Chapter 6
T he door of the jet closed behind us with a soft hiss. Soundproof. Final.
The air inside was cool and dry, scented faintly with leather and citrus. Not like commercial flights. Not like anything I’d ever experienced. Everything was too quiet, too clean, too intentional.
There were no rows of seats—just wide, cream-colored leather armchairs and a sofa that looked like it belonged in an upscale hotel lounge. Polished brass fixtures. A marble-topped bar tucked into the back corner.
I stood just inside the cabin, heart still thrumming, unsure where to go.
He didn’t tell me.
He just brushed past, removed his jacket, and hung it neatly in the closet by the door. Beneath it, he wore a crisp white shirt rolled at the sleeves, revealing forearms carved with muscle and dusted with dark hair. Strong hands. Veined and capable .
He looked like he could break a man with two fingers.
“I—uh.” I swallowed. “Where should I?—”
“Wherever you want.”
His voice was quiet. Steady. Like it didn’t need to rise to command me.
I nodded, dropped into the nearest chair.
He didn’t sit.
He walked to the bar, opened a crystal decanter, and poured something amber into two short glasses. Moved like he’d done it a hundred times before. Like this wasn’t just a plane—it was his.
He returned and handed one glass to me.
I took it carefully. Our fingers touched. The contact was electric.
“Scotch?” I asked, trying to sound like I had any idea.
“Bourbon,” he said. “Small batch. Yours has more ice.”
I took a sip.
It burned in the best way.
He finally sat—across from me, legs wide, one arm slung casually over the back of his chair. The other held the glass. He took a slow drink, then rested it on his thigh. Like we were two old friends catching up after a long day.
Except the air between us felt combustible.
I shifted in my seat, trying not to fidget. My dress had ridden up slightly, and the leather stuck to the backs of my thighs.
He watched me.
Not obviously. Not rudely.
Just … noticed.
Everything .
“How long is the flight?” I asked, desperate for anything to cut the tension.
“Ninety-five minutes.”
I nodded. “Okay.”
“Don’t worry, Lady,” he said softly. “I won’t touch you until you ask.”
That shouldn’t have made me wet.
But it did.
I took another sip and stared out the window.
The tarmac rolled beneath us as we taxied. The engines rumbled. Then, lift—smooth and strong. The sky swallowed us in one fluid motion.
I should have been nervous. I wasn’t.
Not about the flight.
Only about what I was becoming.
“So,” I said, struggling for control. “Do I get to know your name?”
He looked at me for a long moment, eyes unreadable.
Then: “Maybe. Eventually.”
I swallowed. “And do you know mine?”
His lips lifted—barely. “I know enough.”
“Is that supposed to scare me?”
“It’s supposed to remind you,” he said, gaze sweeping over me, slow and possessive, “that this—” his voice dropped lower, “—is not about equality.”
My breath caught.
“You chose that,” he added. “When you submitted.”
The word sent a jolt down my spine.
I didn’t argue.
Because he was right.
We lapsed into silence again.
He studied me with quiet interest. Like he was trying to figure out how far I could bend before I broke. Like he wanted to break me—but gently. With care. Like a craftsman disassembling a rare instrument just to understand how it sang.
I crossed one leg over the other.
His eyes followed the movement. Slow. Unhurried.
“I read what you wrote,” he said after a while, his voice low and steady.
I blinked. “What?”
“The letter,” he said, swirling the liquid in his glass. “The form you filled out. Your preferences. Your fantasies.” His eyes flicked to mine. “And everything else.”
A chill slid down my spine. “What do you mean, everything else?”
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, gaze sharp and assessing. “Your column. Your articles. The way you skewer policy with precision. The way you wield your words like a scalpel. I’ve read them all, Zara.”
My name on his lips hit harder than I was ready for.
“You know who I am?” I asked, breath shallow.
“Yes,” he said. “Lady was the mask we agreed on. But I never like pretending.”
I swallowed hard, the air thick between us.
The night had barely begun, and already it was veering off course.
Not that I knew what I’d expected—how could I, when the entire arrangement was built on mystery and surrender?
But this felt different. More exposed. More intimate.
Like he was peeling back the layers of our fantasy before I’d even had a chance to settle into the role I thought I was meant to play.
I’d come here thinking I could hold him at a distance. That anonymity was a buffer. That “Lady” was a shield I could hide behind.
But now, hearing my name from his lips, knowing he’d read my words, studied them, maybe even understood them better than people who claimed to love me—it changed everything.
And I wasn’t sure yet if that terrified me … or thrilled me.
“You’re a brilliant writer,” he said, voice soft but certain. “Sharp. Controlled. Careful.”
The compliment hit deeper than it should have. I blinked, caught off guard. “Thank you.”
“But there’s something missing,” he continued.
I tensed. “Like what?”
He took a slow sip of his drink, then set the glass down with a quiet click. “Permission.”
“Permission,” I repeated, wary.
“You’ve been waiting your whole life for someone to give it to you.” His eyes held mine. “To stop asking. To start taking. To own what you want.”
My pulse skipped. I didn’t know if I wanted to slap him or kiss him.
My skin flushed hot.
“That’s not true.”
He smiled, slow and devastating. “Isn’t it?”
He set his glass down. Stood. Crossed the cabin with deliberate steps until he stood beside my chair.
I looked up.
He didn’t touch me.
Didn’t move closer.
But the way he hovered—dominant, quiet, utterly composed—made my entire body pulse.
“Close your eyes,” he said.
I hesitated.
But I did.
I felt the air shift .
Then something soft brushed my skin. Silk. He was tying something over my eyes.
The blindfold.
“You said yes,” he reminded me. “Before you even knew what it was.”
I nodded, swallowing hard.
Darkness wrapped around me.
I heard the soft thud of his knees hitting the carpet.
Then felt his breath on my inner thigh.
I gasped.
He didn’t touch me.
Not directly.
He just hovered. Close enough that I could feel his presence, his heat. Close enough that my body started to rock forward of its own accord.
But he held me still with nothing but his voice.
“Stay.”
I froze.
He dragged his breath along my skin like it was a touch. My dress shifted.
A single finger traced the hem.
“You’re soaked,” he murmured.
I whimpered.
Still, he didn’t touch.
Not where I needed.
Not yet.
“You’ll learn patience, Zara.”
My hips shifted, desperate, but he moved away. The air cooled. The absence made me ache.
He returned to his seat like nothing had happened.
I sat there, blindfolded and trembling.
Burning.
“You can take it off now.”
I did .
When my eyes adjusted, I found him calm, composed, sipping his drink again.
The hum of the engine filled the silence between us.
I couldn’t speak.
Because I knew now: he could ruin me without ever laying a hand.
I was already begging for more.
I set the blindfold in my lap, my hands shaking slightly as I smoothed the silk like it might settle something in me.
It didn’t.
He hadn’t even touched me.
Not really.
But I felt like I’d been branded.
I leaned back against the seat, glass still in hand, and tried to calm my breathing. My skin tingled. My thoughts spun. But beneath all of it was something heavier. Older.
Something I didn’t like looking at.
Because this wasn’t new.
Not really.
I’d felt it before—this ache, this pull, this unbearable need to surrender without apology. And I’d buried it. On purpose.
I pressed the glass to my lips again, but the ice had already melted. The bourbon was warmer now. Softer. Like it had given up pretending to be anything but dangerous.
So had I.
We flew in silence for a while.
The kind that wasn't awkward, just weighty. Like both of us knew there was more to come, and anything said now might ruin the tension we were both pretending not to taste .
I glanced at him.
He was watching the clouds.
Not me. Not anymore.
But that made it worse. Or better. I couldn’t tell.
His stillness was unnerving. Not lazy. Not bored. More like a tiger behind glass. Muscles relaxed, but only for now.
I didn’t know what he was thinking, and that drove me insane.
“Do you do this often?” I asked, finally.
His gaze shifted back to me. “Define ‘this.’”
“Fly women around the country. Tie blindfolds. Whisper things.”
He tilted his head, almost amused. “No.”
“No to which part?”
“To the women.”
“But not the rest?”
His eyes glinted. “If you’re asking whether I’ve done this before, the answer’s yes. If you’re asking whether I’ve done it with anyone like you …”
He let the sentence hang.
I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to feel special or in trouble.
“Do I ask too many questions?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “You just expect answers.”
“And that’s a problem?”
He took a slow sip. “Not for me. For you.”
I opened my mouth to fire something back—something clever, something sharp—but nothing came.
Because I realized he was right.
I didn’t want answers.
I wanted to know how it felt to be the question someone else was dying to solve.
“Why Miami?” I asked suddenly, my voice a little softer than I intended. “You could’ve taken me anywhere.”
He paused mid-step, just for a beat, then turned back.
“I like the heat,” he said. “And the water.”
“That’s it?”
“No.” A small smile played at the edge of his mouth. “But it’s not time for the rest.”
I studied him. The way he stood. The way he answered only what he wanted. “I’ve only been once,” I said, more to fill the air than anything. “To Miami.”
He tilted his head slightly, interested now. “When?”
“College. Junior year. My parents took me and my grandfather on a cruise. One of those big, cheesy ones with the endless buffets and awkward theme nights.”
His expression didn’t shift, but something in his eyes warmed—just slightly. “You hated it.”
“I wanted to,” I admitted. “But it was the last trip I ever took with him. My grandfather. He died the following spring.”
He didn’t respond right away. Just watched me in that unnerving, hyperfocused way of his. Like he was cataloging more than I was saying.
I took another sip of my drink. “I remember we stopped there for one night before the ship left. Stayed in a hotel that smelled like bleach and coconut sunscreen. I bought a dress at the Bayside shops with my mom. Bright blue. Way too tight. I thought it made me look grown.”
His voice was low, smooth. “Did it?”
“No,” I said, smiling faintly. “But I wore it anyway. My grandfather told me I looked like a movie star. My dad told me to go change.”
“And you? ”
“I went out in a hoodie.”
He didn’t laugh, but something about him eased. A crease softened near his mouth. “You regret that?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I think I just wasn’t ready to be looked at.”
His gaze dragged over me then—purposeful, measured, thorough.
“You’re ready now.”
I didn’t answer.
Because we both knew he was right.
He held my gaze for a moment longer. Then he nodded once, turned, and walked past me—disappearing through a door at the back of the cabin.
Private quarters, maybe. Or a galley. I didn’t know.
I just sat there, vibrating with unsaid things.
I looked down at the blindfold still in my lap.
My fingers curled around it without thinking.
It was soft. Warm from my skin. It didn’t look like much—just fabric. But it might as well have been an electric current.
He came back a few minutes later holding something in his hand.
A small velvet pouch.
My stomach dipped.
He dropped it into my palm.
“For later,” he said.
“What is it?”
He didn’t answer.
Just returned to his seat and looked out the window again like we weren’t flying toward something neither of us was ready to name.
I didn’t open it.
Not yet.
Instead, I set it beside the blindfold. Let them sit together on the armrest between us like some kind of offering.
And then I did something that surprised even me.
I pulled my legs up onto the seat.
Curled into myself, quietly.
Not afraid.
Just waiting.
And for the first time, I let myself enjoy the waiting.
Because I had a feeling that once we landed …
The waiting would be over.