Page 5 of I Would Beg For You

Chapter 2 Valentino

Of all the seatsin this section, of course we’d be seated next to each other. That’s Fate for you, a total bitch.

Naomi slips into her assigned seat, parking her sweet backside into the plush chair and pressing her back into it. I get the vibe that if she could make herself disappear into the upholstery, she would.

A flight attendant approaches. Slender, late twenties, brunette hair slicked back in a professional bun, lips as red as her uniform. To her credit, she leans into Naomi first and asks if she wants a drink. I’m pretty sure my travel companion doesn’t even open her eyes as she shakes her head declining whatever’s on offer.

The woman accepts this gracefully, smile still in place when she turns to me. I can see the glint in her eye when our gazes connect. A woman who knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to ask for it, even take it if need be.

Any other day, I would’ve looked at her name tag to remember her name and made sure to find her after landing so we could pursue whatever flared between us in the closest location wecould find. And by that, I mean the closest hotel—not a seedy motel or darkened corner to indulge into a quickie with. I don’t do quickies. When a woman graces my bed, I like to take my time with her and also for my own pleasure.

“Scotch,” I tell her.

She picks up on the lack on inflection in my tone, her smile stilling before she recovers her composure in the blink of an eye.

Must make a note to fly this airline more, if their staff can stay professional like this. I have seen debacles I do not want to even recall with some women throwing themselves at me in planes. One cornered me in the toilets on a trip. I reported her and black-listed the company when they gave my complaint no follow-up. A year later, they were out of business, after I bought majority shares of their rival using one of our shell companies and ran them into the ground. Too bad they don’t do the Salt Lake route or I’d be on one of our planes today.

I’m handed my glass of Scotch before the woman shuffles away to the other passengers. I’ve hardly taken a sip or two, taking my time enjoying the warm finish reminiscent of toffee, when we’re being informed, we’re primed for takeoff.

That was fast. Everyone must’ve been in a rush to board and get on with it. True enough, this flight was supposed to depart at six this morning. A contact at the airport kept me abreast of delays so I wouldn’t have to come slum it in the dire waiting room behind us.

Which hasn’t been so dire, come to think of it. Imagine my surprise when I stepped in and right there in my line of sight sat a blast from the past.

Long golden blonde hair in a sleek column down her back. I prefer the natural waves in her locks, but the straight hair also suits her. Anything will suit her, even a potato sack. Just as the lack of anything, too, will work just as well. The cream-colored heavy-knit sweater enhanced the milky paleness of her smoothskin. Her lips had been rosy and plush, the soft pink creeping up her cheeks as she stared at me making the green of her eyes more prominent.

Those eyes. They always make me think of a kitten. Naomi has this way of tilting her head slightly when she observes something, like a curious kitten.

I can still picture her, head a little askew, small teeth biting the side of her full lower lip as she stared across her window and into mine. One night, I came home with a girl, and things got hot and heavy between us as soon as I closed the door. We were devouring each other, her blouse off, my shirt having landed on the floor, her bra scooping up the soft flesh of her breasts into voluptuous globes.

I had my mouth on a perky nipple when a niggling feel tickled the back of my neck. Turning to the window, I caught her, Naomi, staring at us, frozen like a statue, mouth slightly agape.

I was twenty-six at the time, just having returned home after my MBA. My brothers had left the coop for their own degrees, my sister Francesca deciding to work as an au pair for a family friend moving to Florence that summer. I wanted my parents to have someone solidly home and thus took one for the team.

Naomi was all of fifteen at the time. Not a child, but not an adult, either. What she’d seen so far that night, she could easily have already witnessed on any of the racy soap operas that have been running for eons, it seems.

Letting her see more would make me a creep, so I came up to the window and closed the curtains.

A few days later, the same thing happened—a girl coming home for the night. And there, again when I looked up, stood little Naomi Smith watching us. Head tilted, mouth not agape this time. Just…enjoying the show, I guess.

This little game went on the whole summer. The next morning when I opened the curtains, there she’d be in her room, wearingthe tiniest scraps of clothing a girl can get away with and not be considered naked or in underwear.

Did I mention she was fifteen at the time, and me a grown-ass man? Nothing came of it, of course. Just a little bit of harmless entertainment I provided for her. School resumed shortly, a whole year passed, and next summer, there she was again. A curious little kitten, and this time, she clutched a soft cushion in her hand every time.

This time, I could also see her fingers tightening over the deep purple velvet, knuckles turned white.

I closed the curtains every night before leaving my room from then on. This had gone far beyond any harmless fun. The way she clutched that pillow…

Our plane starts to taxi along the runway. I don’t know why, but something makes me glance at Naomi’s hands gripping the armrests super tight.

White knuckles, and that’s saying something given how pale her skin already is. They remind me of her hands on that cushion so many years ago—funny how I was just thinking of that.

Something’s amiss.

She called me an asshole in the waiting room. Hey, I’m no saint, and I’ve been called worse. I got the impression she wants to remain as far away from me as possible, and I respect that. Consent may be a huge deal nowadays, but it was always ingrained in us that a man never takes what a woman isn’t giving willingly. If she doesn’t want us to interact, fine by me.

I take another sip as the plane picks up speed.

Is that a soft mumble I hear? I frown. Sounds like a prayer.

---