”

“I want to know what you want.”

“Why?”

Ronan shrugs. “Knowing what you want, what drives you, helps me get to know you, the real you. The soft sides as well as the bad-ass chick side of you.”

I chew on my lower lip. Taken at face value, it sounds like such a simple question, but it’s not one I’ve ever been asked before, or have even thought about.

“I don’t know what I want,” I tell Ronan.

“You have to want something. Everyone does. It’s part of the human experience.”

He might be right. I probably do want something, but when I turn my thoughts inward and attempt to explore what it is, my stomach gets jumpy and nervous sweat tracks down my spine. It’s like staring into a deep, dark abyss.

I shiver and let my fingers curve into my palms. “The only thing I want is to land this plane in Morocco and then have a safe flight to Johannesburg. As my co-pilot, you should want the same thing.”

You also want Ronan’s body, a small internal voice I’ve never heard before chortles. You want his hands all over you, his mouth on yours, and his dick buried deep inside of you.

Heat floods my face. I don’t know where the voice came from, but I can’t argue with it. There’s been a tiny part of my brain that’s been consumed with wondering where and when Ronan and I can hook up again ever since we checked out of the Florence hotel, but I can’t tell him.

“My wants extend a little further than the next few hours,” Ronan says.

Feeling uncomfortable, I go on the defensive.

“What about you?” I snap. “What do you want, since you seem to be such an expert?”

“You,” Ronan says calmly.

He reaches out and captures my right hand in his left. His fingers lace through mine and his thumb draws slow, lazy circles on my palm. It’s a good thing I’m sitting, otherwise the completely innocent gesture would make me weak in the knees.

“I want you, and I don’t just mean in the physical sense. I don’t know how, but in the short time I’ve known you, you’ve managed to get under my skin.”

I slide a sideways glance at him, certain he’s joking. I’m not the kind of woman men say things like this to. I’m not soft enough, not pretty enough, and not sweet enough. Yet Ronan’s expression is every bit as sincere as his tone.

My brow furrows in confusion. “What are you trying to say?”

Ronan quickly glances at the control panel before his gaze bounces back to my face. “I’m saying that there’s something about you that’s different, and while I don’t know why, I know I want to get to know you better, to explore whatever this thing is.”

My heart hammers against my ribs and my throat closes up. I don’t know how to respond. I should laugh and tell him that I don’t do relationships, that I don’t want anything to do with him, that I’m a love ‘em and leave ‘em kind of girl and that he and his feelings can take a flying leap. Another part of me, a part I’ve never encountered before, keeps pointing out that there’s a spark between us; it ignited in that dreary break room back in Atlanta. That same spark keeps drawing me back to Ronan, like a moth drawn to flame.

Unable to think of a single thing to say to him, I stare at the bright lights and control gauges in front of me and remain mute.

“I think you’re feeling the same thing I am, even if you’re afraid to admit it.” Ronan’s fingers tighten on my hand. “I don’t want whatever’s taking place between us to be clouded by sex, at least not any more than it already is. I want us to go on a few dates, get to know what makes one another tick, and see what happens. I want us to keep our hands off one another and sleep in separate rooms, at least until we know where this thing is going. Okay?”

No sex? How long is he talking about? It already feels like months rather than hours have passed since the last time I had his cock buried inside of me. Still, he has a point. Maybe sex, great sex, is the only thing we have between us. Maybe if we eliminate that from the equation, he’ll turn out to be just as irritating and chauvinistic as all the other pilots Northwest hires, and I’ll be able to cut ties with him once and for all.

My eyes meet his. “Okay.”