Chapter 11 Naomi #2
I shift, or more like squirm when the pressure in my pussy builds. Screaming for a repeat of last night. A repeat that is not going to happen. Right?
His eyes gleam and I suspect he knows exactly the cause and effect he’s creating. “Cloud cover is smooth. No turbulence ahead,” he says. “It would be a shame to waste the altitude.”
I tilt my head toward him, attempting boredom while excitement ignites like fireworks in my veins. “Are you… propositioning me with meteorology?”
His mouth curves. “I’m a man of many talents.”
“Really.” I prop on my elbows, then wish I hadn’t when the points of my nipples frame themselves shamelessly across the fabric of my dress. “Name three.”
His lips part and I see the edge of his tongue touch his lower lip. “Negotiation,” he says, and the word somehow sounds indecent. “Navigation. And—” His gaze drops, slow as a caress. “—knowing exactly how you like to be touched.”
Heat licks up my skin as I roll to my side and let my eyes make a circuit…
over his strong throat, chiseled chest, that faintest shadow of a scar along his jaw I’ve never cataloged.
His body is an argument for unfairness: strong without vanity, cut by work and purpose more than dumb iron.
The kind of body that makes you wonder what else he builds when no one is watching.
“I thought you had worlds to conquer,” I say, buying time for a battle I fear I’ve already lost.
“Conquering,” he says, one large hand wrapping around my ankle, “is a group activity tonight, I think.”
I snort, because I’d rather laugh than melt as heat travels up my leg to pool in my pussy. “Are you… asking me to join the mile-high club?”
He straightens, feigning thoughtfulness. “I’m asking you to rebrand it.”
“Oh?”
“The mile-high club,” he says, leaning over me, “is for people collecting stickers. Ours would be… bespoke.”
I arch a brow at him. “Customized sin?”
“Curated pleasure,” he murmurs, eyes on my mouth. “But if you want to call it sin, wife, I’m happy to be devilishly devout.”
I open my mouth to say something witty and instead hear myself ask, “Have you done it…this before?” The question tumbles out and I want to claw it back because in searing hindsight, I don’t want the answer, I want to live in the charged, blissful luxury of not knowing what Vasso has been up to since we parted ways after that harrowing confrontation in my driveway a decade ago.
But, to my surprise—and relief?—he doesn’t make me regret the honesty. He shakes his head once. “No.”
“Never?” I probe, because apparently I’m not done backing away from this subject.
“Some experiences lose their meaning,” he says, almost thoughtful, “if scattered about like confetti.”
I don’t move, even as his thumb glides back and forth over my skin and something unspools under my ribs.
I want to ask how many women there were on the ground, then hate myself for wanting it.
It’s none of my business. It shouldn’t matter.
Deep down it matters anyway, and I shut the door on that particular room before I can walk in and flay myself on the furniture.
“I suppose,” I say lightly, “confetti is messy.”
“It gets everywhere,” he agrees, and the look he gives me makes the word everywhere feel like an invitation.
I sit up. He is very close now. The jet hums, steady and intimate. Close windows show only the dark and our reflection, ghosted and gorgeous. He prowls onto the bed, plants his free hand near my hip, and I’m wrapped in the heat radiating from his body like a banked fire.
“Say yes to the pleasure, Naomi,” he says. It’s not a rough plea wrapped in rugged command. An intoxicating invitation to walk through the door only he can open.
“God,” I whisper, and there’s a laugh in it, disbelief and hunger and something like defiance. “I shouldn’t but, God…yes.”
The satisfaction that crosses his face steals my breath.
He doesn’t pounce.
He uses the grip on my ankle to part my legs, to make way for himself between my thighs to sit on his knees.
Then Vasso leans and kisses me, slow and deliciously decadent, like he has decided to remember every second, and I meet him with the same vow.
It starts soft and deepens, shifting almost imperceptibly into the kind of kiss that makes you forget you had a life before it.
His mouth is warm and sure, his breath mint and heat, his hand finding the nape of my neck like it was made for that spot.
I make a small, helpless sound, a small betraying yes into his mouth, and feel him answer with a low rumble that goes straight through me.
He eases me down, elbowed above me, the line of his body a study I intend to ace. I slide my palms beneath his shirt and up, mapping. His skin is hot satin over stone, muscles jumping under my fingers as if they remember me too.
I find the scar on his jaw and trace it. He inhales, a sharp caught breath.
“How did you get this?” I ask, because curiosity is my oldest sin.
“A bar fight in California,” he says, eyes darkening at the memory and at my touch. “I won.”
“Obviously.”
I learn him with my hands the way he learned me in the greenhouse our first time, and yesterday—with a patience that’s secretly hunger in disguise.
He shucks his shirt; the undershirt follows.
I sit up, wrap around him, breathe him in, mouth to his throat, to that pulse, to the hollow that tastes like salt and something that might be expensive and might just be him.
His hands slide down my spine and sweet heaven, he has the most ruinous hands.
Capable, strong, the kind that can fix and break and choose compassion in rare, private places.
He uses them now to mold my breasts, to tease and torment diamond-hard nipples.
To make my back arch and turn my name into a threadbare swear.
“Fuck, you always feel so good. I’m so fucking greedy for you, baby.”
“Vasso…” My breath hitches when he bites his way down my throat, sending my pulse even wilder. My pussy dampens and plumps, eager for the attention only he can provide.
“Tell me,” he murmurs, and it’s a request I have never had trouble honoring with him.
And I do now. I’m vocal, and he treats every sound like a map legend and follows with exquisite accuracy.
“Yes, more of that,” I cry when he grazes one nipple with his teeth.
“God, that’s so good,” I gasp when he palms my sex over my panties, rubs in firm circles that have me seeing constellations.
And when I greedily, frantically pull him down he comes willingly, like gravity is a decision he’ll make if I ask nicely.
Clothes become obstacles we dispatch with more grace than we have any right to. There’s shocked laughter in it, filthy and delighted but a little wary too because old ghosts still lurch.
When my heel gets caught in something and he frees it with his teeth, there’s a crude joke about turbulence and landing gear from both of us and a wicked aside about altitude adjustments that makes me giggle in a way I haven’t since I was eighteen and hiding in a potting shed with a boy whose hands shook for all the right reasons.
“Congratulations,” I say against his mouth, breathless. “We are exactly the kind of cliché we used to mock.”
“Correction,” he murmurs, sliding his palm along my thigh in a way that makes focusing impossible. “We’re the upgrade package.”
“First class sin,” I gasp, which earns me a grin I want to frame.
“Customs will have questions,” he whispers. “Do you have anything to declare?”
“Only,” I say, shameless now, “that you are criminally good at this.”
We don’t join a club; we remake it. The plane becomes a cocoon, the hum under us a rhythm to ride.
He is all patience and ruin: coaxing, then demanding; guiding, then yielding.
He asks, I answer; I ask, he gives; he goes slow until I can’t stand it and fast until I beg for slow.
We learn each other’s today versions with reverence for the decade-old ghosts.
“Tell me what else you want, baby. Dirty and explicit. Tell me what I want to hear.”
I tell him exactly what I want. “I need your thick cock inside me. Fuck me, Vasso. Just the way I like it. Hard and fast.”
He groans, then he rewards me exactly like I wrote the lesson plan. He says my name like an argument he intends to win as he notches his impressive shaft where I’m hottest between my legs; I say his like I’m tired of pretending I don’t need to.
“Please, Vasso. Now…please.”
“Naomi,” he says against my mouth, his voice gone low enough to melt steel. Then he thrusts, deep and true and searingly sublime inside me. “Don’t look away.”
“I’m not…I won’t,” I promise, eyes open, greedy.
He pounds into me with steady, unrelenting rhythm, dark eyes pinned to mine, connecting beyond the physical, even as our tongues duel and groans mingle.
Even as his fingers reach between us to caress my plump clit and elevated pleasure erupts up my spine.
Even as I scream his name and climax harder than ever before.
He is beautiful when he unravels—focused and undone, control and hunger war-painted across his face.
I kiss that focus; I scratch that hunger; I mark myself with moments I intend to hoard and hate later.
He laughs once, rough and happy, when I make a particularly shameless request; I don’t apologize when he groans and says good girl so softly it shouldn’t detonate me and does.
There’s a moment—in the middle somewhere—where the bed trembles with a change in air, a pocket we slide through, and we both laugh, breathless and wicked, at the universe’s impeccable timing.
“Does this,” I pant, “mean we’re officially—”
“Do not,” he says, kissing the question off my mouth, “call it a club.”
“What would you call it?”
“Mine,” he says simply, eyes hot. “Ours.”
I pretend that doesn’t hit me where I fear it most—hard in the chest. I fail. So I wrap my arms around him and drag him down and let the failure be a win.