Chapter 18 #5
I try to return to my work, but it's useless. Every few minutes, my attention drifts back to her. When she shifts in her seat, when she runs her fingers through her hair, when she reaches for her drink—every movement seems designed to torture me.
And my cock stays rock-hard through it all, pulsing like there’s a second heartbeat lodged in my shaft, the straining of it against my fly becoming unbearable.
The attraction I feel for her isn't rational. It's primal, urgent, and it feels completely beyond my control. And sitting here watching her, wanting her, knowing I can't have her without complicating everything, is driving me slowly insane.
I need a few minutes alone, a chance to clear my head and get my body under control. Maybe then I can focus on something other than how much I want to carry her to the other bedroom at the back of the plane and spend the rest of the flight showing her all of the other ways I can pleasure her.
"I'll be back in a minute," I mutter to no one in particular, standing and heading toward the bathroom at the rear of the aircraft. I see Leila glance up, but she says nothing.
The bathroom is nearly the size of one in a luxury hotel, complete with a shower.
I close the door firmly behind me, my hand already at the button of my pants as the memories of our wedding night flood back in.
Leila underneath me, her legs wrapped around my waist, her fingers twisting in the sheets as I moved inside her.
My name on her lips, the sound of her climaxing, the feeling of her clenching around my fingers as I readied her for my cock—
Christ. I can’t get myself free of my clothing fast enough.
What the fuck is she doing to me? This is pathetic, jerking off in an airplane bathroom like some kind of desperate teenager.
But I need the release, need something to take the edge off this constant wanting that's been eating at me all day. This is the third time today, and I can’t get enough.
If I could, I’d have been inside of her every one of those times, filling her up with my cum.
Leaving the feeling of me fucking her imprinted inside of her until she could barely walk without feeling me—
I free myself from my jeans and wrap my hand around my length, already hard and aching.
In my mind, it's not my hand but hers, soft and uncertain at first, then bolder as I guide her.
I imagine teaching her how to touch me, how I like to be stroked, watching her slender hand wrap around me as I lean back and murmur praise.
The fantasy is so vivid I can almost feel her fingers instead of my own, can almost hear her voice whispering my name.
I'm close, so close, when the door handle rattles.
"Ronan?" Leila's voice comes through the door, and I freeze. "Are you okay? I heard… I thought maybe you were sick."
Fuck. I clear my throat and try to make my voice sound normal, though my heart is hammering against my ribs, my lungs tight, and my cock throbbing on the edge of release. "I'm fine. Just give me a minute."
But she doesn't leave. If anything, she sounds more concerned. "You've been in there for a while. Are you sure you're—"
The handle turns, and suddenly the door is opening, and Leila is standing there, her eyes wide with surprise.
Fuck. I forgot to fucking lock it.
For a moment, neither of us moves. She takes in the scene—me with my jeans open, my hand wrapped around myself, the obvious evidence of what I was doing—and her cheeks flood with color.
"Oh," she breathes. "Oh, I… I'm sorry, I thought..."
I quickly try to make myself decent, cursing under my breath as I struggle with my zipper. It’s impossible to stuff my erect cock back in, and it’s not softening anytime soon. "Jesus, Leila, don't you knock?"
"I did knock!" she protests, but she's still staring, and the look in her eyes isn't entirely shock. There's something else there, something curious and aroused that makes my pulse race despite the embarrassment of being caught. "I thought you were sick!"
"Well, I'm not sick," I mutter, finally getting my jeans closed. "I was just..."
"I can see what you were doing," she says quietly, and now there's definitely something other than shock in her voice.
We both go very still again. I can smell her shampoo, her perfume, see her pupils dilate as she stares at me.
The air between us feels charged, electric, just like it did on our wedding night, before everything spiraled out of control.
Her teeth sink into her lower lip, and just looking at her mouth makes me ache.
"Why?" she asks suddenly.
I blink, confused. "Why, what?"
"Why were you… taking care of yourself instead of..." She gestures vaguely between us, her cheeks reddening further, but her voice steadier now. "I mean, we're married. If you wanted… if you needed..."
The question hangs between us, and I can see the confusion in her eyes. I think I see hurt, too, and my chest tightens. Something in me rebels at the idea of ever hurting this woman in any way, no matter how mild. No matter how necessary for us both.
But she has to understand how things are. And if it means being cold to her again, like before, that’s what I’ll have to do.
"Because this isn't a real marriage," I say finally, the words coming out harsher than I intended. "Our wedding night was necessary for legal reasons, but now that it's done, there's no need to complicate things further."
Her expression shifts, her lips pressing together as she eyes me guardedly. "Complicate things how?"
I run a hand through my hair, frustrated with this conversation, with her proximity, with the way she's looking at me like I've hurt her feelings. Incredibly, I’m still hard, and I try to fix myself again, but it’s a losing battle.
"You know this is temporary, Leila,” I grit out as I struggle with my cock.
“I promised you a divorce when this is all over, promised you could go back to your normal life.
The more we… the more intimate we become, the harder that's going to be. "
"Oh." Her voice is small, and I hate how disappointed she sounds. She licks her lips nervously, and my cock throbs.
"And there's the practical consideration," I continue, forcing myself to be blunt. "No matter how careful we are, sex carries risks. If you got pregnant..." I shake my head. "That would complicate everything. We talked about this last night. Why I pulled out of you. We can’t risk a child."
Understanding dawns in her eyes, followed quickly by something that looks like hurt. She draws in a slow breath. "So you don’t plan on sleeping with me again. After last night."
Fuck, I want to tell her how wrong she is. I want to pick her up and set her on the edge of the sink, eat her out, and then bend her over it, fucking her while I watch her moan for me in the mirror. But that’s not what either of us needs. No matter what my body says otherwise.
“No,” I say firmly. “We won’t be doing that again.”
She's quiet for a long moment, studying my face like she's trying to read between the lines. Then, surprising me completely, she steps closer.
“What if I want to do it again?” she asks quietly.
The question hits me like a physical blow. "Leila—"
"What if I liked it?" she continues, her voice gaining strength. "What if I want to… learn more?"
Learn more. The innocent way she phrases it makes my blood run hot. The image of teaching her, of showing her all the ways two people can please each other, floods my mind before I can stop it. I was starting to soften, but my cock is fully hard again so fast it makes me dizzy.
"That's not a good idea," I manage to say, though my voice sounds strained even to my ears.
"Why not?" She takes another step closer, and now she's close enough that I swear I can feel the heat radiating from her body. "You said yourself this is temporary. What's the harm in making it… enjoyable while it lasts?"
Because every time I touch you, I’m going to want more. Because you’re already all I can think about, when I should be thinking about how to protect you. How to keep you safe. Because you’re a distraction.
Because neglecting my duty got my first wife killed.
But I don't say any of that. I can't, because she's looking up at me with those bright eyes, and I realize she’s moved close enough to touch me. Her hand is resting lightly on my chest, and every rational thought in my head is drowning in the memory of how she felt on our wedding night.
"You don't understand what you're asking," I say roughly.
"Then explain it to me," she challenges, her hand sliding up to rest against my neck. "Show me."
The word show in her voice, soft and breathless and full of trust, breaks whatever remaining control I had. Before I can think better of it, I flip her around, pressing her back against the wall with my cock wedged between us as my hand slides under the edge of her sweater.
I don’t kiss her. I didn’t kiss her on our wedding night. There was the kiss at the altar, a soft brush of lips, but that was a necessity. Just like our wedding night was.
I have to draw a line in the sand to keep a boundary between us. Kissing is intimate. Possessive. Deeper than necessity.
Siobhan never kissed me after our wedding day. And I’ve decided not to kiss Leila again. It would mean something, I think, if I kissed her. And this cannot mean anything.
I find the warm skin beneath her sweater, soft and smooth, and she arches into my touch with a gasp that goes straight to my cock.
But even as I touch her, even as she responds with the same desperate hunger she showed on our wedding night, I'm aware of where we are, of the fact that we're in a bathroom on a plane, with other people nearby.