“Ladies and gentlemen, please return your seats to an upright position and fasten your seatbelts in preparation for landing. We will be arriving at Nice International Airport in approximately fifteen minutes.”
At the sound of the announcement, I snap open my eyes. Mortification sweeps through me. I fell asleep with my head resting on Brandon’s strong shoulder, my cheek brushing his mountainous bicep. Straightening, I glance down at my watch. We’ve been in the air for over twelve hours. The time in Nice is seven p.m.
“Hi,” I squeak, totally embarrassed. I must look all sleepy-faced.
“Hi,” he says back with a dazzling smile. He tucks a few strands of hair that have fallen into my eye behind my ear, bringing awareness back into my body, and then buckles my seatbelt for me, an endearing gesture that sends tingles to my core. “Are you excited?”
“Yes, very,” I say breathily as I look down at the mesmerizing view of the Mediterranean below us.
“Me too.”
In more ways than one. Another view takes my breath away—the prominent bulge that dominates the area between his legs. His enormous cock is straining against his jeans. Maybe he fell asleep too and had a wet dream? I can’t get my eyes off his fly knowing what lies beneath. I feel myself flushing as a fresh rush of flutters pulses through me.
“Are you okay?” asks Brandon.
I quickly shift my vision to his gorgeous face. His thick-lashed violet eyes penetrate me and a knowing smirk curls his luscious lips.
“Um, uh, I’m a little nervous about the plane landing.”
He playfully flicks my nose. “Don’t worry. The equipment’s fine. It’s going to go down as smoothly as it went up. It just may take a little longer.”
“Oh,” I spout, reading way too much into his words. Heat blossoms between my legs, visualizing his cockpit. Squeezing my thighs together, I take a deep, calming breath.
Sure enough, we land without a hitch. An imposing stretch limo meets our aircraft on the tarmac to transport us to The Carlton Hotel where we’re all staying. While the gang files into the car, my eyes stay on Brandon as he zips open a classy, monogrammed satchel and pulls out his leather bomber jacket and another similar smaller sized one. He hands the latter to me.
“Here. Put this on. You’re going to need it.”
While breezy, it’s mild, and I’m perfectly fine in the short-sleeved jersey top I’m wearing. I protest.
“For f*ck
’s sake, just do it.” God, he’s bossy.
Without questioning him, I do as I’m told. I zip up the very hip jacket which inside bears Chaz’s label. Brandon secretly purchased it? It fits me perfectly and the leather feels buttery against my skin.
After donning his jacket, Brandon ushers me into the limo and then joins me. He tells the driver to make a stop at Platinum. A disco? I’m confused.
I’m even more confused when the driver pulls up to a car rental agency just outside the airport.
“Zoey, this is where we get out.”
“Huh? Aren’t we going to The Carlton too?”
“Yup.” He bids farewell to our companions. “We’ll catch up with you guys later.”
The chauffeur exits the car and comes around it to open the passenger door. Brandon steps out and then grabs my hand to help me out. He asks the driver to drop off our luggage at the hotel and hands him a generous tip.
Holding my hand, he leads me inside the car rental place.
“Zoey, have you ever ridden a bike?”
Jesus. We’re going to bike into Cannes? Pedal down some scenic path along the Mediterranean? Oh shit. It’s like a sixteen-mile ride. I don’t know if I’m up for that. Brandon breaks into my mini panic attack.
“Answer me, Zoey. Yes or no?”
My hand grows clammy in his. I gulp. “Yes. I had a two-wheeler.”
Brandon bursts into hysterical laughter. “Oh, Zoey, Zoey, Zoey. You’re too f*ck
ing adorable.”
“Are you mocking me?”
Still roaring with laughter, Brandon marches us up to the rental counter.
Well, na?ve me is in for a big surprise. Fifteen short minutes later, my big butt’s on a bike all right. A sleek violet Ducati Monster Bike—a muscular, coiled, ready for action, sexy beast—just like Brandon. My thighs clench the back seat and my arms clutch his waist as we weave in and out of the insane traffic along the Mediterranean.
“Brandon, you’re going to get us killed!” I shriek, holding on to him for dear life.
“Zoey, there’s no need to shout. I can hear you just fine.”
The clarity of his voice inside my helmet is shocking. “There’s a microphone in here?”
“Yup. Now chill and enjoy the ride.”
“But, Brandon. Why couldn’t you just rent a car?”
“Because this is much faster. Easy to park. And way more fun. Plus with these tinted helmets, no one will recognize us, including the paparazzi.”
He makes good points. Especially the last one. Ahead of us, an accident is cleared from the road and the bumper-to-bumper traffic eases up.