Chapter 3 #2
Then I take another sip of champagne as though I’m a woman fully in control of her life.
I’m not.
His confidence should be too much. It should tip over into arrogance and put me off entirely. Instead, it lands somewhere much deadlier, because it doesn’t feel performative. He isn’t trying to impress me. He just… expects me to keep up.
And evidently I want to.
His arm shifts on the shared armrest, close enough now that the heat radiating off him coats me, igniting a warm ache low in my belly. A tiny involuntary tightening of my thighs, and I cross my legs and hope it looks casual.
His eyes flick down.
I want to die.
He offers me another candy from his bag. I take one because refusing now would feel like weakness, and I am already losing enough ground as it is. “You really think sugar is going to save you.”
“I don’t need saving.”
I pop it into my mouth, then instantly regret doing that under his watchful gaze because now I’m hyperaware of the movement of my lips, my tongue, the ridiculous intimacy of eating caramel in front of a man who looks like that.
His smile turns lazy and knowing.
My face burns up. “This is cruel,” I inform him.
“The chocolate?”
“The fact that you know exactly what you’re doing.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.”
He leans in just slightly, enough that his shoulder is nearer, his scent stronger, his voice meant only for me. “Tell me.”
“You sit there looking like temptation in a fitted T-shirt, feeding me your favorite candy, and then act surprised when I struggle to remain a functional member of society.”
There’s a beat of silence, then his eyes darken. “Adelaide,” he says, and my name in his mouth is suddenly the most tempting thing in first class.
My pulse throbs everywhere. “Well,” I say, because I can’t let him be the only one ruining lives in this row. “You did ask.”
His laugh is quieter this time. Rougher. Like I’ve gotten under his skin too, even if only a little. “Yeah,” he says. “I did.”
He reaches for his champagne, still watching me over the rim of the glass. “For the record, if I’d known candy would get me a confession like that, I’d have bought two bags.”
I smile before I can stop myself. “And here I was thinking you were being sweet.”
“Maybe I was.”
“Please. You haven’t been sweet once.”
His brows lift. “Not once?”
“Nope.”
He thinks about that, then gently takes the empty glass of champagne from my fingers before I can figure out what to do with it and sets it on his tray table.
The gesture is so small that it shouldn’t matter.
It matters.
Something soft catches under my ribs, sudden and unwelcome and somehow more destabilizing than all the flirting.
His gaze lifts back to mine. “Better?”
And there it is. That impossible blend of wild and careful. A man who might say something filthy with a straight face and then quietly clear your mess away without making a show of it.
“A little.” My voice comes out softer than I intended. Before I can think of something clever enough to protect myself, the flight attendant appears by our row to offer another drink, and the spell breaks just enough for me to breathe again.
Barely.
The dangerous part is that I’m not relieved. And I’m already waiting for him to start again.
We’re cruising now, the seat belt sign off, the champagne doing its soft, golden work as I sip it, and his scent is doing something to me too.
I’m not going to insult myself by pretending otherwise.
Every time he shifts in his seat or turns toward me, something in my body loosens, settles, like it’s decided he’s close enough that I can stop bracing.
Which is insane.
He’s a stranger. A ridiculously hot, unfairly good-smelling stranger who fed me chocolate on a plane, but still.
I drain the last of my champagne.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” I tell him.
His gaze lifts to mine. “Good to know.”
I smile at him. “I’m just telling you. Don’t get excited.”
That slow heat returns to his eyes immediately. “Adelaide, if I were excited, you’d work it out.”
I laugh at him as I hand him my empty champagne glass. “Can you hold this?”
He takes it. He holds his own glass too, both balanced easily in one hand for me to pass without bumping them over.
Ace is all long legs and broad shoulders and completely relaxed male inconvenience, stretched out in the aisle seat like he has no natural predators. He’s taking up enough space that getting past him is going to require strategy, flexibility, or prayer.
He doesn’t move.
I narrow my eyes. “You could make this easier.”
“I could,” he agrees.
So that’s how we’re playing it.
Fine.
I swing a leg over his, essentially straddling the space above his lap in a way that would be humiliating if it weren’t already too late for dignity.
It’s in that exact moment that the plane drops slightly through a pocket of turbulence. Nothing major. Just one of those sudden, sharp dips that happen at cruising altitude.
Unfortunately, I come down squarely onto his lap.
Specifically, very squarely onto his groin, on the hardness he’s been trying to conceal.
I know it instantly.
So does he.
There’s half a second of total stillness.
Suddenly, his empty hand closes around my waist now, warm and firm, not yanking, just holding me there so I don’t pitch forward. The other still has both champagne glasses.
Then he leans in, mouth close to my ear. “Baby,” he murmurs, “if this is revenge for making you blush, I respect the commitment.”
Heat detonates through me. I turn my head just enough to look at him. “You think very highly of yourself.”
“Highly of your aim.”
“Turbulence.”
“Sure.”
“It was the plane.”
“And yet somehow I’m still the one benefiting.” His fingers flex once at my waist.
That doesn’t help at all.
“This is not a win for you,” I whisper.
His breath catches and heats up my neck. “Feels a little like one.”
God.
I should get up. Immediately. Gracefully, if possible. Instead, I stay there one beat too long, because some reckless part of me wants to feel exactly how affected I am.
Which is probably why I say, “Don’t sound so pleased. I haven’t done anything yet.”
He chuckles. “Oh,” he says quietly. “Is that right?”
I straighten slowly, using the seat in front of me for leverage, making him wait for it. If he wants to trap me in this moment, fine. I can play too.
“I tripped,” I say, voice composed now, almost sweet. “Try not to build a fantasy around it.”
His mouth curves. “Too late.”
I lean back against him slightly, aware of every warm, solid inch of him behind me, close enough that only he can hear me when I say, “That sounds like a you problem.”
Then I step over him properly and into the aisle.
For one glorious second, I think I’ve won.
Then, when I look back, his gaze drags slowly from my face to my leggings and back up again, tempting and unhurried, and he says, “Take your time, Adelaide. I’d hate for you to rush after making such an impression.”
My whole body burns up.
I put one hand on the seat back and stare down at him. “You’re unbearable.”
“That’s not what your body said.”
I glare at him.
He smiles. Lazy. Ruined. Completely sure I’m going to be thinking about that line all the way to the bathroom.
The worst part is that he’s right.
So I give him my brightest smile, the one that means I’m about to be a problem, and lean in just enough to let my hair brush his shoulder as I pass. “Keep holding my glass,” I murmur. “I’d hate for you to feel used.”
Then I stroll away before he can answer, heart pounding, skin hot, and the deeply humiliating truth settling in behind my ribs.
I was trying to get back at him. Instead, I’m pretty sure I just made it worse.
I head to the front bathroom, which is unoccupied because this flight isn’t full and the first class bathroom is slightly tucked away for privacy. I push open the door and step inside the larger space, reaching for the latch.
Before I can lock it, the door shifts back open.
I spin around, and Ace fills the doorway, one hand braced on the frame, those green-gold eyes fixed on me with an expression that sends a hot, dangerous thrill through me before I can talk myself out of it. God, he’s huge.
He doesn’t step in right away. He just studies me, waiting.
Giving me the choice.
My pulse kicks hard. I should tell him to go, but I don’t move to shut the door. I don’t step back in alarm. If anything, I stay exactly where I am, staring right back at him, tempted to just drag him into this larger bathroom with me.
“That was intentional,” he says.
I lean lightly against the sink, pretending I’m steadier than I feel. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“The falling onto me.”
A laugh threatens at the edge of my mouth. “I was standing up. That’s generally how you get off someone’s lap.”
His mouth twitches, but his gaze stays intent. “Adelaide.” There’s a question in the way he says my name now. Not pressure, or assumption, just a pause he’s offering me.
And God help me, I want this.
I tip my chin up. “If I wanted you gone, I’d say so.”
That’s all it takes. He steps inside. The door swings shut behind him, and I don’t stop it. He’s close enough now that I smell him properly again, and my head is spinning.
“Ace,” I say as he locks the door behind him.
His gaze searches mine for half a beat. “Tell me to go back to my seat.”
I stare into those eyes, at the strong line of his jaw, the silver ring on his right hand, the shirt pulling across his chest, the way the grin is mostly gone now, leaving something more direct. More honest.
I could.
I don’t.
Something changes in his face. Not triumph but something rougher and hungrier as though he wanted the answer but still needed to hear it.
He steps closer, slow enough that I could stop him at any point. My breath catches as the front of him almost brushes mine, an inferno radiating off him.
His mouth hovers just above mine, the barest ghost of heat, enough to leave me aching with the carnal arousal.
“Jesus,” he says softly, like I’m the difficult one here.
Then I fist my hand in the front of his shirt, drag him down to me, and kiss him.