Chapter 2
CASSIAN
She’s lying.
Or at least, she’s avoiding giving me a real answer. I can tell the moment the words leave her mouth that she’s running from her old life, a life she says she never wanted, and normally I’d let it go because everyone on this plane is running from something.
I lean back in my seat, swirling the whiskey in my glass while I study her.
She’s young, mid-twenties at most, with black hair that looks recently dyed if the slightly uneven roots are anything to go by.
Blue eyes that don’t quite match the rest of her features, like they’re trying too hard to be noticed. Colored contacts, probably.
The mask hides most of her face, but I can see enough. Sharp cheekbones, a mouth that curves when she thinks I’m not watching, and hands that won’t stop moving.
The flight attendant comes by again, asking if we need anything else. I order another whiskey because the meetings in LA were tedious as hell and I need something to take the edge off.
Three days of sitting in boardrooms with men who think they’re dangerous because they’ve read The Godfather, negotiating territory agreements that shouldn’t require negotiation in the first place.
The Italians are getting sloppy, pushing into areas they know are mine, and I had to spend seventy-two hours reminding them why that’s a bad idea without actually starting a war.
Exhausting and necessary, but Christ, I’m tired of playing nice.
Catherine declines another glass of water, and when the attendant leaves, she returns to her sketching. I should probably do the same, pull out my phone and deal with the messages Declan’s been sending about the Petrov situation, but I don’t.
Instead, I watch her.
The way her hand moves across the page is quick and confident despite the slight tremor. She reaches up and pulls the mask down for a moment to take a sip of water, and I catch a glimpse of her face properly for the first time.
Sharp features, a mouth that curves slightly even when she’s concentrating. She bites her bottom lip while studying her sketch, teeth pressing into soft flesh that I’m suddenly very aware of, then pulls the mask back up.
No ring on her finger, no tan line suggesting there used to be one. Traveling alone, sketching exit routes while wearing a mask most people have stopped bothering with.
Interesting.
Not my business, but interesting.
She’s either cautious by nature or has a reason to be, and I find myself curious which one it is. Most people in first class are too entitled to worry about emergency procedures. They assume money will protect them from anything going wrong.
She’s different.
Whether that’s a good thing or a red flag, I haven’t decided yet.
“What do you do, Cassian?” she asks without looking up from her sketch.
The question catches me off guard, which doesn’t happen often.
“Import-export,” I say, because it’s technically true and vague enough that it doesn’t invite follow-up questions.
She glances at me, one eyebrow raised. “That’s the most boring answer you could’ve given.”
“What were you expecting?”
“I don’t know. Something more interesting than import-export.”
“Maybe I’m a boring guy.”
Her laugh is soft and disbelieving. “You’re definitely not boring.”
“How would you know? We just met.”
“Call it intuition.”
I lean forward slightly. “And what’s your intuition telling you about me?”
She holds my gaze. “That you’re used to getting what you want. People don’t say no to you very often.”
Fuck. She’s not wrong on any count, and the fact that she’s not intimidated by it is more attractive than it should be.
“And that makes you curious?” I ask.
“Maybe.”
I don’t rush to fill the silence.
I let my gaze drop briefly, taking in what I can see.
Her shirt fits well, and even sitting back in her seat like she is, I can see the curve of her breasts, full and outlined against the fabric.
My mind immediately goes to how they’d feel in my hands, what sounds she’d make if I put my mouth on them.
Her breathing has changed too, faster and shallower than it was a minute ago, and I wonder if she can feel the shift in the air the same way I can. If she’s thinking about the same things I am.
I want to strip away that mask and see her face properly when I make her come. Want to fuck her until she forgets whatever has her this jumpy and on edge.
Usually, I’d point out someone I’m interested in and have my people run a background check. Find out who she is, what she does, and whether she’s a liability or an opportunity. I don’t mind waiting a few days for the report to come back. Patience has always been one of my strengths.
But something about this woman makes me want to skip all of that. The intelligence in her questions, the way she’s clearly hiding something but not backing down, the nervous energy she’s trying so hard to contain. I want her now, not after Declan sends me a file with her entire life story.
That should concern me more than it does.
“You never answered my question,” she says, going back to her sketch like she didn’t just call me dangerous and curious in the same breath.
“Which one?”
“Do you ever do things just because they’re a terrible idea?”
I finish my whiskey and set the glass aside, then turn toward her fully. She’s still looking at her sketchbook, but I can see the tension in her jaw, the way her hand has stopped moving.
“All the time,” I say, and when she finally looks at me, I let her see exactly what I’m thinking.
Her pupils dilate, and that’s all the confirmation I need.
The flight progresses in a haze of conversation that feels like foreplay. We talk about nothing important—travel, books, the shitty plane food neither of us is eating—but underneath it all is a current of tension that keeps building.
She asks questions that are too perceptive, and I give honest answers without revealing anything that matters. She’s smart enough to notice what I’m not saying, and I’m intrigued enough to let her keep trying.
Two hours in, and I want to tell her to take the mask off so I can see her face properly, but I don’t. I just watch as she shifts in her seat, crossing her legs in a way that makes her skirt ride up slightly. Not enough to be obvious, but enough that I notice.
I notice everything about her.
The cabin lights dim as we hit the third hour of the flight.
Most of the other first-class passengers are asleep or pretending to be, and the flight attendants have retreated to give everyone privacy.
The dividers between seats create little cocoons of space, and suddenly it feels like we’re the only two people awake in the world.
She’s put her sketchbook away, and now she’s just sitting there, staring out the window at nothing.
“Catherine,” I say quietly.
She turns toward me, and even with the mask, I can see the want in her eyes. I don’t ask permission before I reach over and rest my hand on her thigh, right above her knee, and wait to see what she does.
She doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t tell me to stop.
Her hand goes to her hair, fingers running through the black strands and pushing them back nervously. The movement makes her chest rise, breasts stretching against the fabric of her shirt, and she takes a sharp breath when my hand stays on her thigh.
I move my hand higher, slowly, testing boundaries and reading every micro-expression I can see. Her breath quickens. Her hands grip the armrests.
I ease my hand higher up her thigh, fingertips grazing the warm skin just beneath the hem of her skirt. I pause there, right at the edge, letting my thumb trace a lazy circle on her inner thigh while I watch her face. Then, testing, I start to draw my hand back.
Her reaction is instant. One of her hands shoots down, fingers wrapping around my wrist in a firm grip. She presses my palm flat against her thigh again, holding it there. “Don’t you dare,” she whispers, voice low and fierce behind the mask.
A quiet chuckle rumbles in my chest. The sound surprises even me. She’s full of contradictions, all sharp edges and guarded secrets, yet here she is, practically demanding more.
I love it.
She doesn’t let go of my wrist. Instead, she guides my hand higher, sliding it fully under her skirt until my fingers brush the soft cotton edge of her panties. I hook the fabric aside with one knuckle and finally touch her bare pussy.
The first contact draws a sharp, involuntary gasp from her. Her hips shift forward in the seat, just a fraction, chasing the touch. Her thighs tense around my hand.
Fuck. The feel of her is perfect—warm, swollen folds with a light dusting of soft hair that brushes against my fingertips like silk. That delicate texture sends a jolt straight through me.
My cock hardens, straining painfully against the front of my trousers. I shift in my seat to ease the pressure, but it only makes me more aware of how much I want her.
I part her gently, tracing the slick heat that gathers under my touch. She wasn’t soaked before, but when I stroke along her seam, her body responds instantly, growing wetter with each pass.
I circle her clit lightly, feeling it swell further, and she exhales a shaky breath that fogs the inside of her mask. I sink one finger inside her. She clenches hard, hot and tight, pulling me deeper. I add a second, curling them to find that spot while my thumb keeps steady pressure on her clit.
With my free hand, I press the heel of my palm discreetly against my erection through my trousers, rubbing once, twice, just enough to take the edge off the ache she’s causing. Christ, I could come like this if I let myself.
The blanket over her lap hides everything, but I feel every reaction—the way her inner muscles flutter, her hips trying to rock subtly against my hand while she fights to stay quiet. Her free hand grips the armrest until her knuckles go white. Another stifled sound slips out, soft and desperate.
I build the rhythm gradually, watching her eyes darken above the mask. Every time she gets close, thighs trembling, breath hitching in tiny gasps, I adjust just enough to hold her there. Her gaze locks on mine, pleading and defiant.
When I finally let her fall, I thrust deeper and rub her clit exactly right.
She comes silently, body going rigid, a fierce shudder rippling through her as she clamps down hard around my fingers.
Her mouth opens behind the mask in a silent cry, eyes squeezing shut, breath held in one long tremor before releasing in tiny, controlled puffs.
I draw it out until she’s twitching, oversensitive.
Only then do I ease free. My cock throbs at the sight of my glistening fingers. I bring them to my mouth and taste her—sharp, intimate, addictive. She watches, chest still heaving, pupils blown wide.
Her hands shake as she reaches for her water, takes a long drink, then pulls the mask back up so she can keep hiding behind it.
“What hotel are you staying at?” I ask.
She hesitates, then gives me the name. Mid-range place in Manhattan, the kind that’s clean but forgettable.
“Cancel it,” I say. “You’re staying with me tonight.”