Chapter 30
Thirty
BAILEY
ELEVEN MONTHS LATER
“Fuel gauge optimal,” I murmur, eyes scanning the digital readout. “Oil pressure steady. Hydraulics check.”
I’m running through my preflight routine for the thousandth time, but everything seems different today. Maybe it’s the plush leather seats behind me, or the gold-plated fixtures in the lavatory. Or maybe it’s the way Sebastian asked me to fly him to Alaska on his fucking private plane.
“It’s an important business meeting,” he’d claimed, but his eyes sparkled with that barely contained excitement he gets when he’s plotting something.
“Altimeter calibrated. Nav systems online.” Each switch clicks under my fingers, but my mind keeps drifting. Alaska. Where everything began. Where we crashed and fought and froze and somehow fell in love despite our most determined efforts not to.
The cabin door opens behind me, and Sebastian’s cologne reaches me before he does—expensive but subtle, just like most things about him. Well, the expensive part anyway. The man himself can be about as subtle as a hurricane when he wants to be.
“How’s my favorite pilot this morning?” He slides into the co-pilot seat with that fluid grace that once irritated me before I found it irresistible. He’s wearing hiking boots with his designer suit—definitely not standard CEO attire for a legitimate business meeting.
“Your favorite pilot is wondering why the CEO of Lockhart Industries needs to fly to Alaska in the dead of winter for a supposed business meeting when video calls were invented precisely to avoid such madness,” I reply without looking up from my checklist.
“Perhaps the CEO enjoys watching his pilot work,” Sebastian says, his fingers brushing mine as he reaches for his headset.
My skin tingles at the contact, which is ridiculous. We’ve been together for almost a year. You’d think I’d have developed some immunity to casual touches by now.
“Or perhaps,” I counter, “the CEO is planning something that involves surprising his pilot, which he should know by now is a terrible idea because his pilot has a well-documented hatred of surprises.”
Sebastian’s lips curve into that infuriating half-smile.
“Flight plan filed?” he asks, changing the subject.
“Flight plan filed, weather triple-checked, fuel calculated with generous reserves in case we encounter another storm. Or wolves. Or whatever Alaskan disaster you’ve secretly arranged for this trip.”
“Such suspicion,” he murmurs, settling back in his seat. “Can’t a man take a business trip with his favorite pilot?”
I glance up from my checklist to narrow my eyes at him. The hiking boots. The mysterious “meeting” in the exact place where our story began.
“You’re not very subtle, you know,” I tell him, despite the smile tugging at my lips.
He reaches over to adjust my captain’s hat. “I’ve never claimed subtlety as one of my strengths,” he admits. “That’s your department.”
I snort so loud it’s practically a medical event. Me, subtle? The woman who once described turbulence to terrified passengers as like being inside a washing machine filled with rocks and regret?
“Right, because I’m known for my tact and discretion,” I mutter, flipping another switch. “Tower, this is Lockhart Seven-Niner-Three requesting clearance for takeoff.”
As the tower crackles back with clearance, I catch Sebastian watching me with that look—the one that still liquefies my insides. Like I’m a complex equation he’ll never solve but will happily spend forever trying.
“Ready for Alaska?” he asks.
I nod, ignoring the swarm of butterflies that have nothing to do with flight anxiety. “Ready as I’ll ever be. Though I still think you’re up to something.”
The plane reaches cruising altitude, and I settle into the hypnotic rhythm of flight. My hands are steady on the controls, eyes scanning instruments, mind wandering to places it shouldn’t while operating an aircraft.
“You know what I was thinking about?” I say.
Sebastian glances up from his tablet. “Hmm?”
“How annoying it is that we can’t have sex on this plane.” The words tumble out.
He chokes on his water, and I feel a flush of satisfaction at catching Mr. Perfect off guard.
“I mean, being the pilot has its disadvantages,” I continue, watching his reaction from the corner of my eye. “Like, if I wasn’t flying this thing, we could christen that fancy leather couch in the back right now.”
His eyes darken, and he sets his tablet down with deliberate care. “Is that so?”
“Definitely so.” I tap the altimeter, pretending it requires my full attention. “But instead, I have to be all professional and responsible and keep us from plummeting to our deaths. Such a buzzkill.”
Sebastian shifts in his seat. “I have to admit, I hadn’t considered that particular...activity for this journey.”
“Really?” I raise an eyebrow. “With that couch? And that bed? And that shower? What did you think all that stuff was for? Business meetings?”
“I believe they’re standard features of the Lockhart corporate jet,” he says, but his voice has that rough edge that tells me he’s already thinking of far more interesting activities.
“Standard features that we can’t use because someone has to fly the damn plane.” I sigh dramatically. “You should have hired another pilot. Then we could both be in the back right now, and I could show you how to make turbulence without any weather systems involved.”
“Bailey.” My name sounds like a warning and a prayer all at once.
“What?” I blink with exaggerated innocence. “I’m simply discussing the logistical challenges of aircraft operation.”
His hand lands on my thigh, warm and heavy. “You’re discussing how to drive me insane while I can’t do anything about it.”
I grin. “That too.”
“I promise you,” he says, leaning close enough that I feel his breath on my ear, “the next time we take this jet anywhere, I will ensure we have another pilot.”
A shiver runs down my spine. “Is that a threat or a promise?”
“Both.” His fingers trace small circles on my leg. “Definitely both.”
His hand inches up my thigh, approaching dangerous territory. I squirm in my seat, struggling to keep my attention on the altimeter, the horizon, anything but the heat of his palm radiating through my jeans.
“Sebastian,” I manage, my voice breathy. “No. I’m flying.”
“Mmm, but you said it yourself,” he murmurs, lips brushing my ear. “This jet has the most advanced autopilot system available.”
“That’s not the point,” I protest, though my body is not on the same page as my words. “It’s about responsibility and—”
“And how wet you get when I touch you like this?” His fingers trace higher, making my breath catch.
“That’s not fair,” I whisper.
“You started this conversation,” he reminds me, voice deepening to that dangerous timbre that makes my insides melt. “Something about christening couches?”
His fingertips dance along the inner seam of my thigh, and I have to bite my lip to maintain composure.
“This is still completely unprofessional,” I say, but my resistance is melting faster than a snowman in July.
“I’m just following your lead, Captain.”
Before I can plan another objection, Sebastian’s deft fingers work open the buttons of my jeans. I should stop him. But my objections dissolve as his hand slips inside, beneath the elastic of my underwear.
“Still want me to stop?” he asks, pausing at the edge of where I need him most.
“If you stop now, I’ll crash this plane on purpose,” I threaten.
He laughs, the sound rumbling through me. “That’s what I thought.”
Then his finger circles my clit with precise, devastating pressure that sends electric currents straight up my spine. My hips buck, and I grip the controls tighter, maintaining some facade of professionalism.
“Sebastian,” I gasp, all objections forgotten.
“This,” Sebastian’s voice drops to a dangerous rumble, “is what happens when you tease me about activities in the back of my plane. When you put images in my head that I can’t act on.”
The pressure increases, making my thighs clench. I’m hyperaware of the vast blue sky beyond the windshield, the distant clouds, the responsibility of keeping us airborne while my body threatens to dissolve into liquid heat.
“Eyes on the horizon, Captain Monroe,” Sebastian murmurs, his breath hot against my ear as his fingers maintain their relentless rhythm. “Wouldn’t want us dropping a few thousand feet because you can’t concentrate.”
“Shut up,” I gasp, fighting to focus on the instruments while my hips betray me, rocking against his hand. “I hate you right now.”
“No, you don’t.” His thumb presses down, forcing me to bite my lip to stifle a moan. “You love what I’m doing to you. Love that I can make you this wet while you’re trying to play professional.”
His finger dips lower, gathering wetness, then returns to circle my clit with devastating precision. “You’re so responsive,” he whispers, voice thick with satisfaction. “So perfect. Tell me how it feels.”
“So good,” I pant, beyond embarrassment now.
He slides a finger inside me, curling it in that way that makes my vision blur at the edges.
“You know what I love, Bailey? Watching you try to maintain control. The way your breath catches. How your knuckles go white on the controls. Knowing that underneath that professional exterior, you’re falling apart for me. ”
My entire body tightens, core muscles clenching as he establishes a rhythm that rockets me toward the edge with terrifying speed. His palm grinds against my clit while his fingers perform magic inside me.
“You’re going to come for me,” he states—not a question. “Right here, in your captain’s chair, with nothing but thirty thousand feet of empty sky beneath us. And when we land, Captain Monroe, I’m going to bend you over the nearest surface and fuck you until you scream my name.”
The explicit promise sends a fresh wave of heat through me. I turn my head just enough to see his face—the intense concentration, the slight flush across his cheekbones, his pupils blown wide with arousal.