CHAPTER TWO
Ella
T hree hours later...
Despite the sexy come-on from Balor before take-off, he’s not said another word to me.
Bummer.
His sleek silver laptop with a brand logo I’ve never seen sits on his tray table. His long, sexy fingers swipe across the stainless-steel keyboard like it’s a piano and he’s Marc-Andre Hamelin.
My laptop isn’t high-end or fancy, but it works well enough to update my resumé with the special ed teaching I did in Sydney. I pray I can get my job back at Fredericks Elementary next fall. Especially after the mess I made.
When the laptop battery craps out, I dig into my bag and panic, realizing my charger is in my checked luggage.
I groan.
“There’s that noise again,” Irish guy mutters. “We have ten more hours to go.”
“Did you say something?” I play dumb.
His fingers stop moving. “You heard me.”
“Do you do this a lot? Openly proposition strange women on planes?”
“Did I proposition you?” He goes back to typing.
“It sounded implied.”
“Implied doesn’t count.” He turns to me. “If I want to do something about those groans that are making me crazy, you’ll know.”
I glance around and wonder if the plane went down, and this is my version of heaven.
Yeah, let’s go with that.
Being on an airplane provides one of the few breaks from modern life. Unless it’s a private jet where rich people make calls like they’re sitting in an office. Commercial airline travel provides an escape.
“Am I? Making you crazy?” I ask playfully.
Annoying him is fun.
“Your fucking perfume is.” Balor’s blunt answer startles me.
“I’m not... I’m not wearing perfume.”
His gaze swivels my way. “Then it’s just how you smell that’s got my blood moving in a different direction.”
Oh my God. My blood just moved in a different direction.
Is he flirting with me? Or toying with me? Or maybe it’s an honest-to-God pheromone thing.
“And you didn’t answer my first question,” I say. “Do you do this a lot? Hit on strange women on planes.”
“No,” he says firmly. “I’m usually on my private jet. Alone.”
Now this makes sense. Unless he’s some Tinder Swindler .
“And this jet, is it in the shop?”
He closes the laptop, his jaw tight. “Okay, butterfly. Let’s talk.”
“Butterfly?”
“Your wrist tattoo.” His eyes lower to my left wrist.
“You caught that?” I pull down my sleeve with a ruffled cuff.
“I saw the roses on your ankle, too.”
I glance down and notice the cut of my black leather slingbacks expose the three colorless blooming roses that start at my ankle and cross over the top of my foot.
“Seriously, why are you dressed so formally for such a long flight?” He keeps his attention on me.
“I was on a date.” My downturned voice gets a look of sympathy.
“And?”
“The date ended. Then I got a call about a job and this was the first flight available.”
I’m purposely cagey since my father and I are both starting new jobs with the same company. Mine’s an assistant gig he got for me. It’s nearly impossible to get a full-time teaching job in the middle of the school year.
Balor frowns. “A job that pays well enough for a last-minute, first-class ticket from Sydney to New York?”
I hesitate to tell him my father picked up the tab. “Yes, sir.”
A deep chuckle rumbles from his chest. “Don’t call me sir. I like it.”
I lean closer. “Are you... A sir ?”
“I’m a man.”
“Yes, that’s obvious. I mean are you one of those Doms?” Thank you, FSOG– now every woman secretly wants one.
“No.” He turns his head. “I don’t have time to train subs.”
Because there’s so much sex in the D/s relationship, especially new ones, it’s an arrangement that requires a serious time commitment.
“Too busy for a relationship, eh?”
His eyes flicker back to me. “Are you Canadian?”
“No.”
“I thought you said ’aye.’ That’s what my brothers and I say when we mean yes. So, aye , I’m too busy for any kind of relationship or commitment. I use...”
Hookers? Escorts?
My core tightens as my nipples flare to life. I’ve heard of people hooking up after meeting on a plane. This could be my turn. Good Lord, an idea hits me.
He clears his throat. “Never mind.”
“Oh, no. You need to finish that sentence. Because if you mean paid company...” I slink my hand toward him and stroke his forearm. “Whoa, what’s this shirt made of?”
He cracks a real smile, finally. “It’s Poplin. All my shirts are made with it.”
“It feels amazing.” I smooth his sleeve again, hypnotized by the softness and impressed he only wears custom shirts.
He stops me with his warm palm over mine. “I said, I don’t like to be touched.”
“Oops.” I pull my hand back.
His lips say no, but his eyes sparkle with curiosity. “And if you touch a man like that, he might interpret that as consent.”
“With a...woman like me, consent is irrelevant.” Oh my God, did I just say that?
“A woman like you?” His eyes drink me in. “Butterfly, are you a...”
I bite my lip and choose my words very carefully. “I can be whatever you want me to be.”
“Are you getting off in Los Angeles?” His gruff voice bottoms out.
“I am.” My pulse thunders in my ears. “If you get me off there.”
His face turns to granite, eyes blazing. “Where do you live?”
“New York City.”
He frowns again. “And you were just on a...date in Sydney, Australia?”
I smile, swallowing nervously. “Yes, sir.”
He leans into me and with an invisible barrier or propriety torn away, he says, “Did he come inside you?”
The immediate dampness between my legs startles me. A wave of arousal, something I’ve not felt in years, washes over me. It’s like a rebirth and it hits hard, strong. After what I went through with my ex, I never thought I’d experience this spark again .
And damn it, I want more. It’s the most alive I’ve felt in forever.
My thighs tense, my core tightens, and my nipples stiffen, the tender buds scraping against my lace bra. Fire simmers in my veins, igniting an insatiable longing I’m desperate to satisfy.
Unable to form words, I only shake my head, wondering how such an undeniable attraction can blossom so fast and powerful out of nowhere.
“Answer me, butterfly.”
I shake my head.
“Why not ?”
Shit... Can I keep going? Let this lead to a one-night stand that I really need and mix it with a hooker fantasy?
If my poor father only knew what he set me up for.
But I’m twenty-seven, and I love sex. Or I did before Wesley Brennan. It’s been six months since he hurt me for the last time, and I’m finally beginning to feel like myself again.
This sexy stranger is the gasoline I need to get my flame roaring.
“He...didn’t pay me enough.”
“Jesus fucking Christ. How much...” Balor leans in.
“If you own a jet, I’m sure you can afford it.”
“We can make use of that five-hour layover in Los Angeles,” he utters. “In bed.”
“Can you last five hours, sir?” I whisper.
“I can last. How do you feel about getting back on this plane limping and sore after what I’ll do to you for five hours, butterfly?”