Page 6 of I Would Beg For You

Naomi has her fingers clenched even tighter on the armrests, if that can be possible. Eyes shut tight, mouth pursed to a thin line, cheeks devoid of any color.

We haven’t even taken off yet, and she looks like a wreck.

“Naomi?”

“Wh—what?” she mumbles.

Amazing ventriloquist skill. I didn’t even see her lips moving.

“You okay?”

Great question, dumbass. Of course she isn’t.

“F-fine.”

She stays still, stiff, frozen.

Common sense demanded I reassure her, talk to her, bring her back from the brink of what looks like a deep fear of flying. The gentleman in me—oh, there is one; he just doesn’t make an appearance that often—cannot stand the idea of a damsel in distress, never mind how macho or ridiculous that sounds in today’s climate.

But Naomi is safely ensconced in her bubble, and something tells me she knows what to do to hold on and stay the course.

I’ll keep a watchful eye on her, and anyway, look is all I can do.

Look is all I have allowed—and can allow—myself to do.

Chapter 3 Valentino

It’s torture to sithere beside her and have to stay focused on the seat in front of me. My hand can’t even relax onto the armrest, because she’s clenching it, and with just a graze, I’ll be undone.

Because to touch Naomi Smith will mean to cross a line that will put me firmly in a no-man’s land from which I won’t be able to come back. Touching Naomi Smith will ignite the embers of a passion and fire that burns for her and that I haven’t been able to douse no matter how hard I have tried.

Nothing happened between us. At least, nothing happened from my end. The summer she was seventeen, I kept the curtains closed in my bedroom all the time to not give her a show and much less to witness her prancing in her teeny excuses for clothes. The girl was trying to catch my attention, and I didn’t give her an in.

The summer of the year she turned eighteen, however, we found ourselves in the same office—she as an intern, me as a consultant trying to redress the organization from the inside.I’d actually gone in to subtly work the organigram so my family could take over the company.

Nothing happened again. I’m not a sick fuck into underage girls.

Then came the night of our office Christmas party. Naomi was double-celebrating—she turned eighteen a few weeks earlier and she got a double-down from the staff that evening.

I didn’t know at the time whose brilliant idea it was to give a drink to the birthday girl since she wasn’t even twenty-one yet. There I was in a corner, standing under the mistletoe. My boss, a very married woman, barreled into me with a giggle and planted a solid one on my lips. Before I could push her away, it was over, and she was laughing and pulling her husband to her. “Look what I have to put up with,” he said with a chuckle, and I knew it was all in good spirit.

Yet, still reeling from this unexpected turn of events, I lost my composure, and more importantly, I forgot to move away from the mistletoe.

Which turned into my downfall.

I was still a target, and who other than Naomi Smith decided to take her shot?

In less than two minutes, two women had fallen onto me to claim a kiss.

Naomi all but tumbled into me as she leaned in and pressed her puckered lips to mine.

More than the contact, I could smell the alcohol on her. Some cheap gin that reeked.

She opened her mouth then, touched the tip of her tongue to the closed seam of my lips.

Her body leaned onto mine, and some instinct—call it preservation—kept my arms limp at my sides. With a thrust of my chest, I gently pushed her off me.

“Val,” she moaned.

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