“It didn’t hurt,” I said.
“Did it feel good?”
“I came, didn’t I?”
“Stop being silly. Silly boy…” She began to finger-comb my hair. She nuzzled her cheek against mine and whispered in my ear, “You liked it. Tell me.”
A dull throb between my legs reminded me how well I’d liked it.
“You like it when I finger your ass. I imagine it feels the same.”
“I love it,” she said.
“And I love you. Don’t make me spell it out.”
“You make me spell everything out.” She twisted one of my nipples—gently. I hissed. Fuck, she was feisty tonight.
“Didn’t know you were into sexual torture.” My breath caught as I snickered. Impossible to play it cool with her curves fitted to my body, her * so close to my cock.
“Hm, who knows what else I’m into?” She twisted harder. A twinge of pleasure-pain traveled straight to my dick. I rolled—Hannah squeaked at the sudden motion—and pinned her to the bed. I dragged my fingers over her mouth, her breasts, her cunt.
“All mine,” I whispered. “My fiancée.”
She closed her legs, trapping my erection between her velvet thighs.
“My husband to be,” she murmured. “All…” The muscles in her legs tightened, gripping me harder. “Mine.”
I tilted Hannah’s chin and made her look at me.
“I liked it,” I said. “What you did. No one’s ever…”
“No?”
“Just you.” I hesitated, my body aching. “I want to give you something.”
Beneath me, Hannah softened, a sweet smile spreading on her lips.
“All right,” she whispered.
Without climbing off her, I felt around in the bedside drawer until I found what I wanted: a small square box. Maybe because of what it contained—a platinum engagement ring, size six, with a one-carat diamond and two eight-diamond swirls around the band—it felt heavier than I thought it should. The ring was thick and modern in style; I had noticed Hannah admiring it the day we bought her father’s cuff links.
I propped myself on my elbows and opened the box.
“This is the ring—”
“I know,” she said. Her eyes were wide. “You remembered.”
“Mm. Will you wear it?”
Hannah held out her hand. Fucking adorable; she could never speak when she got emotional. She nodded and smiled unsteadily.
I worked the ring onto her finger, over her knuckle, and straightened it. Then I laid her hand across her chest and admired it.
“Perfect,” I said. I searched her face. “Now let me”—she moaned when I moved—“in.”
Chapter 9
HANNAH
We flew east on Thursday night, my second flight with Matt. I clung to his arm as our plane rose and shuddered in the atmosphere. He stroked my hand and smiled at me.
Oh … that warm smile.
I didn’t fuss about our first-class seats. In fact, I secretly enjoyed the luxury.
Matt looked gorgeous, semi-casual in dress slacks and a pale button-down. I wore black leggings and a loose boat-neck sweatshirt. When we reached cruising altitude, I relaxed enough to peer around the cabin.
Wow, everyone here looked like Matt. The high-end clothes, the easy elegance, the unmistakable air of privilege.
When our flight attendant introduced herself—Jane, and welcome to the friendly skies—Matt rattled off a list of requests, his smooth voice and snowy smile dazzling her. “An extra pillow and blanket for her”—he touched my hand—“and wine, please, white if you have it. None for me.” He pressed a twenty into her hand. She dithered, then accepted the bill, and fawned over us for the rest of the flight.
I’d never seen anyone tip a flight attendant, but Matt tipped his way through existence—a twenty for the man who helped with our bags, a twenty after dinner, a fifty for curbside check-in—and we coasted effortlessly across the country.
We could, I realized, coast effortlessly through life. No jobs … nice meals … world travel … ease. Why did I buck against it? So many people would kill for that life.
“If we tell her about our engagement”—Matt’s voice snapped me out of my daydream—“she’ll announce it over the PA system.” He questioned me with a glance.
“No! Er, no … thank you.”
He chuckled and shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
“I feel underdressed,” I mumbled.
“Hm?” He studied my outfit as if seeing it for the first time. It wasn’t the first time, though. That morning, when I’d stepped out of our closet wearing skintight black leggings, Matt spent a good ten minutes circling me and admiring my ass. Hands-on admiration. “Bird, you look fine.” He rubbed my thigh. “You look comfy.”
He dozed and I drank a second glass of wine. The flight attendant kept them coming.
I looked comfy. Right. And Matt looked like he belonged in first class. This was his world, and he’d stepped down from his world to live in a tiny condo with me, surrounded by walls he painted—for me!—in ludicrous colors. Surrounded by cheap knickknacks the likes of which I’d never seen in his former apartment.
No wonder he wanted to buy a mansion for us, a home where he might feel comfortable.
I studied his sleeping profile.
The cabin jostled, a tremor of turbulence. Matt’s brow furrowed and smoothed.
Behind me, a woman purred about her home on Lake Geneva … Switzerland.
I drained my glass and felt small.
We landed at Newark International a little before midnight and emerged into a haze of humidity. I toddled after Matt, rubbing sleep from my eyes. He’d had nothing to eat or drink during the flight except coffee. He walked too fast, just like Nate, and glowered at everything.
A dark Mercedes—almost black, but with a ruby undertone—waited for us at the curb. Matt signed some paperwork, tipped the delivery driver, and asked if I was hungry … for the third time.