“That is so sexist, Marj. If I said that about you, you would shame me thoroughly. So why would it be flattering to say that to a man?” He smirked. “It’s an insult. It’s objectifying—”
“Fine, all right, I went too far. I do that. I’m sorry. You have many business skills, and you’re a decisive executive, and you multitask wonderfully,” she said, barely suppressing an eye-roll.
He flashed her his gorgeous smile. “And if I were a gigolo, assuming I’m not so deeply offended as never to speak to you again—but just hypothetically, what do you think my hourly rate should be?” he asked archly, and she bit down on her lip.
“Hmmmm….let me see. I’d say, easily three hundred dollars,” she said, and she giggled as Brandon looked obviously pleased with himself.
“That, at least, is gratifying. That if you insist as viewing me as a sex object with no other talents or agency of my own, at least, you regard those skills highly.”
“Oh, I regard them very highly! It’s sort of…hard not thinking too much about those skills here in the plane.”
“You mean the crowded passenger compartment of a fully booked commercial jet? I see the problem. And I intend to make you suffer for it,” he said with a wicked grin. “Remember that time that I came up behind you and kissed your neck and then bent you over the dining room table? You left scratch marks on the wood,” he said, and the answering shiver of recollection rippled across her skin. She remembered the wood yielding to the pressure of her hands as she braced herself against the onslaught of his thrusts. The pale half-moons carved into the shiny surface of the highly polished mahogany table, evidence of their debauchery. Even the word debauchery seemed to make it even more unbearably warm inside the airplane.
The fabric of her seat was scratchy to her highly sensitized skin, and she reached for Brandon’s hand across the shared plastic armrest. She needed that skin on skin contact with him, even in the smallest measure, to relieve the fury of passion burning inside her. His wide palms, his delightfully ominous thick wrists, his strong fingers encompassing hers—she bit her lip. Marj could shut her eyes and practically feel his palms tracing along her bare hips, spreading her thighs and rubbing between them, tantalizing in the closest brush against tender flesh before drawing back teasingly. The electric prickles of excitement chased along her skin at the mere memory of his touch.
“You seem tense. Here, let me rub your shoulders,” he offered mischievously.
Marj shifted obediently in her seat, perhaps beyond the powers of speech anyway. She turned her back toward him and felt his big hands settle on her shoulders, kneading his muscular fingers into her tense spots. She chewed her lip and let her eyes drop shut. She felt needy and desperate, and any touch from him just inflamed her further.
Even as he was supposed to be releasing pent-up tension from her muscles with his coaxing, insinuating massage, she knew that he was firing her up for his own amusement. To torment her for insisting they save money on the flight or to get her overwrought with anticipation for their honeymoon or both. She was ready to claw his shirt open and put her mouth to his chest. She shrugged his hands away and returned to the magazine, swiping pages on her tablet without really seeing them, her eyes glazed with lust.
“You can always just rest,” he suggested, drawing her against him, so her head was against his shoulder, the wretched plastic armrest gouging her in the rib cage. When she wriggled away and sat up in frustration, the backs of his fingers brushed the side of her breast and she felt it down to her toes. Her nipples were so hard that the lace of her bra scraped them uncomfortably. Her face and chest were flushed, and there was a roaring in her ears, her vision bright with arousal. She leaned over to whisper in his ear.
“Bathroom. Now,” she ordered, biting his earlobe lightly for emphasis.
His grin widened as he shot her a devilish look.
Chapter 3
The idea of joining The Mile High Club intrigued Marj. “Just remember. You’re there to get in, get out.”
He squeezed her hand. “This will be a fun memory to add to my sexual scrapbook.”
“So skip all your usual moves…”
“Just get down to business?”
“Yeah, it’s just a quickie.”
“I’m in! But we’ll have to plan this.”
“And rob the moment of some spontaneity?”
He ran a finger down her cheek. “I want to earn my wings by not getting busted.”
She smiled. “C’mon. The danger of being caught makes it exciting.”
“It’s like a heist or bank robbery. It’s a tricky endeavor that requires stealthy planning to pull it off.”