4. Vadim
VADIM
The moment my mouth closes over hers, every sensible reason to stop disappears.
Sloane goes still against the door for one heartbeat, her fingers tightening in the front of my stained shirt as though she hasn’t yet decided whether to push me away or hold on, and then she opens for me with a soft, startled breath that goes straight through me.
I deepen the kiss before she can think better of it.
Her mouth is warm and responsive, far softer than the sharp words she has been throwing at me since I boarded, and the contrast strips away what remains of my control.
I slide one hand around her waist and pull her closer until there’s no space left between us, until the hard line of my body presses against the softness of hers and she has no choice but to feel exactly what she has done to me.
She makes a small sound against my mouth, a sound that settles low in my blood.
I’ve kissed beautiful women in hotel suites, penthouses, limousines, and rooms designed for pleasure, women who knew exactly how to move and exactly what expression to wear while doing it. None of them has ever affected me with one involuntary whimper the way Sloane does now.
She responds without calculation. Her body arches into mine before she seems to realize she’s doing it, her fingers sliding upward over my chest, gathering the damp fabric beneath her palms. Her lips part beneath mine, and when my tongue enters her mouth, she answers immediately, meeting me with a hunger that feels newly discovered and impossible to fake.
Fuck.
She responds beautifully.
I tilt her head back and kiss her harder. Her back presses against the closed door, and my hand moves from her waist to the curve of her hip, holding her there while my other hand slips beneath her jaw.
She should tell me to stop.
I should stop without being told.
Instead, I drag my mouth from hers and feel her breath break when I kiss the corner of her lips, then the line of her jaw.
Her skin is warm beneath my mouth. She smells clean and faintly floral, but underneath it is the scent of her, something soft and feminine that makes the cramped restroom feel even smaller. I kiss down the side of her neck, slowly enough to feel the pulse beating wildly beneath my lips.
Her head falls back against the door.
“Vadim,” she whispers.
My name in her voice nearly ends what little restraint I have left.
I close my teeth lightly over the delicate skin below her ear.
She shudders, and her hands slide into my hair, fingers tightening against my scalp.
The sensation sends a hard surge of need through me.
I press my thigh between hers, not enough to trap her, but enough that she feels the pressure exactly where she’s already warm.
Her hips move.
Barely. Instinctively.
The soft friction pulls another whimper from her.
I lift my head and look at her. Her eyes are half closed, her lips swollen from my mouth, and several strands of dark hair have fallen loose from the knot at the back of her head.
Her careful composure has cracked completely, revealing flushed skin and shallow breaths and a desire she clearly resents as much as she feels.
“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” I tell her.
Her lashes lift. “Like what?”
“As though you want me to continue.”
A flash of defiance returns to her face, weakened by the way her body is still pressed to mine. “I didn’t ask you to stop.”
That answer is a mistake.
For both of us.
I kiss her again, and this time there’s nothing restrained in it.
My hand travels up her side, following the fitted line of her uniform until my palm closes over her breast through the stiff fabric of her blouse.
She gasps into my mouth, her body jerking against mine as my thumb moves over the hard point of her nipple.
The reaction tears through me. I want more of it. I want every sound she has.
I break the kiss and pull back only far enough to find the buttons of her blouse. I open one, then another, watching her face for resistance.
She doesn’t stop me.
Her breathing grows faster as I part the fabric enough to expose the upper curve of her breasts and the pale edge of her bra. The sight isn’t much by ordinary standards, but there’s nothing ordinary about the way she looks at me while I lower my head.
I press my mouth to the soft swell above the lace.
Sloane’s breath catches. Her fingers tighten in my hair again when I kiss lower, my lips tracing the edge of the cup before my tongue touches the warm skin just above it. She trembles against the door, and I feel the movement everywhere our bodies meet.
“Fuck,” she breathes. The word sounds shocked, as though she didn’t expect it to leave her mouth. I nearly smile against her skin.
My hand cups her breast more firmly, lifting it while I kiss the exposed curve. I want to drag the fabric down, take her nipple into my mouth, and listen to what sound she makes when I suck it hard enough to make her forget every reason this is wrong.
I could. She would let me.
The certainty is dangerous.
Her head turns as I kiss up the center of her chest, and her cheek brushes mine. Her breathing is hot against my ear.
I feel her body soften further into me. Trusting me.
That’s what reaches me.
Not the desire. Not the heat gathering between us or the way she’s clinging to my shoulders. It’s the fact that she’s allowing herself to go pliant in my hands, even though she has known me for only a few hours and disliked me for nearly all of them.
The knowledge should make me step back.
Instead, something fierce and selfish rises inside me.
I want to keep her this way. I want her beneath my hands without the uniform, without an aircraft full of men waiting beyond the door.
I want to see whether she would make the same sounds beneath me, whether she would say my name with that same breathless disbelief while I open her thighs and take everything she’s offering.
The plane shifts again. The movement is mild, barely more than a change in balance, but Sloane’s heel slips against the floor. Her head knocks against the wall beside the door with a dull sound. She cries out, and the desire vanishes beneath something immediate and violent.
I catch the back of her head and steady her. “Look at me.”
She blinks. “I’m fine.”
“Look at me, Sloane.”
Her eyes focus on mine.
I run my hand carefully over the back of her head, checking for swelling, then examine her face. Her pupils appear even. There’s no blood, no confusion, nothing beyond surprise and the lingering flush from my mouth.
Still, guilt tightens inside my chest.
It has been a long time since I felt it.
I’m familiar with responsibility. I understand consequences. Men have been hurt because I ordered it, and men have died because I decided they should. I don’t waste guilt on choices I made knowingly.
This is different.
She’s not part of my world. She’s a flight attendant, standing in an aircraft restroom with her blouse partly open because I kissed her before either of us had the sense to stop.
There’s something almost painfully unguarded about her in this moment. She is fierce, yes. Controlled. Capable of pouring wine onto a dangerous man because he wounded her pride. But beneath that, she’s the most innocent thing I’ve encountered in a very long time.
Not na?ve. Untouched by what I am.
There’s a difference.
My hand remains against the back of her head. “Does it hurt?”
“Only my dignity.”
I study her for another second. “You should sit down.”
“I don’t need to sit down.”
“You hit your head.”
“Because you were mauling me in an aircraft restroom.”
“You were participating.”
Her eyes narrow. “I was temporarily confused.”
“Your hands were in my hair.”
“Still confused.”
Despite myself, my mouth almost curves. Then I look at her swollen lips and the open buttons of her blouse, and the selfish need returns with enough force to make me tighten my grip on her waist.
I want to take her away from this aircraft and away from the lecherous pilot waiting outside. I want her assigned only to my flights. I want to know where she lives, who she speaks to, and whether there’s a man waiting for her when she lands.
I want things I have no right to want after one kiss.
That doesn’t make the need less real.
Sloane watches me carefully, as though she senses the direction of my thoughts and doesn’t trust it. She shouldn’t.
I release her. The effort it takes is greater than it should be.
She immediately steps away and begins fastening her blouse, her fingers less steady than before. I turn my attention to the door because watching her conceal the skin I just tasted is likely to destroy the restraint I’ve managed to recover.
When she’s finished, she smooths both hands over her uniform and lifts her chin. Professional again.
Almost. Her mouth remains flushed, and the pulse in her throat is too quick.
“I should return to work,” she says.
“Yes.”
Neither of us moves.
Then she reaches for the door. I open it before she can.
The corridor outside is empty for half a second, then Captain Hale steps from the galley. He stops when he sees us, his gaze landing first on Sloane’s face, then on her loosened hair, then on my damp shirt and unfastened cuff. His expression tightens before he can hide it.
Displeasure. Possessiveness.
The sight of it awakens something cold inside me.
“Captain,” I say.
He straightens. “Mr. Chernovar.”
His eyes slide back to Sloane.
She notices, and her shoulders stiffen.
“The stain required more attention than expected,” I tell him.
Hale’s jaw shifts. “I see.”
“No,” I say. “I don’t believe you do.”
His gaze snaps to mine.
The corridor seems to narrow.
Sloane steps past both of us before the silence can become something worse. “I need to check on the dinner service.”
She doesn’t wait for permission. She moves quickly into the main cabin, not quite running, but close enough that I know she’s escaping both of us.
Hale watches her go.
I watch him watch her.
When he realizes I’m still standing there, he forces his attention back to me. “Is there something you require, sir?”
“Yes.”
He waits.
“Return to the cockpit.”
His mouth tightens. “We are at cruising altitude.”
“I’m aware of the aircraft’s position.”
“My copilot has control.”
“Then find another reason to be useful.”
For one second, resentment shows plainly on his face. Then he lowers his head. “Of course.” He retreats toward the cockpit.
I remain in the corridor until the door closes behind him.
When I return to my seat, the conversation at the table has stopped. Anton looks at the stain on my shirt. Iosef looks at my face. Marek looks entirely too pleased with himself.
Sloane is nowhere in sight. She has disappeared behind the galley curtain, and I’ve no intention of asking where she went again, particularly with these men watching me.
Marek’s gaze drops to my shirt. “Well,” he says, “she did a remarkable job.”
I look down.
The stain is, in fact, significantly lighter. Only a faint shadow remains across the front of the fabric, and the mark on my trousers has nearly vanished.
I don’t care.
“Open my suitcase,” I tell Anton. “Bring me another shirt and trousers.”
Anton stands.
Marek leans back in his chair. “You didn’t think of changing earlier?”
I look at him.
He makes no effort to hide his amusement. “The bedroom contains a wardrobe,” he continues. “Your luggage has been aboard since before we arrived. It would have saved considerable time.”
Iosef lowers his eyes to the contract, though I can see he’s listening.
“I wanted the stain removed.”
“Of course.”
“It was her responsibility,” I say.
“Naturally,” Iosef replies.
“She caused it,” I shoot back.
“Deliberately.” He’s having fun now.
I stare at him.
Marek lifts both hands. I glare at him. “I said nothing,” he says.
“You have said several things,” I say.
“And yet none of them explains why you spent twenty minutes in the restroom with a woman who could have handed you a cloth and allowed you to clean your own shirt.”
Anton returns with the suitcase and places it near the bedroom door.
I stand.
Marek looks at the fading stain once more. “She truly did excellent work.”
I walk past him without answering.
Behind me, I hear Iosef say quietly, “You should stop.”
Marek replies, “I will when he stops looking toward the galley.”
I don’t turn around.
Mostly because he’s right.