17. Neomi
I expect the driver to take us to Austin-Bergstrom; instead, the car veers east.
The skyline thins behind us as we head out of the city, glass giving way to open stretches of road. I watch it pass through the tinted window, saying nothing, cataloging everything the way I always do when something shifts off script.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
Lars glances at me, his hand reaching over to link with mine. “Austin Executive.”
That earns my full attention.
I know the airport. It’s smaller and private, with corporate jets, charter flights, and people who don’t like lines or easily obtainable records.
Interesting.
The car rolls through the gates without slowing. No security check, just a nod from a man in a reflective vest who evidently already knows who Lars is.
My stomach tightens; this is the first time it has occurred to me that I’ve accepted a lot about him at face value.
The car pulls up directly onto the tarmac, coming to a stop near a waiting aircraft. The jet isn’t enormous, but it’s unmistakably expensive with a sleek white body, a narrow red stripe along the side, and stairs already lowered. Engines quiet but ready.
I step out of the car slowly, heels clicking against concrete, and take in the scene. The wind curls through the open space and the smell of exhaust is heavy. The pilot stands off to the side, hands clasped behind his back.
“Lars,” I say, keeping my tone neutral. “How often do you do this?”
He smiles. “Fly to Vegas on a whim?”
“Yes,” I answer. “On a private jet.”
“Not too often. But when I travel, I don’t like dealing with lines or delays,” he replies, and offers me his hand, and I take it. The contact is grounding, but my mind is already spinning. Security, he’d said. That could mean a dozen things. This narrows the field.
We climb the stairs together. Inside, the jet opens into quiet luxury—cream-colored seats arranged in pairs, polished wood accents, soft lighting recessed into the ceiling. I run my fingers along the back of a seat as I pass. Italian leather and custom, if I had to guess.
I settle into one of the forward seats as Lars moves effortlessly through the space, greeting the pilot by name, exchanging a few low words I don’t catch. He slides into the seat across from me, unbuttons his jacket, and finally looks at me like he’s been waiting for this moment.
“Ask,” he says.
I arch a brow. “Ask what?”
“Whatever’s spinning behind those eyes.”
The door seals and engines hum to life beneath us, a low vibration that travels up through the floor and into my bones. The cabin goes quiet as an attendant prepares the cabin to leave the ground.
I consider deflecting, but I decide to investigate.
“You said you work in security,” I say. “That’s vague.”
“Yes. I might have been vague.”
“This,” I gesture around us, “isn’t exactly mall cop energy.”
He chuckles. “No, it isn’t.”
The plane begins to move. Slow at first, then faster, runway lights streak past the window.
I study him while he watches me. “What kind of security, Lars?” I ask.
He doesn’t answer immediately.
The jet lifts smoothly into the air, the city falling away beneath us as Austin shrinks into a sprawling grid of lights and shadows. For a moment, the sensation steals my breath.
Then he speaks. “My family has run a business for decades. We work in a few areas, shipments, property, people.”
That tells me everything and nothing at the same time. This man is frustrating.
I lean back in my seat, crossing my legs, letting the hum of the engines fill the space between us.
“That’s still not an answer.”
The seatbelt light goes off as a ding echoes through the cabin. Lars unlatches his belt and leans forward, taking my hand. “We both probably have a few secrets, but I don’t want tonight to be an inquisition. I want to spend time with you, and I want to spoil you. Will you let me?”
I watch him for another beat, then nod once. “Okay,” I say.
Something settles low and warm in my chest—equal parts thrill and warning.
I’ve made a career out of reading men. Their tells, their weaknesses, their blind spots.
And sitting here, suspended between cities with a man I don’t fully understand, I realize something unsettling.
I don’t know where Lars fits on my board yet.
I run my thumb across the back of his hand. “This feels reckless.”
He smiles, then scoots forward, unbuckling my seatbelt. His hands grip my hips, lifting me from my seat, then into his lap to straddle him. My dress pools at the top of my thighs as my legs settle on either side of his.
A satisfied sound leaves him as I settle into him. He runs his hands up and down my arms, and while the friction is warm, his touch causes my skin to pebble.
Finally, his eyes settle on mine, his hands come to my jaw, forcing my gaze to focus on him. “I’m usually a man who thrives on control. But with you, Bella, I want to be reckless.” He pulls my lips to his in a single kiss. “So, let’s forget the world tonight. Just you and I, okay?”
I should question this, should dig deeper on who this man is, but right now, with his cock inches away from my pussy and his eyes pleading, I just can’t seem to give a damn.
“You and I.”
His lips curl into a sweet smile, and his eyes brighten before his mouth crashes into mine with a force that steals my breath.
The kiss turns molten instantly. Our tongues sliding, lips bruising, the kind of heat that makes thought impossible.
His hands grip my hips hard, then they’re everywhere—up my sides, over my ribs, sliding beneath the hem of my dress like he’s starving.
When his palm curves over my breast, I swear the jet drops out of the sky.
A low sound breaks from him, something ragged and involuntary, and he drags his thumb across my nipple through the thin fabric.
My back arches automatically, offering more, needing more.
His mouth steals another kiss from me, deeper, hungrier, like he’s two seconds from fucking me right here in this seat.
I tear my mouth from his just long enough to breathe, my voice a whisper against his jaw.
“Technically,” I trace his lower lip with my tongue, slow enough to make him swear under his breath, “we’re on our way to dinner.”
I lean in, brushing my mouth against his ear. “So, if you really wanted to,” my hips roll once against his cock, “you could fuck me.”
The growl that leaves him is pure frustration and directed entirely at me. He fists the back of my hair, tugging my head back so I’m forced to meet his eyes.
“Bella, don’t tempt me—unless you’re ready for me to forget that I’m trying to be a gentleman,” he growls.
And judging by the way my pulse throbs, I absolutely am ready for him to forget his stupid rules. But the way he looks at me—starved, conflicted, reverent—tells me he isn’t ready to.