Page 9 of Riot Act
“Hey!Paxton!”
It takes a second to locate her: Margarite, the cute little French girl with the coke habit. She sits on a painted railing fifteen feet away, kicking her feet as she licks happily at an ice cream cone. She grins like a fiend when I lock eyes with her. “Sorry, Paxton,” she shouts. “I saw it start. I would have called the fire department, but I seem to have lost my phone.”
I can’t help it.
I burst out laughing.
I laugh until I double over and puke into the black waters of the Mediterranean.
2
PAX
“Oh my god. I want—I want…”
She wants my cock inside her. She wants my teeth on her neck. She wants all of me. Lord, I cansmellhow bad she fucking wants me. Her breath is laced with the expensive whiskey I gave her back at the house. Her skin is fragrant, like gardenias, and green spring growth, and coconut. Her pussy smells sweet, though, indescribably delectable—a signature scent that must have been designed specifically to drive me out of my goddamn mind. I can’t think around that scent. It’s turned me fucking feral. I lick, and suck, and bite at the perfect alabaster pale skin of her shoulder, losing more and more of myself as the seconds slip by.
My hands are full of fire. Her hair is so red and beautiful even in the moonlight. Her lips are a delicate, pale pink—the color of exquisite coral. I can’t get enough of those, either. That pouty, swollen, plump mouth will be the death of me. What I wouldn’t give to have that perfect fucking mouth wrapped around my shaft right now.
“God. Pax. I…” Her words are little pants. Gasps, even. She struggles to force them out, but the reverence in them is plain. I am her god, and she is worshipping me. As it should be. As it will always be. This girl with the caramel-colored eyes, the heavy, amazing teardrop breasts, and the most distracting dimple in her right cheek? She’s quite easily the most stunning creature I’ve ever laid eyes on. I could happily pin her against this tree trunk, and—
“HEY!”
I come to, slamming my knee into the seat in front of me, hissing at the bolt of pain that shoots all the way up my leg.
Ow.
“Hey, wake up! Damn, dude, are you okay? That looked like it hurt.”
Where the fuck am I?
What the fuck is that rushing, sucking, roaring sound?
For a second, I worry that my ears aren’t working properly. And then it all comes together: the phone call from the hospital in New York. The nurse who let it slip that my mother has cancer. The nine hours waiting on a hard-plastic bench, trying to get a flight. The shitty airport food. Boarding the plane. The smell of smoke still clinging to my clothes. The Contessa. Christ.The Contessa.I’m not a coward, but I’m not looking forward to telling Wren Jacobi that I sank his boat with my dick.
If I hadn’t told that French chick that I was twenty-one just so I could get her naked, she wouldn’t have torched the fucking thing. As it now stands, my obituary will be short:PAX DAVIS, 18, former model and general asshole, succumbed to his injuries almost immediately. If only he hadn’t fucked that crazy French bitch.
“Dude, I thought you were having a heart attack.”
To my left, the guy I’m sharing row thirty-six with is wide-eyed, his mouth hanging open. His Bose headphones hang around his neck, aggressive rap music leaking from the speakers. “You were moaning.” He laughs. “I thought that hot flight attendant was gonna shit herself.”
I rub my eyes. “I have nightmares on planes.”
The guy puffs out his cheeks. “Nightmare? Sounded like you were three seconds away from coming.”
I’m about to deny it again, but I shift my hips in my seat and realize that my dick is harder than granite; I’m pitching wood so bad you can probably see my erection from outer space. I actually must have been about to come, which is just…awesome. Wow. Just fuckingawesome. I smile tightly, shunting myself upright. I can’t hide my massive boner without touching myself and I donotwant to draw attention to it, so I just let it sit there, glaringly obvious and impressively upright.
This far back on the plane—the very last damn row—the chairs don’t recline. I’ve been drifting in and out of consciousness for hours, miserable and in pain, cursing the fact that not only am I stuck in economy but inthemost uncomfortable seat in the history of air travel. My body hurts, and now my cock is hard enough that it hurts, too.
“Come on, then. Spill. Who were you getting hot and heavy with in your sleep?” the guy next to me asks. He introduced himself when I sat down next to him during boarding. Told me his name, but I forgot it right after. He’s had this fixed smile on his face since we boarded that’s made me want to slap him; no one has the right to be this happy for no goddamn reason.
“I told you. It was a nightmare. There was no hot and heavy.”
He’s disappointed, it’s clear, but so fucking what? I don’t know this clown. He doesn’t deserve personal information from me. And Idon’tremember who I was about to bone in my dream. It certainly wasn’t Crazy Margarite.
The guy swivels around, sitting straight in his seat again. “We’re only an hour from New York. You missed breakfast. They said they’d bring one of the meals back and leave it for you, but I think they forgot.”
“I’ll eat when we land.”
