Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
FRANCESCA
When I enter the private airport terminal on Sunday, it takes my breath away. I expected something fancy, but it blows my expectations out of the water, opulence practically dripping from the walls. Even the view from the floor to ceiling windows is fascinating, showing a variety of jets painted with private livery, and the quality of the food makes me want to inhale the entire buffet.
Everything functional is hidden behind a glorious facade. The wallpaper is a thick brocade that has more in common with expensive fabric than the cheap coverings I’m used to.
Kincaid doesn’t seem to notice. All his attention is on me as we move through the space, leading to a pair of sprawling leather seats near the window. A plane takes off as we arrive and my eyes follow it, a curious hollowness in my chest as I worry what it will be like. If flying will turn me into a white-knuckle passenger or if I’ll be excited, my nose glued to the window.
Probably the latter.
He chuckles as I twist and turn, trying to see everything at once. “Do you want something to eat?”
“Not until I know if it’s going to come straight back up again when we’re in the air.”
Reaching for my hand, he squeezes it tight, giving another chuckle. “I can’t believe you’ve never flown. Do you have car sickness? Train? Bus?” I shake my head to each. “Then you’re unlikely to be affected. Most people get motion sickness, or they don’t. The only difference is the degree.”
“Hm. So you say.”
“Starve if you want. I won’t force you.” His fingers gently spread across my nape. “Into eating, anyway.”
My stomach shrinks under the searing heat of his gaze, and I shift on the seat, crossing my legs then immediately uncrossing them as the friction makes everything worse.
“What about a drink?”
“At nine in the—”
“Coffee or tea is what I meant.” He nods at the machines on the far bench.
I move to the counter, figuring out the multitude of controls over the course of three increasingly fancy beverages.
“Here,” I say, handing him one. “This is a mocha latte with a shot of vanilla and dusted with freshly ground cinnamon.”
He takes a mouthful, winces, and hands it back to me. “In case it ever crops up again, long, black, no sugar.”
“Ugh.” I happily accept the return, sipping the different varieties until my nervous system twitches.
A man dressed in a flawless black suit approaches. “Mr Tana? Your plane is ready to board.”
My stomach lurches but Kincaid grabs hold of my hand, holding it tight as we walk along a carpeted hallway and out onto the tarmac. I shrink against his side as a turbo-prop jet farther along the boarding gates roars into life.
“Is it always this noisy?”
“Outside? Yes. Inside the plane, you won’t notice it nearly as much.”
He waves me ahead of him up the steep steps, opening into a subtle cream interior, including the buttery soft leather seats.
“Can I fetch you something to drink?” a hostess asks, waving me into a window seat while Kincaid takes the one alongside.
The coffee rests uneasy in my stomach, and I decline, curling on the wide seat and gazing at the people moving purposefully on the ground.
Kincaid shows me how the seat buckles work, then reaches into a side compartment, holding out a bag. “Just in case.”
I wrinkle my nose, laughing as I put it on the armrest beside me. Better safe than sorry.
While the hostess talks me through the safety instructions, the plane taxis into position. Each unexpected bump makes me grab the armrest. Then the engines really fire, and I’m thrust back in my seat as it accelerates towards take off.
The ground falls away beneath us and I can’t get over the sight. Sure, I’ve seen it on tv and movies, but the reality is far different. It’s weird to watch people become as tiny as ants, their cars smaller than the metal replicas I used to roll across the floor at kindergarten.
“How long does it take?” I ask, finally turning away from the view to find Kincaid staring at my face with a similar focus.
“Just over an hour.” He smiles, nodding at the bag. “Do you think you still need it?”
“It’s now my emotional support sick bag,” I joke, refusing to relinquish it until the journey nears its end and we’re buckling up for the descent.
“I miss it already,” I say as we come to a stop, stretching our legs out while we wait for the hostess to open the door. “Do you often travel like this?”
“Only sometimes. My uncle sends it all over the world, so it’s only luck or a long lead-time when I get to use it.”
His uncle. I tense at the thought I’ll soon meet the man behind half of Kincaid’s early threats.
“Don’t worry,” he whispers, reading my mind again. “Nothing bad will happen.” He waits a beat. “Not in public.”
It’s a moment before I see he’s joking. “Oh, funny. You’ll be sorry when he murders me and I haunt you every night.”
“Sounds like someone’s infatuated. Can’t even stay away when you’re dead.”
“Be serious.”
“He knows I adore you. He’d only hurt you if you threaten our family, and hopefully you’re past your call-the-police-on-Ezra phase. You’ll be disappointed at how boringly normal he is.”
Except every time Kincaid mentions the man, his spine stiffens, and if his nephew is wary, my nerves are fully justified. “If you say so.”
“And if I’m wrong, I look forward to visits from Francesca the thirsty ghost.”
A suited chauffeur meets us inside the terminal, leading us to a sleek black sedan with tinted windows. He holds the door open, and I slide into the back seat like a movie star. The drive into central Auckland takes almost the same time as the plane ride and I’m just as entranced, noting all the differences between the large city and the smaller towns I’ve lived in down south.
The moment we enter the hotel lobby; I see Lance Tana and my stomach is in knots. His resemblance is unmistakable. Apparently, giants run in the family.
Despite Kincaid’s more recent reassurances, the threats he initially issued still hold more sway in my mind. It’s far too easy to imagine the man deciding I’m not worthy of his nephew’s affection and dispatching me with a single gesture to his equally enormous bodyguard, stationed by the door.
“You must be Francesca,” he says in a voice softer than I’m expecting. He extends a hand and, when I move to shake it, he lifts it to his lips instead, softly pressing a kiss to the back before releasing me. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, my dear. You’re every bit as lovely as King described.”
I blush, tongue-tied, and when I grab onto Kincaid’s arm for support, he covers my hand with his. “Thank you. Are you staying at the hotel, too?”
The two men quickly discuss logistics, and I’m surprised at how formal they are with each other. It sounds more like a conversation between polite strangers than family, and Kincaid doesn’t relax until his uncle nods and takes his leave.
After the internal build-up, to find him normal leaves me vaguely unsatisfied, just as Kincaid predicted.
My sense of excitement builds again during check-in. Even though we’re only here for the one day, Kincaid booked a room, so we have a base. By the time we reach the hotel suite, I’m out of adjectives. There are four smaller rooms for the kitchen, lounge, bathroom, and dining, then a bedroom the size of all four combined. A balcony runs the full length of the suite, offering a spectacular view overlooking the harbour.
I step outside and am instantly swept up in the noise and bustle of the big city; pedestrians, clogged traffic, honking horns and the jackhammer of construction fill the air while the mouth-watering scent from a dozen breakfast cafes compete with the salt tang of the ocean.
When I return to the room, sliding the door closed, the muffled noise is like holding hands over my ears.
“Do you want to relax or head out straight away?”
“Where are we going?”
Kincaid takes that as an answer and whisks me out the door and over to an exclusive clothing boutique, lounging on a wide robin-egg-blue sofa while a saleslady takes my measurements, then brings out a variety of dresses to try.
“Long,” he orders, sending half back with one word. “With a loose skirt and high neck.”
“Hey! You told me I could pick my ball gown.”
“You can. These are for the harbour cruise this afternoon, and I have a lot of opinions on outfits for the upcoming rugby games you’ll be attending. They’ll be the complete opposite.”
When the saleswoman returns, he nods in appreciation. “Next, could we see outfits so short they’ll make the world her gynaecologist?”
I cover my face with my hands, groaning in embarrassment. The assistant’s expression doesn’t change one iota.
Soon racks of clothing to meet his specifications appear and he searches through the assortment. “You really suit this dark blue.” He holds it up to my neck, then turns to the assistant. “Could we have some more styles in the same colour?” When she leaves to select them, he slips the silky fabric from its hanger. “Try it on.”
I take it from him, looking for a cubicle.
“This whole area is our changing room,” he explains. “Nobody else can see.”
He takes his seat, an arm stretched along the back of the sofa, the other on the rest, and one leg bent so his foot lies atop the opposite knee.
I clutch the dress to me, already blushing, then lay it on a stool while I slip off my jeans and t-shirt. Even for my height, it’s alarmingly short.
“You can’t wear a bra with it,” he says, sounding far too pleased with himself. “Take your panties off as well. The shine of the fabric shows everything.”
“Maybe I should pick a different fabric then,” I mutter, but his smile just grows wider at the resistance. Especially, when I sigh and remove my underwear, undoing my bra last and folding it on top.
Against my naked skin, the material is sensuous, and I run my palms over my midriff, smoothing it, then doing the same with my thighs. I turn in front of the mirror, the high neckline offset with a back dipping so low, the upper curve of my buttocks is visible.
“Are you channelling Kanye? I can’t wear this outdoors without being arrested for indecent exposure.”
Kincaid ignores me. “Harbour cruise is another phrase for cocktail party.” He holds up another garment, thankfully longer. “You’ll be standing on deck most of the evening. How are you in heels?”
“Wobbly.”
“Excellent,” he says, snapping a photo of the second dress and typing a message before tucking it away. “You’ll have to cling to me for balance all night.”
“Or find someplace to sit.”
His smile turns lascivious. “I have suggestions for that, too.” He pats the seat next to him. “Better try sitting now before we’re committed.”
Committed is right because I must be crazy, taking the spot next to him and perching on the edge while his hand explores my exposed back. At his touch, I shiver, and my skin breaks into goosebumps, turning me even more sensitive. The light brush of his fingertips jolts me into standing.
“I don’t think going without panties is a good idea.”
“It’s an excellent idea,” he counters, clutching my fingers before I can move out of range and reeling me towards him, inch by trembling inch. He lowers his head to butt against my abdomen, his hot breath blowing straight through the fabric to heat my pussy.
I try to move back but he holds me in place with one arm while his fingers find the long hem, slowly sliding their way up until they’re dancing along the back of my thigh.
“Here are a few further options,” the saleslady announces, coming back into the room.
I try to jump away, but Kincaid holds me firmly in place. “Would you be able to collect some high heels to match? I’ve sent the request downstairs already. The higher the better.”
As she leaves, I mutter, “You’ll be sorry when I break my neck just trying to stand.”
He glances up at me, chin resting an inch below my belly button, and the angle of his adoring eyes makes my insides melt until my legs are shaking. His fingers continue to rub in circles, the circumference growing wider with each stroke until each revolution brushes against the sensitive skin of my inner thigh and the undercurve of my arse.
Finally, his fingers flutter along my seam, his touch finding me already wet, teasing me until I’m too embarrassed to meet his gaze, screwing my eyes shut as he increases the pressure to slip inside me.
“You feel so good,” he says in a voice that’s more hum than speech.
My nipples harden until they’re in danger of slicing through the delicate fabric. My hands press against his shoulders, but he doesn’t stop.
And I don’t want him to.
“I’ll go crazy with you standing beside me all evening, thinking of your pussy aching to be touched until you’re so aroused, you can’t sit from fear you’ll stain your dress.”
My lips part as the image fills my head, bringing equal parts mortification and arousal. He gives a groan that vibrates across my taut abdomen, a shudder travelling straight to my core.
“All night, I’ll be dreaming of the moment we reach shore, and I get to drag you into the backseat of the car and shove the dress up to your hips. Your sweet taste is the only dessert I need.”
The caress of his finger grows more insistent, and I clutch his hair, clenching the thick strands between my knuckles and tugging until he releases another guttural moan, like the tease of a vibrator on its most sensitive setting.
“Or maybe I won’t be able to wait. Maybe I’ll have to shove you into an alcove and feast on you, knowing at any moment we could be discovered.”
His finger plunges inside me, then he adds another, and I gasp, my muscles clenching hard around him, trying to draw him deeper, pulsing with need.
He thrusts once, twice, three times, then withdraws so suddenly my eyes flick open, dazed and enraged that he’s stopped.
“Kneel,” he orders, and I obey, no longer caring who might enter the changing room.
He smears my own juices across my bottom lip, then he lowers his mouth, sucking it clean, both of us tasting me.
“Fuck,” he mutters, cupping my head to draw me into a kiss, rough and needy, his tongue thrusting into my mouth until my thighs squeeze together in a matching rhythm and his fingers twine into my hair, moving me exactly where he wants.
“You want to come on my cock right here where anybody could watch?”
“We can’t do it here. They’ll kick us out.”
“This is a high-end boutique retailer with a hundred grand worth of dresses on that hanger they want to sell. You think they turn down commission because we want to fuck?” The vibration from his soft laugh sinks down to my bones. “Roll that hem up for me, baby. Show me how much you want to break the rules.”
My head is in a daze. I’m already blown away by today’s extravagance, but this is my favourite part of the morning so far. A gorgeous boy who is as besotted with me as I am with him, indulging me in what’s quickly becoming a kink, the threat of imminent discovery.
So, I carefully take the hem in my fingers, slowly, slowly, slowly rolling the fabric up my legs, exposing them inch by inch. Playing into his hands and enjoying myself in a way I never would have dreamed would excite me the way it does.
His mouth fastens over the swollen bud and when his fingers thrust into my pussy, the hazy glow is so all-encompassing that I no longer care what rules we’re breaking.
All that exists in this moment is Kincaid’s eager tongue and greedy hands.
And when my clit pulses with need, tender, and he breaks off, eyes staring up at mine as he orders me to come?
I obey.