Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 72284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
“But you don’t believe you did?”
“Oh, I know I did.”
“Then it sounds like your fiancé did you a favor.”
“Ex- fiancé. And yes, he did. Turns out he wasn’t a good guy after all.”
And just like that, the floodgates open, and thanks to the glass of champagne and lack of sleep, I spend the next ten minutes filling Mr. Handsome in on what happened. Being ditched at the altar. But how it shouldn’t be a surprise because hey, my loser fiancé hadn’t fucked me in weeks because he was too busy shagging some chick called Laura and doing God knows what and who else. It tumbles out before I can stop it, and I start to think Mr. Handsome is going to regret even casting an eye in my direction, let alone striking up a conversation with me. But he listens intently, those dark eyes not leaving my face, only occasionally dropping to my lips.
“Oh fuck,” I say. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to unleash all of that on you.”
“Don’t be sorry. It sounds like you’ve been through a lot.”
“Isn’t there some saying about making it through the storm to get to the sunshine? If not, I’m printing it on a T-shirt.”
“Then we should toast to your newfound freedom.” He refills both our glasses and holds his up, his gaze focused on me. “To new beginnings…” Wickedness fills his eyes. “And way better sex.”
The way he says sex drips with innuendo and spice, and a lustful throb begins to beat at my core.
Heat crackles between us before I manage to lift my glass to my lips to take a sip.
The airplane jets come to life, and my anxiety skyrockets, instantly throwing cold water on the moment.
We start to move, and I grip the armrest.
“Jesus,” I whisper while inwardly cursing myself. When I canceled the plane tickets to Las Vegas I should’ve used the money to buy something other than more plane tickets. Like a spa day. Or used it to replace the six hundred dollars Wilson the Loser stole. Why did I choose to put myself through this hell?
The flight attendant sweeps through the cabin, collecting cups and telling everyone to straighten their seats and put their trays away. When she tries to take the champagne bottle from Mr. Handsome, he simply commands, “Leave it.” And she does as he says.
And I’m grateful because my heart is racing and my nerves are frazzled, so I’m going to need more champagne for when we land.
I press the back of my skull into the headrest.
The flight attendant takes us through the safety demonstration, and a few minutes later, our jet is racing down the runway. I hold my breath. I’ve never been a good flyer. It used to annoy the hell out of Wilson whenever we visited his family in Connecticut. He’d get annoyed and tell me to get a grip, saying I let myself get worked up over something I have no control over, which was pointless.
Okay, you zen asshole.
I close my eyes and release my breath slowly through my lips.
I don’t have to worry about him anymore.
My mind flips back to the phone call. You’re vanilla. And my eyes flick open as the humiliation sweeps through me again.
He called me predictable and boring. But I couldn’t even get him to bend me over the couch to fuck me.
We lift off and my stomach dips, and I grip the armrest so hard my knuckles are white.
“See, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” comes that deep voice next to me. I glance at him. He’s relaxed and calm, and it’s actually helpful. He seems so in control, so sure of every move he makes, and I can’t imagine him dying in a plane crash because of it, which is really good for me and everyone else on this plane.
I let out a shaky breath and laugh off my anxiety. “You’re right, it wasn’t.”
Because our glasses are gone, he hands me the bottle.
“Go on,” he encourages. “Liquid courage.”
I grin and take a hearty swig. “Anyone would think you were trying to get me drunk.”
“It’s purely for medicinal reasons.” He leans closer and wipes a drop of champagne from my chin.
Goosebumps pebble my skin because, holy shit, this man smells too divine for words.
I blame the champagne because, out of nowhere, I imagine him in bed. He’d take control, there’s no doubt about it. He’d use his deep, commanding voice to tell you to come, and you would. And he’s definitely like the guy who would give you a thousand orgasms before he took his own.
Damn.
I pull my knees together to squelch the heady pulse that just took up between my thighs.
How long has it been since I’ve had an orgasm, four weeks? And even then, it wasn’t with Wilson. It was after he had rolled over and gone to sleep and I snuck into the bathroom to finish off what he started.