“How can sex get better every time?” he muttered. “Like, there has to be an upward limit to how good sex can get, right?”
I shrugged. “I dunno.”
“Is it, for you?”
I nodded, following the direction of his question. “Better every time? Yes. Seems impossible, but there it is—every time we fuck, it’s more incredible than the last time.”
And part of me hated that truth, because I already knew I was in deep shit with this man. I was addicted to him. To his laughter, his music. To his hands, his mouth. To his cock, like whoa. To sex with him—fuck…to the intimacy. It was not just fucking, with Myles. I knew that, and I was fighting it. I wouldn’t admit that out loud, much less to him. To anyone, much less myself. But it was true.
I just didn’t want him to realize it.
That was safer. Easier.
As was this—basking in the afterglow of great sex, rather than still talking. Still sharing our feelings. Still putting our relationship such as it was into a box, inside neat little labels, with emotional attachments and expectations.
Myles was content to snuggle up behind me, limp cock nestled in my butt cheeks, hand lazily, idly caressing my breasts. Not sleeping—he never fell asleep after sex—but just…this. Holding me.
I fought impatience. Fought discomfort. I liked being here, in his arms. Being held. I did. I really, truly did. But I also felt a deep, driving discomfort, a fear of liking it too much.
Myles’s phone rang in the other room, and he groaned. “That’s Tony’s ring. He probably has a plane for us.”
“You should answer it,” I said.
“Mmm. Like it better here.”
“You like being able to hold on to my boobs,” I said, laughing.
“Absolutely the truth.” He squeezed. “Every single time I get to see them naked or touch them, I feel as lucky and giddy as if I was a fourteen-year-old boy seeing your tits for the first time.”
He wasn’t lying, either. He did look at me and touch me exactly like that.
Another thing I was fucking addicted to, dammit.
The phone silenced. Rang again immediately.
I plucked his hand off my breast. “Go.”
He groaned, but wrenched himself away and swaggered naked and perfect into the living room, answered the phone, standing nude in the middle of the room—I just stared at him, feeling just as fortunate and lucky and giddy to get him naked in my life. I mean, look at him. The muscles of his back rippled, his ass flexed into taut marble bubbles as he moved his weight from foot to foot, his bicep flexing as he lifted the phone to his ear. Legs like trees, a little hairy. Hair was a mess, but perfectly so.
Damn, damn, damn. The man was incredible.
And I, stupidly, impossibly, wanted him again. Right now. I could jump on that cock right now and come just as hard, enjoy him just as much. It was a problem, how insatiable he made me—I was already running a sex-drive of nearly nymphomaniacal levels, and Myles North put me into super-hyper-ultra turbo drive.
All I wanted to do was fuck him, again and again.
If only because as long as we were fucking, we weren’t getting anywhere near discussions of my past, my issues, or putting labels on what Myles and I were or were not.
I wondered if he would ever catch on to that. I hoped not. But he wasn’t dumb—far from it. I had a feeling my days of sexuality as avoidance were numbered—I’d squeeze every last bit out of the time I had left, though. And then some.
Because I was a seriously fucked-up woman. I wondered if Myles knew…and hoped like hell he didn’t.
Myles
Sprawled out on the couch, I signed the last of the documents—digitally, on my iPad. Sent them back. Within minutes, I had the paperwork signifying me as the owner of a ten-year-old Cessna ten-passenger jet. The next email from Tony contained his top four picks for pilot and copilot: each was every bit as certified as the last, most former airline pilots now flying private. One was ex-military, certified to fly everything from helicopters to fighter jets, with thousands of hours of flight time on nearly everything imaginable; he was my top pick, just based on his resumé. My other pick was similar—a former Navy pilot with several thousand hours on multi-engine aircraft, now flying as a private aviation pilot. If I was putting my life in their hands, they damn well better be the best.
I sent Tony my choices, and he shot back a quick reply—I knew you’d pick them. I already asked them to be ready for interviews in the next ten minutes.
I sent back a reply: I say we interview them together—see how they interact.
Tony: Agreed. We’ll do an online video conference; you don’t have to say anything unless you want to. I’ll send you a link to the meeting.
While I was busy with paperwork and emails, Lexie went out and came back with coffees and Danish from my favorite neighborhood place. How did she know I needed some caffeine right now? I gave her a quick kiss and then spent the next half an hour listening to Tony interview the pilots—Captain Alan Murphy and Captain Rebecca Callahan. Yeah, the Navy pilot was a woman. Part of why I wanted to be in for the interview, to see how Captain Murphy would treat a female, who would, depending on the flight, be either the lead or the copilot. To his credit, Murphy was respectful, polite, and seemed impressed by Callahan’s qualifications—they spent part of the interview essentially interviewing each other, and sharing military pilot shoptalk.
As the interview was wrapping up, I finally clicked my video on, so they knew who I was—keeping the view
