Mile High Somno Stepfather (While She Sleeps #6)

1. Violet

VIOLET

The business class cabin smells like leather and expensive cologne.

I follow Vincent down the narrow aisle, hyper-aware of his broad shoulders blocking my view of everything ahead.

At six-five, he towers over nearly everyone on the plane, and the black henley stretched across his back shows off the powerful build that's haunted my thoughts for three years now.

Three years since Mom married him in that whirlwind Vegas ceremony when I was eighteen.

Three years since she left him—and me—less than ten months later.

A blonde flight attendant steps aside to let Vincent pass, her gaze lingering on his profile.

On the silver threaded through his black hair, the neatly trimmed beard that makes him look distinguished rather than old.

Her eyes drop to his forearms where intricate tattoo patterns peek out from under rolled sleeves, and I feel an irrational spike of jealousy.

He's not yours, I remind myself. He was your stepfather for less than a year. Not anymore, since my mother just walked away from both of us and started fresh in Arizona with her new boyfriend.

"You're an adult now, Violet. You can handle yourself," she'd said when I asked if I should find my own place after the divorce. "Vincent doesn't mind you staying. Right, Vincent?"

And he'd looked at me with those intense gray eyes and said, "Of course not. Stay as long as you need."

That was three years ago.

I should have left by now. Should have moved into a dorm when I started college, or gotten an apartment with roommates like a normal twenty-one-year-old.

Instead, I've been living in his house, sleeping down the hall from him, eating breakfast across from him every morning while sexual tension thick enough to choke on builds between us.

I've caught him looking at me. Seen the way his jaw tightens when I wear certain outfits. Felt his gaze burning into me when he thinks I'm not paying attention.

And I've been deliberately tempting him. Shorter shorts. Lower-cut tops. Lingering touches when I pass him in the kitchen. Testing how far I can push before he snaps.

"Here we are." Vincent stops at our seats and gestures for me to take the window pod. "You wanted the window, right?"

"Yeah." I slide past him, his body radiating heat even though we barely touch. "Thanks for bringing me on this trip."

He stores his carry-on in the overhead compartment with easy strength. "You begged to come. Said you wanted to see Paris."

That's the excuse I gave. The real reason is sitting down in the aisle seat next to me, close enough that I can smell his aftershave—something woodsy and masculine that makes my stomach tighten with want.

I needed to get him alone. Away from his house, his routine, the invisible walls he's built to keep appropriate distance between us. On a plane to Paris for his work conference, where we'll be sharing a hotel suite for five days, those walls are going to crumble.

Starting tonight.

"Your mother would kill me if anything happened to you on this trip," Vincent says as he buckles his seatbelt. His voice carries that deep, resonant authority that makes people automatically defer to him. "So you stay close, understand?"

"You're not my father, Vincent." I turn to face him, holding his gaze. "Stop acting like it."

His jaw tightens, that muscle jumping under his beard. "I was your stepfather. That makes me responsible for you."

"Mom divorced you three years ago. You're not responsible for anything."

"You live in my house."

"Because you won't let me leave."

The words hang between us, too honest, too raw.

His gray eyes darken, and for a second I think he's going to say something—admit what we both know, that the reason I haven't left is because he doesn't want me to, and the reason he doesn't want me to is the same reason my heart pounds every time he's near.

But a flight attendant appears to check our seatbelts, and the moment passes.

I turn toward the window as other passengers settle in around us. The business class pods offer more privacy than regular seats, with high dividers and seats that recline into full beds. Perfect for what I have planned.

My hand slips into my purse, fingers brushing the folded napkin tucked in the inside pocket. The note I wrote this morning, heart racing as I spelled out exactly what I want him to do to me.

Tonight. On this plane. While I sleep.

The safe word is written there too, though I have no intention of using it.

I've thought about this for months, fantasized about it every night in my bed down the hall from his.

I saved my virginity through high school and college, turned down guys who were perfectly attractive, perfectly age-appropriate.

Because on some level, I knew I was waiting for him.

For Vincent.

My former stepfather, who's forty-seven to my twenty-one, who has no business wanting me the way I've seen in his eyes. The way I want him.

The plane takes off, and I watch New York City disappear below us, lights glittering like scattered diamonds.

My stomach flutters with nerves and anticipation.

In a few hours, when the cabin lights dim and passengers settle into sleep for the overnight flight, I'm going to slip that note into Vincent's hand.

And then I'm going to find out if he wants me badly enough to cross every line we're not supposed to cross.

Dinner service takes forever. I pick at the salmon and vegetables on my tray, too nervous to eat much. Vincent seems tense too, his shoulders tight as he works through emails on his laptop. When the flight attendant finally clears our trays, the cabin lights dim to a soft amber glow.

Around us, passengers recline their seats and pull blankets over themselves. The ambient noise settles into the steady hum of engines and occasional rustle of movement. A baby cries somewhere in economy, then goes quiet.

"I'm going to try to sleep," I tell Vincent, standing up. "Long flight."

He glances up from his laptop. "Good idea. We'll be landing at eight AM Paris time. You'll want to be rested."

I head to the bathroom, my pulse hammering in my throat. In the tiny space, I lock the door and brace my hands on the sink, staring at my reflection. Blue eyes too bright, cheeks flushed pink. I look nervous. Excited.

Terrified.

I can still back out. Crumple up the note, forget this insane plan, and just sleep through the flight like a normal person.

But my hands are already reaching under my short dress, hooking my fingers in the sides of my panties. I slide them down my legs and step out of them, the lace feeling insubstantial in my palm. My pussy is already wet, arousal dampening my inner thighs.

I tuck the panties into my purse and take a deep breath.

No backing out now.

When I return to my seat, Vincent has put away his laptop. He glances at me as I settle in, and I wonder if he can somehow tell what I just did—that I'm not wearing anything under this dress.

I recline my seat and pull the provided blanket over myself, adjusting it carefully. High enough to cover my chest, but arranged so there's room for his hand to slip underneath. I turn slightly toward him, not away, making sure he has easy access.

My heart pounds so hard I'm sure he can hear it.

The note is still in my purse. I fumble for it, fingers clumsy, and unfold it one last time to read what I wrote:

Vincent,

I consent to everything. Touch me while I sleep. Do whatever you want to me. My safe word is "red" but I won't use it.

I want this. I want you.

Flight 237, May 15th

—Violet

I've included the date and flight number like proof, like evidence that this is premeditated and willing. My signature is shaky but clear at the bottom.

I fold it again and close my eyes, evening out my breathing. Slow and deep, the way people breathe when they sleep. I let my body go limp, my face relaxed, and shift slightly so my hand falls naturally toward the armrest between our seats.

Vincent's hand is there, resting on the leather. I can sense his warmth, the calluses on his palm from whatever work he does with his hands when he's not in his home office managing investments.

I let the folded napkin slip from my fingers into his palm.

He startles. I feel the small jolt of surprise, then perfect stillness.

My heart hammers as seconds tick by. I keep my breathing even, my body loose and unresponsive, but inside I'm screaming for him to read it, to understand what I'm offering.

The soft rustle of paper unfolding.

More silence.

I wonder what he's thinking. If he's shocked, angry, confused. If he thinks it's a trap or a test. If he's going to wake me up and tell me this is inappropriate, that I'm too young, that he was married to my mother.

Minutes pass. I start to worry I've ruined everything.

Or maybe, he doesn't want me.

The thought sends shame burning through my chest. Maybe I've been reading everything wrong—his looks, his tension, the way he watches me move through his house. Maybe he sees me as nothing more than his ex-wife's daughter, a responsibility he can't shake.

But then the fantasy takes over. Vincent's hand sliding under this blanket. His fingers finding bare skin, discovering I'm not wearing anything underneath. The shock of it, then the hunger.

Heat pools between my thighs. My pussy grows wetter, slick arousal making me shift slightly under the blanket.

The hum of the engines lulls me. My breathing slows for real now, exhaustion and anticipation pulling me under.