“You’re not a member of the mile-high club?”
“Nope.”
“Do you want to be?” Her hand slides up.
I capture her fingers with mine. “Do you really want to play naked sardines in an airline bathroom?”
Hazel makes a face. “Don’t we get a bigger bathroom on this thing?”
“Not that big.” I drop a kiss on top of her head. I doubt that she’s really issuing an invitation to have a quickie at forty thousand feet.
Plus, Hazel is a nervous flyer. She usually takes a chill pill before boarding, which means that we never schedule same-day business meetings for her as she needs time to “turn her brain back on.” I’m not sure what her doctor’s prescribing, but she’s definitely not anxious right now. In fact, she seems totally relaxed.
Maybe she’s too comfortable.
“Plan B,” she says. “You make me come.”
Turns out she’s not taking any chances. With a sharp grin, she grabs my hand and puts it exactly where she wants it. It’s like I’m her very own magic rabbit toy.
I’m not quite sure if she’s teasing me or not. I mean, she’s definitely teasing, but does she want me to do something more? We’re not exactly private here, even if we’re alone. I also haven’t made out on a plane in years and even then it was just kisses in first class. There’s probably some kind of single-guy etiquette that covers this situation but I’m not sure what it is.
“Hold that thought,” she announces.
Wait—what?
There’s no thinking happening, at least not on my part. Even though our flight will be short, she’s wearing clothing meant for relaxing on the plane—some kind of very clingy matching knit set. The fabric’s soft beneath my fingertips, although that’s not the reason I stroke gently back and forth. I love touching Hazel. The pants and leggings are a perfectly tame, muted gray, and I can’t help but notice that there’s no visible panty line. Is she commando? I’m immediately distracted from that avenue of inquiry, however, because when she leans down to rummage in her bag, the material hugs her boobs and does insane things to her ass. Plus, my hand’s shoved against her crotch in the best ever Hazel sandwich.
A creamy strip of skin is visible above the waist of her leggings. Naked. She’s most definitely naked underneath. I bite back a groan. My dick has been hard since we boarded the plane and this isn’t helping the situation in my pants. Fortunately, I have about thirty-five minutes to make Mr. Happy less...happy.
Without missing a beat, she snags something from her purse by our feet—a cashmere throw I’ve seen dozens if not hundreds of times before. It’s Hazel’s constant companion on every flight because she’s always cold, and on more than one occasion I’ve heard her vow undying love to it. With a flick of her wrist, she drapes it over us.
Hiding the evidence.
She’s the smartest woman on the planet and my hand’s still on her crotch.
I do my part and grab the remote, dimming the cabin lights. The pilots probably won’t come out and I know for a fact that there are no security cameras in the cabin, but it never hurts to play things safe. Neither of us wants to read about horny billionaire business partners getting inducted into the mile-high club on one of the online gossip sites. The media sucks sometimes and this would be far too much click bait for them to pass up.
“Yes?” I run my thumb over the waistband of her leggings, asking permission to take things further.
“Absolutely.” Hazel nods enthusiastically, shimmying in her seat. The throw slips and she catches it, her eyes laughing at me over the edge.
I slip my hand into Hazel’s leggings. There’s a moment of happy confirmation—she’s not wearing panties—and then the scent and feel of Hazel becomes my entire world. She’s slick and swollen, so wet that my fingers glide over her easily. She groans encouragement as I skim my fingertips down. The angle is awkward, my wrist bent in an uncomfortable bow. The dark, the blanket, the near pain in my wrist—it reminds me of high school and I tell her so.
She laughs. “Who was your first? Cheerleader? Best friend’s older sister? Math teacher?”
I’m not sure why she wants to have a conversation now, but I want to make her happy, so I take a shot at forming a coherent sentence. “You have a dirty mind.”
And it’s fabulous.
Hazel makes that snort-laugh—mission accomplished on the happiness front—but then her breath catches. Oh, good. I’ve distracted her. “Yes, like that.”
I skim her folds more lightly before sinking a little deeper. She’s so wet and soft there. All the stupid comparisons come to mind—she feels like silk, a flower, rose petals. They’re not enough. Even if she didn’t blow my mind so completely, I’d never find enough words to describe Hazel. Somehow, she’s simply more.
She presses harder against my hand and I find a faster rhythm with my fingers—teasing, circling, gliding my fingers around her clit. I can feel the little tremors starting in her sensitive flesh.
“I don’t want to come yet,” she groans.
“I could do this all night,” I whisper roughly against her hair. “But there’re two problems with that plan. First problem? Vegas is only a short flight.”
I move faster until I’m getting her off with my fingers and she’s chanting my name, her hands locked on my wrist as if I’d let go of her now. When she comes, it’s fast and hard, and I savor each sweet pulse. I love making her lose control; I love catching her when she lets go and fall-flies over the edge.
We sort of collapse together in the sudden silence blanketing the cabin. Eventually, I trail my mouth over her cheek to her ear. “You’re amazing.”
She mutters something, but it’s incomprehensible. I reach over and do up her seat belt before I pull her up against my side. The pilot announces that we’re landing, and the Vegas lights rush
