‘What? All I’m trying to do is warm you up a little, princess. You’ve gone all taut and goose bumpy.’
She was only going to go even more taut the way he was working her. ‘James. I will retaliate.’
His hot laughter on her neck only turned her on more. ‘I’d like to see you try.’
‘You don’t know who you’re playing with.’ Bravado all the way—and how she was aching for him to take her all the way.
‘Go on, then. Try me.’
She turned more towards him, got as close as the damn airline seats would allow, and slid her fingers under his tee—just as she’d dreamed of doing in the departure lounge. She smoothed palms across his chest, exploring the breadth and warmth. Then, impatient as always, she slid them lower, tracking down the arrow of hair that felt slightly rough beneath her fingertips. To the belt of his jeans. It was surprisingly easy to push the tongue of the belt through the loop one-handed, without being able to see it under the blanket.
His breathing deepened.
But there was no way she could get the fly of his jeans undone—it was pulled too taut by the straining ridge beneath. She had to be content with stroking the length of it—up and down through the material. Quite desperately she wanted to feel him bare in her hand. She’d take him in her mouth if she thought she could get away with it, if they could somehow be discreet.
He must have read her mind because he looked into her eyes, his own slightly glassy. And his hand moved under the blanket, covering hers, not gripping harshly but firm enough to stop her from her task.
‘I can’t let you do that.’
‘Why not?’ she muttered, excited by the feel of him, the thick length. She wanted him free, right up against his stomach, and she really wished she could take a good look because it felt fantastic—big and hard.
‘You know what you’re doing to me, don’t you?’
‘I think so.’ She smiled.
And then he smiled back at her—a smile of warmth and want and no hint of mockery or sarcasm. And while she was melting he stole the advantage back.
He easily gripped both her hands in one of his, dragging her half across the seat and almost into his own.
He angled her so her shoulder and upper back rested on his chest, so they were both looking towards the windows. Then, under cover of the blankets, he slipped his fingers under her top, pushed aside the lace of her bra and teased her nipple. He nuzzled her neck and she closed her eyes—wanting, wanting, wanting more.
He knew. He moved, worked his hand down the front of her pants, easily slipping between fabric and skin.
They didn’t kiss again, not wanting to draw attention from other passengers—not wanting the intensity broken. Instead his hand moved, with almost imperceptible movements—tiny rubbing ones, which she matched with tiny rocking. And his other hand held both of hers and she felt bound to him, to the sensual spell he had her under. He was leading the dance and she seemed to have no option but to follow. There was no escape; she could only ride on the storm he was brewing.
Suddenly the inevitability of it oppressed her and she filled with the need to fight, to gain some control over her raging desires, some control over him.
She clamped her upper thighs together. ‘I’m not going to have an orgasm on an aeroplane surrounded by passengers.’ She choked the words out.
‘No?’ His voice was rough. ‘But you’re close.’ Statement not question.
His breath stirred her ear and she closed her eyes, pressing her lips tighter together, trying to stop the moans, trying to stop the sensations from overwhelming her. How could she want him so badly?
‘You really are built for pleasure, aren’t you?’
Something in the way he said it made her freeze completely. What was she doing having a grope in public?
This was a cheap and easy thrill—was that all he thought she was? What about him?
He did immediately. Got the ice in her tone and got his hand out of her pants. She turned. His frown was almost imperceptible but it was there.
‘And here was me thinking you were a wild child,’ he said. ‘A hedonist. Someone who’d take pleasure any chance she could get it.’
She moved, going to the far side of her own seat—putting what little distance she could between them. ‘I’m not everything you think me, James.’ She smiled and bluffed. ‘It has to be the right place, the right time.’
She paused. ‘The right person.’
‘The right person, for the right moment.’
Momentary. She rebelled against his automatic assumption that this would be short-lived. Why did everyone think anything she was involved in would be transient?