Chapter 30 #2
Beneath me, her hips buck, seeking friction against my thigh. She mewls and twists, shameless in her need.
“You like that?” I ask, though I can see the answer written across her flushed skin.
Her tongue slips over her lower lip as she nods. That small gesture—so unconscious, so sensual—wrecks me. It feels like surrender, like trust, like the first crack in my own carefully maintained composure.
I sit back on my heels, grip her panties, and slide them down—over her hips, past her thighs, knees, calves. I toss them aside without looking where they land.
Then I reach for my highball glass. I fish out the ice cube, hold it between my fingers where she can see it, and with my other hand, I tip the glass forward.
Expensive scotch drizzles down her stomach—amber liquid trailing between her breasts, over her ribs, pooling in her navel, then continuing south to glisten at her core.
“I’ve been wondering,” I tell her, my voice rougher than intended, “what you’d taste like with scotch.” I set the glass aside and lean down, dragging my tongue through the trail I've created. “Fuck, Brie. This is exactly what I’ve been wanting.”
The taste of her mixed with fifty-year-old single malt is obscene. Profane. Perfect.
I nip at her hip bone, suck at the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, then finally—finally—I lavish her with my tongue.
She’s already wet, but the scotch adds a sweet burn, a slick glide that makes her gasp. I work her with my mouth—licking, sucking, learning the sounds she makes when I hit the right spot. My fingers join my tongue, curling inside her while I seal my lips over her clit.
The ice cube in my other hand is melting, so I drag it along her inner thigh—the shock of cold against overheated skin makes her jump. I trace it closer, closer, until it’s pressed right where my tongue was. She cries out, thighs trying to close, but I hold her open.
“Too much?” I pull back to look at her face—flushed, desperate, gorgeous.
“No. God, no. Don’t stop.”
I alternate: ice, then my hot tongue. Cold, then heat. Sensation she can’t predict, can’t control. Her hands fist in my hair, thighs trembling against my shoulders.
“Yes, yes, right there—”
I feel the moment she breaks—muscles clenching around my fingers, back arching off the satin, my name torn from her throat. I work her through it, gentling as she comes down, until she’s boneless and panting.
When I finally pull back, I set what’s left of the drink aside. Her eyes are still closed, chest heaving.
“I think next time we’ll try a good cab. Or maybe champagne.”
“Hmm,” is all she manages.
“Are you not keen on that idea?” I tease, arms straining to hold myself over her.
“I kind of like the ice.” Her eyes flutter open, meeting mine with a satisfied, lazy smile that makes me want to start all over again.
I chuckle and she lifts to kiss me, tasting herself on my lips. Her legs wrap around my thighs, pulling me closer, asking for more.
And Jesus, she’s so wet, so ready. I position myself at her entrance—no barriers, no protection, just trust and choice—and push inside slowly.
The sensation steals my breath. Tight. Hot. Home.
“Brie.” Her name is prayer and possession.
I start moving, finding a rhythm that has her gasping, her nails digging into my shoulders. At thirty-five thousand feet, disconnected from the world and its problems, we create our own gravity.
Making love at this altitude feels like claiming something—each other, this moment, the future we’re choosing despite all the uncertainties waiting on the ground. For the first time in my life, altitude feels like absolution rather than escape.
I shift the angle, driving deeper, and she cries out. Her internal muscles clench around me and I’m close, so close. “Come with me,” I growl against her ear. “Come with me, Brie.”
She shatters—back arching, my name on her lips—and I follow seconds after, pulsing deep inside her, giving her everything I have.
Afterwards, Brie traces lazy patterns on my chest. Beneath us is satin, over us a cashmere throw, and the only sound is the constant hum of the engines. The rhythm of turbines syncs with her heartbeat against my ribs. It’s a heaven I never want to leave.
Outside, the Atlantic stretches endless and dark, the horizon invisible. For the first time in days—I stop thinking about the next move, the next challenge, the next revelation.
“For what it’s worth,” she says quietly, “I don’t think you’ll become another Eddie Thorne.”
I press a kiss to her temple, brushing blonde strands from her face. “How can you be so sure?”
“Eddie sold secrets for profit. You’d do it to protect people—to control what gets weaponized. That’s not the same thing.”
Maybe she’s right. Maybe the difference between Eddie and me isn’t whether we both profit from secrets, but why we do it and how far we’re willing to go.
The thought should comfort me, but as the plane carries us toward whatever confrontation awaits with Elena Vasquez, I’m unsettled.
I already know what kind of man I am. What I don’t know is what it will cost me to keep being him.
“I also don’t think your father—or sister—are like Moira. They purchased information. Competitive insights. Illegal? I’m guessing French would say yes, but it’s not deadly, it’s not the same.”
“Perhaps.” The trouble is, if my father would stoop to working with the Moira Kellys of the world, what else would he do? What will my sister do? “It’s hard to say what I’d do when pressed.”
Her finger traces the outline of my lip in lieu of a response. But then she says, “I’d trust you to choose what’s right.”
She’s placing a lot of trust in me. And the only positive I see is… “Does that mean you’re planning on sticking around?”
“No more disappearing acts. I promise—I’m not running. Not from this, not from you.”
That’s good. “I needed to hear that.”
It’s the truth, and I feel more settled and at ease about our relationship, that is.
But I’m not sure I share her trust in myself.
I struck out on my own to give my sister the family throne, to find my independence, not because I thought I was better than either of them.
Hell, I chose a path many would call questionable.
As I hold her in the quiet luxury of our temporary heaven, I realize the question isn’t whether I can walk a moral line. The question is whether I can become the man she believes I am. The Star card, not the Tower—hope over ruin. The man who deserves the faith she’s placing in me.
Whatever Elena Vasquez reveals, whatever fallout that comes, I won’t face it alone. That knowledge would have terrified a younger me, a man who craved control. But now, it feels like the first solid ground I’ve stood on in years.