Sophia
There’s something incongruent about James’s behavior. I’d call him Icy Hot for the way he switches between the two.
But that’s not exactly right, because it’s not always heat. It was warmth today.
Tenderness.
We’re aboard the plane now, but my mind is stuck five minutes in the past when his big hand was resting on my leg.
The blue veins tracing the back of it, like rivers on a map of the world. The sharp knuckles and large, strong fingers. If the world were reversed and women were as weird as men, there would be hand fetishes, not feet.
At least with hands I see the appeal.
A foot can’t wrap around my throat. It can’t go between my legs and play with my clit and drive me wild. Well… there’s probably some guy with feet that can do that, but my point is it wouldn’t be hot.
James’s touch wasn’t exactly sexual. It was possessive. Protective.
However, I didn’t feel like he held on to me just because he was afraid for my well-being. There was a message in his touch as well—during this trip, I answered to him.
I belonged to him, and I didn’t want it any other way. It’s amazing what you can say without a single word.
We haven’t taken off yet. Apparently, there was some mix-up at the chartering company, and we have the wrong size plane. James is pissed but not raising hell about it.
“The one time my jet is getting upgraded, they fuck up the charter.” He shakes his head.
I’ve spent my entire life crammed into economy class, so I have a hard time not giving him crap. “What’s wrong with this plane? You don’t have enough room to do Pilates?”
He shoots me a death stare, which makes me wish I hadn’t said anything. But I wasn’t being cute. I was just giving the rich guy the reality check he needed.
Someone’s got to do it.
There is plenty of room. There are six seats—three seats of two across the aisle from one another. And then a couch in the back. The chairs are rich, creamy leather. They’re like sitting in La-Z-Boys.
James takes the couch so he can use the full-size coffee table that’s bolted to the floor as a work desk, and I sit in a recliner.
It may not be a red-eye flight, but I think I’ll get just as much sleep. As excited as I am to be on a chartered jet, I say no to the coffee and pull out my eye mask.
I hardly got three hours of sleep last night, and I plan to catch up.
James is seated behind me, and the bathroom is in the back of the plane. Unless he goes to speak to the pilot, he won’t see me if I start drooling with my mouth agape.
No one sleeps pretty on planes.
It’s not long after takeoff that I feel myself already drifting off. The supple leather hugs every inch of me. The small jet’s engines are a softer hum than on a commercial flight. Everything feels smoother, safer. I listen to the hum and the click of typing as James works several feet behind me. And at some point, I fall asleep.
I wake up with a literal jolt. The plane does one of those gut-wrenching drops from turbulence. I throw my eye mask off and get my bearings. Then I look at my phone for the time. It’s been four hours. I open my window shade to see the ocean miles below.
We’re still over the Atlantic.
If it wasn’t for the turbulence, I would’ve woken up soon anyway. I have to pee. I look over my shoulder to see James sitting on the leather couch bent over the coffee table, typing. He’s still working. He’s still not wearing a seat belt from what I can see, although the single sign in the ceiling is now illuminated.
The plane gives another little jolt. It’s not as strong as the first one that woke me up. I unbuckle my seat belt and go to the back bathroom.
I give James a tight smile as I pass him but don’t look him in the eye. The bathroom isn’t any bigger than the ones on commercial flights, but it’s not covered in piss and bits of toilet paper and there’s wood paneling and real porcelain.
I’m in paradise.
There’s another bout of turbulence while I sit on the toilet. I have to grip the vanity for support. I wait for a break in the turbulence, but it’s stronger now than when I first stood up.
I hear the captain come over the intercom. “Make sure you’re in your seats with your seat belts fastened. We’ve got about twenty minutes of rough air. The flights preceding ours have radioed to say it gets pretty damn bumpy.”
Shit. I wipe quickly and hike my pants up. I wash my hands in all of three seconds and open the door. But when I take a step out, I become weightless.
Every part of me except my stomach feels like it’s pulled in the opposite direction as I fly towards the ceiling.
It feels like I hang there for a second before I fall back down on my butt.
“James!” I shout in fear.
I’m not even thinking. I can’t see. My hair has flown in front of my face, and I hear glass shattering in the little galley kitchen behind me.
There’s another rock of turbulence. I close my eyes and try to protect my head. I want to ball myself up, but the movement of the plane is too violent to let me. I want to scream again when I feel a strong grip on both of my arms.
I’m lifted like I’m weightless.
I think it’s turbulence again, but it’s not. It’s James. He pulls me onto the couch so I’m halfway on top of him. He holds me against his chest with one arm while the other is outstretched and holding on to the coffee table for support.
There’s another bump, and the two of us rise into the air before crashing back down.
Then it’s still. We’re both silent, tense, and bracing for the next plummet, but a minute passes, and none comes.
His hand that supports me moves to my neck, and he rubs it with his thumb in light circles. It steadies my breathing. Calms me down. Distracts me. It’s warm but the sensation on my skin is like an ice cube. It leaves me so sensitive I could gasp.
“Sorry, Mr. Callaway,” the captain says. “That should be the worst of it, but stay put.”
James and I are still quiet. I’m still lying on him, but I’m too scared to think it’s weird. I could let him touch my neck until we landed. Longer. But his hand moves away.
“I thought we were going to die,” I say, breathless from fear.
“Me, too,” James says calmly. If he did think we were going to die, his tone and breath don’t show it.
I don’t move to sit. I let him hold me. The smart thing to do would be to find a seat and quickly buckle in, but I’m frozen. His muscular arm is wrapped around my waist, and it presses into my belly, which is already sensitive from adrenaline.
First the car, now this. “Maybe this trip has awakened an Egyptian curse,” I say.
“I think it’s just a rough travel day,” James says and moves me so I’m sitting and not lying on him anymore. I didn’t want it to end. He’s a jerk, sure, but it turns me on when he’s protective.
I feel a safety with James that I haven’t felt with any other man. It’s not just his size and height. Or his money.
There’s a collectedness to him. He’s not fazed by danger. It just felt like the plane was going to be swallowed by the cold Atlantic, and he didn’t bat an eye.
“We should take our seats,” James says, patting my leg and breaking the spell.
“Yeah,” I say. “Thanks for saving me.”
“It would be a tragedy to lose both my Egypt experts.”
I smile and go back to my seat. And to be perfectly honest, the next time I go to the bathroom, I silently pray for more turbulence.