Chapter 19 Sloane #2
His touch was confident, not hesitant or invasive.
Like he already knew what I needed. His palm stayed still, his thumb moving like a metronome against the thin fabric of my joggers.
The heat of it sank into my skin, spreading in every direction until goose bumps bloomed across my arms, my neck, everywhere.
I shifted in my seat slightly, trying not to react too obviously, but the sensation was too much.
Too grounding. Too good. I grabbed my bag from under the seat and settled it over my lap, not because I needed anything in it—but because I needed something between us.
Not to block him out but to hide the way my body was responding.
I was spiraling, not from fear anymore but from how deeply this man could settle me with one touch.
And yet, I didn’t care who saw. Not Ivy. Not Mac. Not anyone. Not right now.
“There you go,” he murmured, voice barely above the hum of the plane. “Good job, Sloane. Deep breaths for me.”
I inhaled slowly through my nose. Held it. Exhaled through my mouth. It was the first breath that didn’t scrape on the way out.
The plane began to roll faster, the engines ramping into a low, vibrating roar beneath us.
I hated this part—when the wheels hadn’t left the ground but it felt like they were moments from lifting.
Like you were being dragged forward faster than your body could handle.
The air pressure thickened. The floor rattled under my sneakers.
Oliver’s hand never moved. His thumb never stopped. His voice stayed soft and steady in my ear.
“You’re okay,” he whispered again, leaning closer. His breath brushed my temple. “You’ve got me. Just a little longer.”
I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. But I leaned into him, slightly. My shoulder brushing his. My jaw tucked toward his chest. I let my body shift enough to tell him: Yes. I trust you. Keep going.
And he did.
The wheels lifted. My stomach dropped, and Oliver helped me through it. My fear usually settled once the plane was in air, and I clenched my eyes shut for a good ten minutes until we were cruising. There wasn’t any bad weather on the path to LA—I checked, so there should be minimal turbulence.
“Sorry, thank you—that was—I needed that.” I tilted my face to smile, but he already faced me with his jaw tight and eyes boring into me.
“Have you always been afraid of flying?” His tongue wet his bottom lip, the gesture so small and so quick it had no business making my pulse spike for a different reason.
“Yeah,” I said, my voice quieter now. “Since I was a kid.”
He didn’t press, just kept his beautiful blue eyes on me, waiting, watching with the same intensity I loved about him.
I exhaled, twisting the edge of my sleeve.
“I took a flight when I was eleven. Some work trip for my dad—he had a conference in Houston and made it a whole thing. Family getaway, meet-and-greets, whatever. The flight there was normal. But coming back? We hit turbulence so bad people screamed. One of the overhead bins popped open. A drink cart tipped sideways. The turbulence only lasted ten minutes, but it felt like a free fall. My mom started crying. My brother threw up. And my dad…” I swallowed.
“He told me to stop being dramatic for crying.”
Oliver’s eyes didn’t waver, but he arched a brow.
“I know it’s irrational,” I added, softer now. “But I’m an Enneagram Eight. I hate not being in control. It makes me spiral. This—” I gestured to the enclosed space, the altitude, the strangers, the fucking humming engine, “—this is the worst possible environment for someone like me.”
He tilted his head. “Eights are the protective ones, right? Assertive. Independent. Don’t ask for help.”
“Yeah. And when we’re scared, we act like we’re angry instead. Or we shut down.”
He smiled, barely. “That tracks.”
“I’m aware,” I muttered, heat rising to my cheeks.
“I love your blush, Doc.” He ran a finger over my neck, so quick no one would see it, before he cleared his throat.
“I took the test once. They said I’m a two.
Helper with a one wing. I lead with loyalty and fuck it up when I feel useless.
Basically… I’m wired to want to be needed, even when I shouldn’t be. ”
“Yeah, that makes sense for you. You care deeply and are attuned to others,” I said. Rejecting his help must’ve hurt him. I smiled and leaned into him for a second. “I’m gonna read now. Thanks for the help.”
We lapsed into silence for a minute. I reached into my bag and pulled out my e-reader, adjusting the brightness as I scrolled to where I’d left off in a book I’d been slowly working through—something with emotional pining and sharp dialogue and the kind of slow burn that gutted you when it finally delivered.
I loved working for the reward, reading and getting to know characters until they finally crossed the line.
I ate it up. The yearning, oh I was a sucker for yearning.
Oliver tapped something on his tablet, and The Office intro music started faintly in his AirPods, but I caught him glancing sideways.
More than once.
I kept reading.
He leaned closer. “What book is that?”
“Nothing,” I said too fast, shifting the screen slightly toward the window. Noah had his eye mask on so he wouldn’t see a thing.
He smirked, nudged my arm. “C’mon. I saw the word ‘thrust’ twice in one paragraph.”
“I told you. It’s nothing.” I cleared my throat and focused hard on the page. After three hundred pages of lust and want, the two main characters finally gave into their pleasure.
His whisper dropped low. “Are they about to hook up in a barn?”
“Shut up,” I hissed, but I was grinning now.
He didn’t. Of course he didn’t.
“Is he angry? Did she get rained on? Is there a hayloft?”
I bit the inside of my cheek. “You are the worst.”
“You like angst, huh?” His voice was so close to my ear now. “You like the buildup.”
My stomach did something stupid.
He leaned back a second later, earbuds back in, but I saw the way he adjusted his sweats a minute later. Like he wasn’t as unaffected as he tried to be.
And when I turned the page to a particularly filthy paragraph, I caught him reading again.
I tilted the book slightly, pretending I didn’t notice, but the paragraph wasn’t subtle. His eyes flicked up to mine for a second—sharp, heated—and then down again.
My heart slammed once, hard.
“You’re still reading,” I murmured.
He didn’t look away this time, his pupils larger than before. “So are you.”
I tried to swallow, but my throat was dry. The words on the page blurred slightly, something about fingers and mouths and a desperate grip. My skin prickled.
“What happens next?” he asked, voice lower than before. “Does he push her up against the wall?”
I inhaled sharply. “You’re impossible.”
He smirked, but it wasn’t cocky. It was something heavier—something that sank beneath my skin and settled low. His hand was still on my thigh, thumb resting against the inside seam of my joggers. His touch hadn’t moved, but now I felt every molecule of it.
“You’re blushing,” he whispered.
“No, I’m not.”
“You are,” he said again, softer. “Is it the book, or is it me?”
I didn’t answer.
He leaned closer, his mouth near the curve of my ear. “Because I’m sitting here picturing you like her, Sloane. Needing someone that badly. Getting taken in a barn. Or hell, right here in this seat.”
My pulse pounded in my ears. I couldn’t look at him. I couldn’t breathe right.
“And the worst part?” he added, like he hadn’t set my body on fire. “I’d give it to you. Every word on that page. Every sound. Every grip and gasp and—”
“Noah’s awake,” I blurted, desperate to save myself.
Oliver leaned back with a grin that promised this wasn’t over. Not even close.
Noah pulled off his eye mask, yawned, and stretched like a cat. “Did I miss anything?”
“Just turbulence,” I said, barely keeping my voice steady.
Oliver’s knuckles brushed my thigh once more, lingering for a beat before he moved his hand to his thigh.
He never mentioned the book again, but I caught him watching me every time I turned the page.
I knew all the reasons we couldn’t be together publicly, but the restraint I had in private was getting smaller and smaller.
Because one thing was glaringly clear: I was attracted to him, and it was getting harder to not give into him.