SEVEN | Blustery Takeoff | Tinsley
SEVEN
Blustery Takeoff
Tinsley
G as fumes filled my nostrils as I heard the engines roar louder, and my hands gripped the armrests for dear life. My knuckles hurt and were white. My mind reeled at top speed with negative thoughts. I was about to lift off on a jet before Christmas Day with a snowstorm brewing on the plane’s ass and marry billionaire Mitt Morgan, a man I barely knew.
What was I thinking?
This was too much. I had second thoughts. Someone get me off this freaking plane!
“I can’t do this,” I mumbled repeatedly as I watched the wintery scenery move at a slow pace. “Stop the plane!”
Mitt pried my hand closest to him from the armrest and squeezed it tight. “We can do this. You can do this.”
I snapped my eyes shut. “Maybe we should wait? You know... go the old fashion route and go out on a date in New York, and not marry each other four hours away!”
My head bounced slightly against the headrest and my chest was heavy with a weight I wanted off as the pressure built, and I closed my mouth, only breathing through my flared nostrils. Gravity fought me and the strain of it pushed against my head.
Mitt chuckled softly. “It’s a little late for that now, since we are almost at a thousand feet.”
“A thousand feet!” I exclaimed and tugged on his hand. “Squeeze my hand tighter.”
“I can do better than that,” Mitt said as he let go of my hand, and I felt the shift of my seat. “Lean forward.”
I did as instructed.
Strong fingers kneaded my tense muscles. “What are you doing?”
Mitt answered in my ear, “Calming you down.”
My eyes snapped open.
“But I—”
“Relax,” Mitt encouraged me as his fingers massaged my shoulders and my eyes rolled. “Close your eyes and breathe.”
His calming technique loosened me up, and he molded me into putty in his hands. He made some circular motion with his thumbs, making me moan, with my head lolling downward. Mitt had magical hands, performing an art I had never experienced, and I never wanted him to stop. I wonder what else Mr. Mitt Morgan could do with those hands?
“God. What are you doing to me?” I asked, completely lost in his trance.
“I’m not God, angel. I’m your soon-to-be-husband.”
Mitt’s warm breath fanned my ear, and the wispy hairs tickled my skin. Warm tingles erupted and shot straight down into the pit of my aching belly. There, feelings stirred, creating a sweet hot mixture, thickening between my thighs and leaving a wet spot.
Suddenly, the flight attendant interrupted, “It’s safe to take off your seatbelts.”
Embarrassment heated my cheeks as my head jerked up and Mitt took his hands off my neck. My panties were moist, and I moved in my seat to forget I had let myself get carried away. I don’t even know how many moments I had let such a delicious touch consume me. I was practically foaming at the mouth!
Mitt cleared his throat.
“Thank you.” I said.
Mitt moved in his seat, and he wasn’t doing it to get comfortable. I could’ve sworn he adjusted his dick. My eyes widened at the thought, and I had to force my curious eyes to turn away before he caught me gawking at his crotch. I bit my lip, formulating a thought. Had I affected Mr. Morgan as much as he had aroused me?
Well, duh!
I liked to think I was attractive, and there was no doubt Mitt was incredibly hot. He must have felt the pull between us since we first met, and being this close while touching me, must turn him on. His hands on my body and all this pent-up sexual tension would be the end of a flaccid cock. But we had our destination wedding around the corner. We should maintain focus, not engage in reckless sex.
I exhaled a lengthy sigh. “I’m sorry about my freak out back there. It was stupid of me.”
Self-consciousness consumed me as I undid my seatbelt and rubbed my arms. I shouldn’t be acting pathetic—I had made my choice.
Mitt grabbed my chin and made me turn to him. “Don’t say that. You’re not stupid. Your second guessing makes you human.”
“Human?” I mumbled as I glanced down and felt shame. “I acted like an animal about to be slaughtered.”
“No,” Mitt breathed as he rubbed his thumb across my lower lip, and my breath caught. “An angel with broken wings.”
“Angel?” I whispered against his fingertips.
“Yes. My angel, whom I took under my wing until you healed, and I fixed you,” Mitt answered in a soft whisper.
“Why?” I whispered, almost breathless.
Something shifted in his eyes, and he removed his fingers from my parted mouth. “Because our wedding is in a few hours.”
“Right. The wedding,” I said as I gave myself a mental shake to snap out of whatever world we had been stuck in.
We were acquaintances about to tie the knot, not instantly fall in love. Love was off on the sidelines, waiting for its turn to take the field and score the winning goal, immediately filling our hearts. Or it could be the complete opposite—a fumble in front of the net and a tackle before true devotion ever had a shot.
Mitt cleared his throat. “If you’ll excuse me, I have an important call to make.”
“Absolutely,” I said with a small smile.
I watched as Mitt got up without a glance back and turned his attention to his cell phone. He fell out of eyesight and a frustrated sigh escaped me. What the fuck was wrong with me?
I was a nervous wreck one moment, and the next, a melting snowflake sure to ice over with a deep freeze. One that would easily thaw as soon as Mitt touched me. I needed a damn shot.
“Excuse me?” I snapped my fingers at the flight attendant because I didn’t know how else to get her attention.
“Yes, Ms. Kingsley?”
Jesus. Everyone appeared to know me. Mitt worked fast.
I stopped the snap of my fingers and laid my hands on my lap. “Do you serve alcohol on this flight?”
“Why, yes, we do.” She smiled. “What can I get for you?”
I asked, “What do you have?”
“We have everything.”
Shit! Seriously?
My eyes bugged out of my head, and I realized I should act the part if I was about to become Mrs. Morgan. Instead of fidgeting with my hands, I calmed them in my lap and made myself appear more carefree—used to the luxurious lifestyle—and I fixed my bulging eyes that resembled a hairless cat.
“I’ll take a tequila shot, please—no lime.”
I wanted the shot straight, killing all traces of the aching heat inside my belly. The bitter taste would crush the waves of desire Mitt had effortlessly brought to the surface and sink me with the tide. I’d prefer being lost at sea and a tad tipsy over the mixed-up feelings whirling inside me.
She brought the shot glass over, filled to the rim, and I gulped it down in one go. “Thanks.”
The shot burned on the way down, but it was no match for my bruised ego from Mitt’s brush off. He hadn’t returned, and it had been a few minutes, possibly ten, since he left. I rose from my seat, in need of the restroom, with a powerful urge to pee. The alcohol gave my urinary tract an extra push with its sudden need to release.
I ambled through the long corridor of the cabin, the plastic trim giving a sleek wooden appearance, and passed a sofa with an end table attached and a vase full of beautiful white orchids. The pleasant touch gave the modern interior a homey feeling, with the dim lighting that was calming for a nighttime flight. I ventured in the exact direction Mitt had disappeared and saw a door straight ahead, which I figured led to the pilot. Before the cockpit, there was a half-draped curtain and a wall that led to the bathroom. From what I could see, more seating was behind the barrier, and I reached for the latch to the washroom, but Mitt’s voice stopped me.
“I don’t care if it costs $100,000! Make sure it’s a size eight.” He said in a low, harsh voice. “Fourteen million for the highest priced one?”
A brief pause.
“Okay.”
I peeked around the corner. My eyes landed on Mitt, seated with a drink in hand as he swirled the liquid around in a glass. He was engrossed in the phone call he didn’t even notice me eavesdropping on his private conversation. I knew I should mind my own business, but this man made me curious—nosier than a pesky cat, and everyone knows how the warning goes. Curiosity killed the cat. But Mitt Morgan was far too mysterious for an inquisitive kitty like me.
Mitt added, “Whichever one she chooses, send the bill to my office.” And he ended the call.
She?
Who is she ?
The conversation had to involve Mitt’s business. Some court case under wraps since he wanted privacy for his important call, and I had ruined it. But Mitt hadn’t a clue.
My husband-to-be moved, and I feared he was returning in the same direction. My eyes widened as I opened the restroom door and locked it shut behind me with a relieved sigh. Mitt hadn’t noticed me, his perplexed bride-to-be, hiding in the bathroom while he went back to his seat, and I had a pee. As I flushed the toilet, replaying the previous event, a thought occurred to me. Whatever the phone call was about had nothing to do with business when it came down to Mr. Mitt Morgan spending millions of his money.