Chapter 41 Cruising Altitude & No Panties
Cruising Altitude & No Panties
Harlee
The second my sneaker hits the jet’s polished staircase, my brain short-circuits. This ain’t no Southwest “we’ll get you there eventually” flight. This is a goddamn spaceship masquerading as a plane.
As we step into the cabin, the air shifts. It’s crisp, cool, and smells like someone bottled money and sprayed it for ambiance. Not that new car scent—this is richer, warmer. Like leather-bound books in a private library where they serve you whiskey just for breathing.
This man said, he booked us a flight. This isn't a flight this is an entire jet.
This bird seats eight. Total. The seats? They’re not seats. They’re thrones. Buttery white leather, stitched tighter than my edges on wash day, gleaming under soft gold lighting that makes the whole space feel like a moving boutique hotel suite.
I trail my fingers over the armrest, letting my palm sink into the cushion. This isn’t just luxury—it’s intentional. Every curve, every line, every gleaming surface says: This was designed for people who expect the world to bow when they walk in.
“HQ, focus,” I mutter it to myself, but I’m already pulling out my phone. A girl’s gotta document. I whip out my camera faster than a stimulus check disappearing on .
Behind me, August chuckles. That low, smug rumble of a man who knows exactly what he’s done. His backpack lands on a seat like it’s allowed to be there.
“I see my bag is still MIA,” I call over my shoulder, sashay activated as I head toward the back. "What’s the plan here, huh? You expecting me to rock this outfit the whole time, or what?"
His voice follows, lazy and amused. “There you go again, worrying about things that don’t concern you.”
I pause, hand on the pristine bathroom door, and spin around. “Excuse you? No panties, remember?”
There’s a beat of silence, then his voice drops—low, sinful. “Did it ever occur to you that I might prefer you that way?”
Whew. Sir.
I flop onto one of the couches, testing its vibe. It hugs me like it knows what this ass has been through. My thighs sink in, cradled in plush defiance of my usual Greyhound standards. “Uh-huh, well, these thighs weren’t built for friction burns. Practicality, papi. Even in bougie-ass airspace.”
“Ay, mami… you worry too much.” His laugh spills through the cabin, rich and deep. It coats me in this sticky-sweet warmth that makes me wanna stretch out and purr. “Don’t worry about that, baby. Just enjoy not having to worry for a bit. I got you.”
That’s the thing though—I know. There’s not a doubt in my mind that August James has me.
In all the loudest, boldest, most ridiculous ways.
That’s not the problem. The problem is, what do you do with that kind of love when you’re used to people whispering it?
This man loves me in all caps, in neon lights, on private jets.
And it’s cool as hell… but whew, it’s a lot.
“Is this your way of keeping me in the dark about where we’re going?” I challenge, hopping up again because sitting still ain’t in my DNA today. My fingers trail across chrome finishes and hidden compartments like I’m casing the joint for a heist.
“Surprises are part of the fun.” He hums, leaning against a seat, watching me like I’m his favorite movie.
My eyes land on two champagne flutes perched like a setup. My mouth waters on instinct. “Is that champagne?” I ask the flight attendant, who appears like she’s been waiting for her cue. She hands me a glass, smiling like she’s in on the joke.
I twirl—because why not—and take a sip. Nah. Half the glass disappears in one go. My ADHD is doing backflips, spinning me from the leather stitching to the floor’s subtle marble inlay, to the faint hum of the engines like a heartbeat under my feet.
August accepts his glass but never stops watching me. “I like to see surprises all the way through,” he says, sliding into the seat next to me. His hand finds mine, thumb brushing soft circles like he’s grounding me in this floating universe.
“This is ridiculous.” I laugh, gesturing at the empty seats. “We got a whole damn plane, and we’re sitting Southwest style.”
He quirks a brow. “You wanna move?”
I grip his arm when he starts to rise. “Don’t you dare. I’m just... processing, okay? This is surreal. Like, is this your plane? Or...?”
“Nah.” He smirks. “I’m just chartering it for our little getaway. Thought we could use some privacy.”
“Chartering it where?” My curiosity is damn near setting me on fire, but he’s playing his cards close. Again.
“Nice try, mi amor,” he says, catching the question on my tongue. “You’ll know when you need to. For now, just enjoy the ride, mi vida. Sí?”
This man is a vault. I’ve tried everything—off-guard ambushes, strategic thigh grabs, even a full-court press from the pussy fairy. Nothing’s worked. Well… unless you count the three orgasms that damn near took me out of commission.
But fine. Keep your secrets, sir.
I glance down at my outfit—sweatpants chic. I don’t know if I’m headed for a beach or a blizzard, but at this point? I’m rolling with it. Because this—this is cool as fuck. Terrifying, but dope as hell.
The attendant swings back. “Can I get you or Miss Prince anything besides champagne before takeoff?”
“Whiskey, neat,” August says, then flicks his gaze to me. “And Miss Prince will have a glass of red wine.”
I raise a brow. “Red, huh?”
He feigns innocence. “What, did you want something else?”
I lean in, dropping my voice. “You know what wine does to me.”
“That’s the point,” he murmurs, fingers gliding up my cheek, lighting up every nerve ending I own.
I tap his thigh with a smirk. “Alright, August. What’s the play here? Are you trying to butter me up? Whisking me away to some secret location? Where you tie me up in a room and have your way with me, while you keep me fed and in bed I'm blissfully ignorant of our destination.”
He leans in, lips brushing my ear. “Eh, maybe not in that order. But I think having my way with you on this plane is first on that list.”
Oh. Oh, okay then.
Suddenly, the cabin shrinks, the air thickens, and my skin is too aware of everything. The engines hum louder beneath us, a pulsing vibration that feels far too personal.
As we taxi down the runway, one thought takes off with us—this man’s about to ruin me, and I’m not even mad about it.
The seatbelt sign dings off. August’s thumb is still tracing lazy circles on my thigh, like he’s tuning an instrument only he knows how to play.
For twenty days, this man’s been spoiling me rotten.
And not just in the “buy her nice things” way—though, let’s be real, there’s been plenty of that.
But in the quiet ways. Pulling me into his lap when the world got too loud.
Making me coffee and making flashcards when I was studying for finals.
Rubbing my feet and back after long days.
I swirl my wine, watching the ruby liquid catch the light.
His name hasn’t been in print lately, but the internet stayed messy.
He played the victim like a pro. Poor Spencer Buchanan.
Got jumped at a charity event by his ex’s new boss.
The ex? Oh, she was never named, but you didn’t have to be tagged to feel the heat.
I sip. It tastes better than guilt.
August shifts beside me, scrolling his phone with the kind of calm that drives me nuts. He could’ve spun the narrative. Could’ve cleared my name, dragged Spencer’s. But he didn’t. He just pulled me closer and said, “We know what’s real.”
That’s the difference.
Spencer wanted to control me. August wants me to shine and bask in my glow.
“Your brain’s loud, baby,” August murmurs, eyes still on his screen but thumb never stopping its circles. “What’s spinning up there?”
I lean back, letting the hum of the jet vibrate through my bones. “Just thinking how you stay ten steps ahead. It’s exhausting trying to guess how you keep working all this magic.”
He glances over, smirk lazy. “Good thing you get to sit pretty and enjoy the ride.”
The man’s insufferable. And I’m disgustingly into it.
August stands, stretches like he’s got all the time in the world, and holds out his hand.
“Come see something,” he says, voice dipped in trouble.
I narrow my eyes. “Is this a ‘look what I bought’ surprise or a ‘drop your panties’ surprise?”
He tilts his head, that damn smile spreading slow. “Can’t it be both?”
Okay now, that's twice.
My palm slides into his, and just like that, I’m on my feet, following him down the narrow aisle. His thumb strokes over my knuckles, casual, like we’re just taking a stroll through Target. Except we’re on a jet. And I’m already overheating.
The door at the back of the plane glides open, smooth as butter. And behind it?
A suite.
Not a plane suite. Not a “convertible seat with a sad-ass blanket” suite. No. This is a full-blown, floor-to-ceiling, we’re definitely about to sin in here suite.
I stop in my tracks.
“Oh, we’re disrespectful, disrespectful,” I mutter.
The bed is ridiculous—California king, dressed in sheets so crisp I want to disrespect them immediately. There’s a flat screen. A chilled bottle of champagne on a tray. Soft, ambient lighting that dips the room in a warm, honey-gold glow. It’s bougie. It’s intimate. It’s August James in room form.
I stand there, half-daring him. “You know, this is how supervillains trick women into signing NDAs.”
August’s laugh is low, sinful. “Good thing you’ve already signed one.”
Before I can roll my eyes, he’s crowding me, backing me up until my spine meets the cool gloss of the cabin wall. His arms bracket my head, his breath warm against my cheek.
“Been thinking about this since you stepped on board…dime mi nombre.” he murmurs, his tone so calm, so casual, like he’s just discussing lunch plans. “You, pinned right here. Saying my name.”
Oh. Okay.
My breath stutters. His hands aren’t even on me yet, and I’m already toast.
“I’m wearing leggings,” I point out, because my brain is unhinged and refuses to play it cool.