"You're ssso-see-see-serious when I'm drunk. Why are you so smart? You should write the book, not me. I juss' say the words, but you're the one writing it." He waved his hands around wildly. "I hass-to-tell you somesing-sss-iss impo-po-tant."
"Then say it slowly. You're slurring and stuttering."
He put one hand on my chest, as though trying to transmit the information by touch.
"Sheri isss-you, Tori."
I groaned and pushed his hand away. "Yes, I know that character's based on me. Not your best-kept secret, Smithikins."
"No. No-no-nuuuu-noooo. She is you."
I thanked him for his honestly, then excused myself to go look for anything food-like to help absorb the alcohol in his system. I found some crackers in the cabinet with what was left of the booze, and for the next fifteen minutes of the flight, I fed crackers and water to Mr. Wittingham, the world's wealthiest drunk novelist.
I still didn't know much about him, beyond the fact he'd earned his first billion dollars with some patents and another family business before moving on to writing crime novels. I hadn't been a reader of his work, because I found his Detective Smith Dunham character to be a womanizing, manipulative prick, but my mother was a fan.
Despite being controlling, devious, and stubborn, Smith Wittingham did have his good qualities. For example, he gave me mind-blowing orgasms. His constant desire for me got me so worked up, and as much as he wanted to consume me, I wanted to be consumed by him. In public, I wanted to be treated with respect, but in private, I wanted him to pull my hair, hold me down, and selfishly use my body for his pleasure.
Just thinking about my inexplicable, completely inappropriate lust for him got me turned on. My ni**les hardened, and sitting became uncomfortable, due to the swelling in my pu**y. I glanced around the cabin to make sure the door to the cockpit was still closed, and I unbuttoned my seat belt.
Smith raised his eyebrows, the corners of his mouth quirking up to match.
"I'll be your stewardess today, sir," I said, one hand on my hip as I stood before him. "Would you like coffee, tea, or me?"
"Tea would be nice. Hot tea."
"How about I pleasure you instead, sir?"
"How would you do that?"
I got down on my knees, though my pu**y ached for him more than my mouth, and I unzipped his trousers.
"Orally," I said.
"But I thought you said … " His eyelashes fluttered as I touched his manhood, and he stopped questioning my change of mind.
Compared to the green forests of Vermont, Montreal was a hive of people, all of them skinny, smoking, and talking in French.
We arrived after eight o'clock, and went directly to dinner without stopping at the hotel.
The waiters at the fancy-schmancy restaurant Smith took me to all spoke English, but their accents gave me the giggles. I tried not to smirk when the waiter was talking about the food, but the super-French rolling of the Rs and the whole thing was just so damn cute. Smith picked up on my discomfort and kept asking the poor man question after question.
Once we were alone again, he waggled his eyebrows at me.
"Tori! Haven't you been to Quebec before? You know, there are other people in the world besides Americans."
"Other accents are fine. But French makes me giggle. Too many comedy skits, maybe, with people making fun of French waiters?"
"How about Australians?"
"Ooh, they have a cute accent. Especially the boys."
He wrinkled his nose. "Really? They're always so loud, especially the women."
"There are Australian women? Huh. I never noticed." I flashed him a big grin.
In response to my joke, he got a devious look in his sea-blue eyes. The man would make one sexy merman, with eyes like sapphires when he turned on the charm, making me feel like ice cream melting under a blazing-hot summer sky.
I fidgeted in my fancy chair, crossing and uncrossing my legs. The wine, which probably cost more than my week's wages, was going to my head, bubbling around in there with images of Smith naked, sprawled on his back with that golden trail of stomach hair leading to his golden treasure. Was it possible to become addicted to a person? I kicked off one shoe under the table and trailed my toes up his leg suggestively.
He leaned in on his elbows and whispered, "Would you like me better if I was Australian, like your ex, Todd? I wonder if he still thinks about you when he's making love to his new redhead."
I pulled my foot away in shock.
"What are you talking about? I never told you about Todd."
"His new redhead has larger br**sts. If you ask me, I think small tits are the greatest gift God gave man, but it takes all types to make the world go 'round."