He laughs again, turning toward me. “Look,” he starts, “why don’t we talk for a while? Maybe it’ll take your mind off things?”
“Talk about what?” I ask, my eyes narrowing suspiciously. “All anyone wants to talk about with me these days is sex. Sex, sex, sex. Why I’m not having it, who I’ve had it with, and when I’m finally going to have it again.”
“Fine. Then let’s talk about sex,” he says matter-of-factly, like this isn’t the worst idea in the world.
“Seriously?” I ask.
“Why not? I’m game if you are.”
“Well, what about it?” I answer, irritated now as the plane drops what feels like a few hundred feet and I let out a yelp. Without even thinking, I grab onto his hand, squeezing his fingers tight.
“What if I hadn’t left your apartment that night?” he asks quietly, lowering his voice so that the passing stewardess checking seatbelts can’t hear us. “Do you have any idea what I might’ve done to you?”
“Umm, I don’t know,” I say, taken aback, my cheeks immediately hot. “More of what you were already doing?”
“That’s not very descriptive,” he chides, squeezing my hand in his own. His fingers are so warm and strong that I’m starting to forget about the fact that I’ll probably die at any moment. “You mean the way I was kissing you up against the wall? My tongue in your mouth and my fingers in your panties?”
“Yes,” I manage to squeak out. What the hell is he doing? Didn’t we have an unspoken agreement not to talk about this? And now he brings it up—here?!
“You had your hands on my cock,” he adds, his voice murmuring low in my ear. “And you were driving me crazy, damn, I wanted to fuck you so bad. Thrust into that slick tight pussy of yours and just screw your brains out, right there on the living room floor.”
Oh. My. God.
I swallow hard. I’m not scared I’m going to die anymore, but I am suddenly worried I might come right here in my seat without him even touching me—which is one way to pass the time on a cross-country flight, I suppose.
I clench my thighs together and he smirks. “You do remember.” Jake casually rests one hand on my leg and starts tracing slow circles that I can feel even through the fabric of my jeans. “Good. Because I know how you taste now, Lizzie. I know how your cunt clenches around my fingers, and how your nipples get hard when I bite that spot right on your neck.” He leans closer to me, and I can feel his breath on my skin, smell that citrusy cologne that drives me out of my head. I close my eyes and tilt my head back, losing myself in the heat and forbidden images of his words.
“The only thing I don’t know yet is how my dick will feel, embedded in your hot little cunt. Do you want to ride me?” Jake asks softly. “Or are you going to just lay back and let me fuck you senseless, the way you’ve been needing ever since the first night we met?”
I shiver, my nipples already pebbling hard under my T-shirt. Fuck, I want him. I want him to do all the dirty things he’s describing right now.
“Yeah, I think I’m going to hold you down, and give it to you good,” Jake continues. “Fill you all the way to the damn hilt so you know what a real cock feels like, hitting your G-spot, so deep you won’t walk for days—”
DING.
I open my eyes to see the fasten seatbelt lights turning off, the captain’s voice reverberating loudly overhead.
Ladies and gentlemen, we’re just clearing a rough path of air. Thanks so much for your patience, but it should be smooth sailing from here on out. We invite you to sit back and enjoy the rest of your flight to Los Angeles.
Holy shit. Reality crashes over me like an ice bucket challenge.
What just happened?
I look over at Jake, my cheeks flaming. “See?” he says, like he wasn’t just reciting the filthiest things imaginable. “It’s all in your mind.”
No, it’s all in my panties right now, but fuck if I’m going to let him see how turned on I am.
I exhale loudly, pulling up the window shade to see that we’re sailing peacefully now through the night sky. The plane has miraculously stopped shaking and dipping, and my nerves feel raw from the combination of adrenaline and horniness.
Jake pulls his magazine out of the seat pocket and starts reading again.
“That’s it?” I ask, confused.
“That’s what?” he echoes. “You needed distraction, I was happy to oblige. Why?” he adds with that trademark smirk. “You didn’t think I was serious, did you?”
I blush furiously. “Me? What? No!”
I lean back in the seat and close my eyes again, trying to ignore the way my body hums. Of course he wasn’t serious. Because to Jake Weston, serious doesn’t exist. Just like sincerity, and feelings, and actual human connection. It’s all just a game to him, and I’ll be damned if I let him see he’s getting to me.
He wants to play it cool? I can be cool. Just call me Elsa, queen of the fucking arctic tundra. Professional. Detached.
Right.
The rest of the flight passes without any major turbulence—or X-rated narration—and soon we’ve landed and headed to the hotel in the rental car. And not just any car, but a 1976 cherry-red Ford Thunderbird convertible. It’s late afternoon in Los Angeles and even though I’m still groggy from the flight, the palm trees and the warm air brushing my face as we drive down Santa Monica Boulevard puts me in a good mood, and I bounce excitedly in my seat as Jake turns into the parking lot of The Standard.
“I love hotels,” I swoon. “Give me room service, poolside cocktails, and turn-down service and I’m a happy girl.”
We walk through the weirdly modern lobby with its huge white lights dangling from the ceiling, egg-shaped chairs, and shag carpet underfoot. “I feel like I’m in an Austin Powers movie,” I say to Jake as we approach the desk.
“Groovy, baby,” he says, handing the guy behind the desk his credit card. “Why don’t you go and relax and I’ll check us in?” Jake says, pointing to the grove of egg chairs across the room.
I drag my suitcase over to the seating area, sinking into one of the retro chairs. Just as I’m getting comfortable, a guy walks into the lobby, pecs straining against his tight black T-shirt, his long legs encased in ripped jeans. He pushes his jaw-length dirty blond hair from his eyes, and stops in his tracks when he sees me.
Oh my god—it’s Dale Ryder, indie film darling and Brad Pitt lookalike with abs I could wash clothes on. His last movie, Danger Zone, put him at number five on GQ’s Sexiest Man Alive list—and for good reason. I stare at him like he’s some weird alien specimen. I mean, these people only exist in magazines, they’re not supposed to be walking around like actual human beings!
He starts walking over to me, and I quickly look away, fiddling with the tag on my suitcase, reading my own name as if I’ve never seen it before. Did he see me staring? Is this some major LA faux-pas?
“Don’t I know you?”
I look up. He’s standing right in front of me, smiling with those insanely white teeth that could eat me alive, a day’s worth of golden stubble masking a jaw so chiseled, you could probably cut paper on it.