Preston
I'm not a great flier at the best of times, and one thing I overlooked when agreeing to Vadim's offer to fly me back home was that it wasn't going to be on a regular commercial plane.
I’m on his private jet.
Alone.
Well, apart from the pilot and two crew attendants, that is. But I'm the only passenger in this eight-seater Embraer Phenom.
Thank god Mom gave me some of her Valium; otherwise, I don't know how I would have survived the last forty minutes.
As fancy as this plane is with its wide cream leather seats, wood paneling along the walls, and soft overhead lighting that Ellie would totally geek out over—it makes the whole cabin feel like a very expensive, flying living room—it's the pills that have kept me sane and calm on the flight.
The Sierra Nevada comes into view as we begin to descend, the mountains laid out below in the late afternoon light. Ridge after ancient ridge, brown and rust and patches of snow clinging to the higher peaks.
I've driven over the Sierra before, but from up here, it's something else entirely. So spectacular. I cherish the view, aware that it's probably the last time I'll ever get to appreciate it.
"Mr. Miller, we'll be on the ground in Reno in approximately ten minutes." The pilot's smooth voice comes over the sound system. "The weather is clear, and the temperature is a pleasant sixty-two degrees. Please fasten your seat belt."
"Uh, okay. Thank you," I say out loud even though the pilot is too far away in the cockpit to hear me.
Not sure what the private jet etiquette is, but it feels rude not to say anything.
I struggle to buckle my seat belt, my vision blurry and unsteady, especially at short range. It's getting a lot worse now. It used to affect me most at nighttime and in low light conditions, but now the vision loss is seeping more and more into the daytime.
On the plus side, the headaches have become a little less frequent and don't hurt so much when they do come.
I take one last look at the mountains then close my eyes, white-knuckling it until the plane's wheels touch the tarmac a few minutes later. Of all the parts of flying I hate, landing would have to be the worst.
But I made it. I'm back in Reno.
And back with Vadim.
I wait until the plane comes to a complete stop before using my fingers to find the latch and unbuckle.
Vadim, Vadim, Vadim. What the hell is going to happen between us? What do I want to happen between us?
A fairy-tale ending would be nice, but there's a small voice inside me warning me, telling me something is off.
Wrong.
An impending sense that something bad is about to happen.
I don't think it's about me telling Vadim about my vision loss.
He doesn't strike me as the type of person who would bail over that.
I mean, he could. It's a possibility. Maybe not straight away so he doesn't look like a total douche, but he could theoretically pull back, create distance, put his walls back up, and stop communicating.
And if he does that, if that's the type of man he really is, then good fucking riddance.
Yes, I'll be hurt, probably more than I'm prepared for, but I'll get over it.
In a way, it'd be better to find out now then wait a few weeks or months and have him reveal his true colors when I'm more deeply invested.
So, no, my foreboding isn't about that. It's about something else. I can't put my finger on it, and that's why it's bugging me so much.
The crew moves efficiently around me. One attendant gathers my bag from the overhead compartment while the other unlatches the door and folds the steps down.
"Take your time, Mr. Miller," she says, and I appreciate her saying it without making it a thing.
The steps are narrow and steeper than they look from inside. I take the handrail with both hands and go down carefully, one step at a time, the Nevada air hitting me, warm and dry after the recycled cool of the cabin.
My legs are slightly unsteady—the Valium, my vision, the past few months of everything. I focus on my feet until I'm on the tarmac and steady.
When I look up, Vadim is there. Twenty feet away, standing beside a black SUV, hands in his pockets, watching me.
He doesn't move toward me immediately. He just stands there, taking me in with that smoldering intensity that he's able to radiate so effortlessly.
It's not put on. It's not for show. It's just one part of who he is.
When he does start walking, he doesn't stop until he's right in front of me, one hand cupping my jaw, the other finding my waist, kissing me like he couldn't care less about who's watching.
"Welcome back," he murmurs against my lips.
"If I can expect this sort of homecoming every time I get back, I'm going to have to start going away more."
"No," he whispers hoarsely, dragging his finger along my lower lip. "You're staying here. With me. For a long time."
"Okay, fine. But only because I like your hair like this and you've started wearing some color."
I slide my hand across his chest, his shirt crisp under my fingers. Granted, for most people, dark brown wouldn't be considered a splash of color. And admittedly, I had to blink a few times to make sure it wasn't just a faded black. But for Vadim, it's one giant leap for mankind.
He leans in so close the tips of his hair tickle my cheek.
"Don't forget about my massive curved cock," he murmurs, his voice so low it sends heat rippling straight down my spine. And to another part of my body that has no business being activated on a tarmac runway. "You are going to love what I'm going to do to you, mój kochany."
I never clocked Polish as a romantic-sounding language like French or Italian, but the way he murmurs those two words of endearment is not just hot, it's downright sexy.
One of the crew members clears his throat from a distance. "Mr. Piotrowski, Mr. Miller's luggage has been transferred to your car."
"Excellent, thank you," Vadim replies without taking his eyes off me. "Shall we?" he offers, linking his hand with mine.
"Let's go," I reply, remembering to thank the crew as he leads me away, opens the door, and helps me climb into his SUV.
"You are going to love your new apartment," he says on the drive.
"I'm sure I will." I turn to face him, blinking several times until he snaps into focus. "I take it I don't need a bodyguard anymore."
His jaw pulses. "Incorrect."
"Vadim, come on. The building has a freaking concierge. I'm sure they have security cameras everywhere. This is overkill."
"No, it's not," he replies firmly but calmly, laser-focused on the road ahead.
My stomach is in knots.
There's something about this whole security situation that is really beginning to bug me. I get that he put measures in place when it was needed in the aftermath of the explosion and me getting attacked. But surely if that Farkas guy was going to strike again, he would have done so by now?
I realize I may not have the full picture, that Vadim might be privy to information he's not sharing with me, but my gut is telling me Farkas has moved on.
Heck, he's probably not even in the state anymore.
Or even the country. I bet he's escaped to some far-flung tropical island or something and isn't wasting a single moment thinking about us.
I wish Vadim could just drop it, too, so that we can focus on better things.
Nicer things.
Like his spectacular cock.
He swings into the visitor parking lot of a swanky building. I decide to let it go for the moment. I only just got back, and I don't want to be getting into this now. Not when I have my new digs to check out.