Page 7 of Mile High Coach

“With this very nice first-class section,” I add, still in awe of what it looks like up here.

“Yes.” His thousand-watt smile still isn’t dimming. “In this very nice first-class section.”

When his eyes drop to my lips, a surge of awareness and excitement runs through me, and I think for a second that we might just do this right here, and right now—then he opens his mouth and says something I wasn’t expecting.

“Did you finish watching that game?”

I blink, then realize he’s talking about hockey. Maybe I read this wrong. My cheeks flush warm with embarrassment, but I’m already pulling my iPad out of my bag. I was planning on watching it anyway, and the turbulence is over. Might as well sit in first class and get some input from a hockey fan while I do.

He gets the game up on the larger screen in front of us (wow, first class) and he pulls the blanket up from beside his seat and settles it over the two of us.

“Cold?” he asks, and I open my mouth to tell him he’s already gotten the blanket out, but then I feel his hand on my thigh, and it makes my entire body melt.

Oh.

“Yes,” I say, realizing too late how breathy my voice is. We settle back into the seats, thigh-to-thigh, and he keeps his hand on mine. Ten minutes later, I’m losing my mind with anticipation, and there’s a tiny knock on the door to his pod that nearly makes me jump out of my skin.

“Just checking in,” a flight attendant says, seeing the hockey on the screen, and clearly thinking the coast is all clear. “We are set to land in four hours. We’re delayed a bit from the storms.”

“Thank you,” he says, and the gruffness of his voice makes me think that those ten minutes with his hand on my thigh might have been just as frustrating for him as they were for me.

The moment the door closes, his hand slides higher.

On the screen, the Blue Crabs aren’t even done with the first period of the Stanley cup, and the tips of his fingers are sliding under the hem of my shorts.

“What’s your name?” he asks, letting his head loll over to me, his expression relaxed and almost lazy, like we’ve known each other forever.

“Willow.” I don’t know why, but I answer him with my middle name automatically. My logical brain is still checking in, despite the fact that I’m doing something so reckless.

“Willow,” he whispers back to me, his finger sliding up my thigh. I fight not to let my head fall back against the seat, to keep my body still, like he’s a bird that might startle and fly away if I even so much as shift in my seat. Tilting his head, he says, “Do you want to do this with me?”

“Yes.”

I surprise myself by saying it, but it’s true.

A wicked smile curls over his face, and I wait for something to happen, but he continues toying with the hem of my shorts, his face turned toward the screen, the light from the hockey game playing over his features.

Does he want me to initiate?

I’m not sure that I can. I might be up for agreeing to this, but the rule-follower inside me doesn’t want to go any further than that. So, for the next half an hour, we watch the game together, but I don’t see a single thing that happens.

Instead, I focus on the soft, slow, sure movement of his fingers against my leg, the gentle sweep of them, the way he presses his thumb, for five seconds, into the meat of my thigh. It feels like he’s pressing directly into my core.

Finally, when I’m sure this isn’t actually going anywhere, and he was only teasing me, he slips his hand under the hem of my shorts.

I’m so wet, I know he can feel the dampness of it when he slides the backs of his knuckles along my panties, and despite my every effort to stay still, I arch into the touch. He sucks air in through his teeth, and it’s the first time—apart from him asking if I wanted this—that he’s even acknowledged what’s happening here.

When he slips his fingers around the line of my panties and dips into me, I realize I don’t even know his name.

It doesn’t matter—my mind goes completely blank, devoid of all thoughts and questions as he circles my clit once, twice—large, slow circles that feel like deep breaths. A deep lungful of lust is coursing through my veins.

If I knew his name, I’d be whispering it now.

We move together silently, the shuffle of the blanket sounding supersonic in the small space. I’m sure someone isgoing to rip the door open, see what’s happening, and ban us from ever boarding another airplane again, and I also don’t care.

I expect to feel unmoored, wild without the comforting element of my adherence to rules, but this is strangely freeing.

He situates himself behind me, his mouth hot against my shoulder, his hand still working steadily against my clit, bringing the pleasure rising in a tide over my body that never quite crests, never quite breaks through.

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