Page 59 of Claiming Genevieve

The flight attendant comes back a moment later with two glasses of whiskey, handing one to me and one to Genevieve. When she’s satisfied that we don’t need anything else, she walks away, and I tilt my glass towards Genevieve’s.

“To you visiting Ireland for the first time,” I say with a smile. “Sláinte.”

She tries to echo it, tripping over the pronunciation, and I smirk at her as she laughs, embarrassment coloring her cheeks. It’s adorable, the most charming thing I’ve ever seen on my otherwise elegant and prim wife, and my chest tightens as I look at her.

I don’t want to lose her. Ever.

The more time I spend with her, the more moments that we have like this—bickering and laughing and teasing each other—the more I don’t know how I’m ever going to follow through on the promise I made. How I’m ever going to sign divorce papers, knowing that it means I’ll never hear her laugh or see her roll her eyes at something I’ve said again.

We drive each other crazy in a way that I don’t know how I’m ever going to live without.

I tip my whiskey up to my lips, relishing the burn, only to hear Genevieve cough a second later, lowering her glass. She looks at me with slightly teary eyes, blinking. “Itburns,” she says, clearing her throat, and I see the glisten of the whiskey on her lips.

I don’t think. I can’t. Something clicks in my brain, something primal and necessary, something that propels me out of my seat and toward her in one swift movement that I can’t stop myself from making. All I can think about is that I want to taste that whiskey on her fucking mouth, and I wrap my hand around the back of her neck, my fingers tangling in her silky hair as I pull her lips to mine.

She tastes sweet. Sharp. Honey and vanilla, and the slightest hint of citrus. My tongue sweeps over her mouth, and I don’t know how I’ve gone this long without kissing her. How I’ve managed not to do it since our wedding day, even when I’ve been inside of her.

I don’t know how I’ll ever stop.

Genevieve gasps, and her lips part under mine. My tongue sweeps into her mouth, soaking up the taste of whiskey andher, and she lets out a sudden, small, startled moan that makes my cock impossibly hard.

All I can think about is her. My arm goes around her waist, lifting her up out of her seat as I stagger backwards to mine, pulling her into my lap. The whiskey in her glass sloshes against the rim, and I pluck it out of her hand, dropping it onto the table between the seats without ever breaking the kiss.

I pull her down against me, down onto the thick ridge of my aching cock, her legs on either side of my hips. For a moment, I can feel her giving in, her back arching beneath the pressure of my arm, her mouth still open against mine as I plunder it with my hungry tongue. I’ve forgotten that Rory is sitting at the back of the plane, that the flight attendant could walk past at any moment—that there’s anyone else on this plane with us at all. The world has narrowed down to the two of us, to how badly I want her.

I reach up to fumble with the buttons at the front of her jumpsuit, and that’s when Genevieve breaks the kiss.

She shoves my hand away before I manage to get more than the first button undone, planting her hands against my chest as she pushes herself out of my lap. She stumbles backward to her seat, her eyes wide and pupils blown, more disheveled than I’ve ever seen her. Her hair is tangled from my fingers running through it, the top button of her jumpsuit undone and showing a small V of pale flesh that makes my mouth water with the desire to trail my tongue along it, and her hands are trembling. Staring at me, she fumbles for the glass of whiskey, grabs it, and downs it in one gulp, coughing as it goes down.

“Genevieve.” Her name is a plea on my lips, a prayer. “Fuck, lass, I need you.” I start to push myself up out of my seat, to reach for her again, but Genevieve shakes her head sharply, her hand flying up as if to block me.

I sink back down, trying to think past the pulse of lust that’s still pounding through my veins.

“That’s not—” she clears her throat. “That’s not part of our arrangement.” Her gaze flicks from my face down to the thick, straining ridge of my cock, and then away, her cheeks flushed a bright, rosy pink. “No, Rowan.”

There’s a bit of defiance in thatno, as if she’s wondering if I’ll challenge it. A part of me wonders if shewantsme to challenge it. But I’ve never been the type of man to force a woman to do something she doesn’t want to do. And while every inch of Genevieve’s body in my arms told me that she does want it, her voice is telling me something else.

My cock throbs painfully, and I grab my own glass of whiskey, shoving myself up out of my seat as I do. I throw it back in one gulp, striding down the aisle toward the bedroom at the back of the jet, handing the glass to the flight attendant as I pass her. I can feel my blood pounding in my veins, feel the stress and anger and heated lust of the night on the verge of driving me mad, and I barely make it into the bedroom before I have my pants undone and my cock in my fist.

I lean back against the door, my eyes closed as I run my hand feverishly along my length, trailing my tongue over my lips as I imagine that I can still taste Genevieve on them. Her mouth, sweet and spiced with whiskey, her skin soft under my hands, her body, for just a moment, as pliable and wanting as it’s been in all my fantasies.

She’s all I think about, as I stroke myself relentlessly, desperate for relief.

And her name, I feel sure, is the only one I’m ever going to call out when I come, for the rest of my fucking life.

22

ROWAN

Genevieve is asleep when I emerge a little while later, curled up under the cashmere throw. I sink down across from her, watching her for a long moment until I, too, finally drift off into a restless sleep.

When I wake up, it’s to the sensation of the plane touching down, and a feeling that I’ve both slept too long and not enough. I blink open my sticky eyes to see that it’s daylight out, though the heavy, cloudy daylight that I’ve grown used to over the years and missed deeply. Genevieve is awake, too, curled up in the seat across from me still with a book, and I see a tray of various picked-at breakfast foods sitting on the table between us.

She sets the book down as the plane slows, and I rub a hand over my face. “I’m sorry,” I tell her thickly. “I should have woken you up and let you know there was a bedroom you could have slept in. I fell asleep before I could.”

“It’s fine.” Genevieve shrugs. “I slept alright. And it was a long night.” She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, and my fingers curl against my palm, aching to touch her. There’s still the better part of a week before I’ll be able to have her again, and last night did nothing to help the situation. I can feel my cock pressing uncomfortably against the front of my zipper with the usual ferocity of mornings, but there’s not much I can do about it right now. We’re going to be getting ready to get off the plane any moment.

Rory collects our things while I walk with Genevieve out to the waiting car on the tarmac. There are five guys on motorcycles scattered a hundred or so yards away, and Genevieve pauses, looking curiously out toward where they’re idling.

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