I want you.
I want you so bad, Ivy.
“This is a nasty habit,” I tell her.
“Yeah,” she says breathlessly. I notice the way her chest rises and falls faster.
“Why do you do it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you nervous?”
“A little.”
“Is it me?”
She shakes her head. “It’s…not just you.”
I wonder what that means, and what else is consuming her thoughts, but again, I don’t want to talk about heavy shit.
“You have very beautiful hands, and I’d hate for you to ruin them,” I explain. “I’m going to keep my hand here as a reminder for the rest of the flight that you can’t attack them. Alright?”
She blinks and then slowly nods. “Alright.”
I sit back, content that my lame excuse to touch her has worked. Somehow, I know she sees right through my bullshit. My hand pulls apart the two she’s clasped together and wraps itself around the one nearest to me. Her skin is smooth and soft. I imagine the rest of her delectable body is too.
“You know,” she then remarks, “you look deceptively office-oriented, but you’ve got callouses along your palm. What do you do in your spare time?”
Heat settles within me. She’s a very inquisitive person. When was the last time a woman remarked on my hands? Never. The answer is fucking never because they don’t give a fuck to ask. They just want me to finger them to orgasm and move the fuck on. When have I ever cared otherwise, though?
Ivy seems older somehow. She must come from a whole life interrupted by some kind of devastation. I know this nature I see in her well – after all, I experienced it well enough to spot it a mile away.
“I restore old cars in my spare time,” I softly explain, perturbed a little that I’m opening up about this.
It’s my hobby. Something I do to pass the time in my loneliness. It’s not something I talk about to just anyone. I’m not looking for touchy feely conversation. Especially with a woman. Not after the hell I went through with one in particular. No, women just fill a void in me for a limited time. It’s safer this way. I get to enjoy them and move on when my satisfaction has been quenched. It’s just the way I am. Call me an asshole. Call me an insensitive prick. I know I’m all that. I’m not Mister Nice Guy, and I’ve laid that message across perfectly clear to every woman I’m with.
So…why the fuck tell her that?
“I like that,” she remarks. “You’re a capable man in a suit.”
I smirk. “Is that impressive?”
“A man who wears a suit and can change a tire on the side of the road? Yeah, impressive.”
I chuckle. “What’s actually impressive is you noticing my callouses.”
She scoffs. “Hardly. It’s an obvious tell.”
“One that no other woman has made.”
She reddens again and looks away. It’s interesting what happens when you dig a layer deeper into a person. That tough persona of hers from before has been cracked completely. What I see now is a genuine beauty with a softness in her I want a taste of. I want to crack more layers. Dig a little deeper. Make her redder. Looser. She’s bold enough and might very well play along.
“Speaking of physical pursuits, I’m very hands on in many other ways,” I huskily tell her.
Her lips curve up, and when she licks her bottom lip, I feel my mouth part a little. A look of indecision crosses those delicate features before she leans again to my side and whispers, “I’m guessing you’re the kinky type, right?”
I lean in, too, until I’m inches from her face and reply, “What makes you say that?”
She probes me, sliding her gaze ever so slowly from my face and down my torso, lingering momentarily on my groin. Fuuuck, this girl can flirt with her eyes. Very dangerous.
“You’re a young rich man,” she says, “which means you must enjoy whips and cuffs and stupidly shallow girls that’ll trust you because you’re sexy. You probably have a slew of mommy issues and a long line up of blondes ready to satiate your needs.”
“And I think you read a little too many books.”
She bursts out laughing. I like being this close to her. She’s like a magnetic field, forcing me to her. I’m a breath away from kissing her, and I’m beyond tempted to. I wonder if she’d pull away. The smug asshole in me chastises me for questioning such a thing. Of course she wouldn’t.
“So, I’m wrong?” she asks, seemingly just as content to be so near.
“Very.”
“Tell me what I’ve got wrong.”
“I have no mommy issues. My grandmother raised me, and I love her. That woman could put Betty Crocker to shame with her baking.”
“I can’t believe you just admitted to being a mama’s boy.”
“No shame,” I say confidently. “I’d never lie to someone about who I’d go to the ends of the earth for.”
“And you would for her?”
“Absolutely.”
She looks warmly at me. “That’s pretty adorable, Aidan.”
“I know,” I agree on a wink. “It’s a perfect topic before a pick-up line. I’ve never failed using my grandmother. Women gush like you are now over that benign shit.”
I’m lying, of course, but I just want to hear her laugh.
Instead, her jaw drops. “You fucker.”
I nod, heatedly looking down at that open mouth. “Oh, I’m definitely a fucker. A very good one too, and I like my woman untied, unharmed and completely within her right to touch me as much as her little heart desires. Because there’s nothing more of a turn on than a woman’s nails running down my spine while I talk dirty to her.”
She’s utterly shocked by my bold words. She tries to smile, but the situation’s too intense. She swallows instead and eyes my mouth with a
