CHAPTER ONE
Ella
“ E xcuse me.” Jerk , I add on the inside to the entitled prick who set his duffle bag on my seat.
My first-class airline seat from Sydney to New York.
True, I didn’t exactly pay for it. My father did.
Dad got delayed, so he sent me ahead. Alone. Tonight. Without notice. I came back to our apartment after a date and he had my suitcase packed and a car service waiting to whisk me to the airport.
My father has always been secretive. After years of circular answers, I stopped asking questions.
My original seat was a few rows back, where I had both seats to myself until the flight attendant asked me to move so the airline could upgrade a couple on their honeymoon. They’ll probably get naughty for the thirteen-hour flight from Sydney to Los Angeles.
And I haven’t had good sex in nearly two years.
My reassigned seat is currently occupied by Jerk’s bag. Rude. Is the overhead compartment not good enough for him? So what if it’s a quality leather duffel with a rich, earthy scent I can smell from the aisle?
That seat he’s hogging probably costs seven grand.
After I clear my throat, the jerk looks up at me and pulls something out of one ear.
“What?” he snaps.
He’s wearing dark horn-rimmed glasses that would make an ordinary man look like a geek. But this guy has sculpted cheekbones and the square jaw of a Hollywood heartthrob. Good Lord, did I score a seat next to Liam Hemsworth’s body double?
Makes sense. We’re about to depart Australia for Los Angeles. Following this long flight, I have a five-hour layover in L.A. before the final leg to New York. I’ll be in the air for the better part of the next two days and I’m not in the mood.
“Your bag,” I say, folding my arms.
“Yeah, it’s my bag,” he drawls in a sexy Irish accent that tingles my nether regions and erases Liam Hemsworth from my mind. “Can I get a glass of McCallan?”
I blink, ready to call him a jerk out loud when I realize he’s mistaken my navy wrap dress for a flight attendant uniform. A dress and high heels aren’t the most comfortable thing to wear for a twenty-hour flight, but I didn’t have time to change.
“I don’t work here. That’s my seat.” I point.
“Your seat?” The hot jerk’s gaze cuts across my body in a stare I feel.
Panic swells in my chest that he’s some hotshot who can pull rank and toss my ass in coach.
“Yes, mine.” I jam my thumb behind me. “They moved me next to you to bump some newlyweds into first class.”
Jerk makes a gagging noise.
“Is that reaction for sitting next to me, or the newlyweds?” I ask.
He rolls his eyes. “The newlyweds, and marriage in general.”
A rich, handsome man who doesn’t want to get married. How original.
The real airline attendant appears. “You need to take your seat, Miss.”
“I’m trying.” This jackass won’t let me .
These insults are going audible next.
The jerk removes his glasses, and now, I’m staring at the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.
Figures. Most insanely good-looking men are jerks.
“This seat was supposed to be empty,” he says, low and gravelly while yanking the bag away.
“I’ll store that for you, sir,” the attendant offers in a purring kitten voice.
Clearly, she’s noticed how stunning the man is, too. I bet that Irish accent opens a lot of legs.
Jerk scoffs a laugh. “I don’t let women carry my luggage.”
Smoothly, he rises from the oversized airline seat like a phoenix rising from the flames. Daunting. Impressive. Majestic.
My eyes follow him until he reaches his full height of what’s got to be over six feet tall. The extended headroom on this ultra-jumbo jet designed for cross-global flights doesn’t block his head.
The attendant leaves to assist another passenger, and I stare at the jerk lifting his bag. His red button-down shirt with an asymmetrical gray collar and matching turned-up sleeves hugs his torso and thick biceps.
“Excuse me,” he says, trying to get into the aisle to put his bag in the adjacent closet situated between each set of rows.
I step back, agog as that deep voice seeps into my bones.
He gives me a once-over again, this time in a way that suggests he realizes my dress isn’t a uniform.
His eyes flare and his jaw muscle jumps. “Can I put your bag away?”
I fist the handle of my ordinary carry-on, a Coach tote holding my laptop. “No, thank you. I have work to do.” My palms sweat more with every flicker of those green eyes.
The attendant returns. “I need you to take your seat, Miss, or—”
“Relax,” the jerk snaps at her.
I should probably stop referring to him as that.
“And I want my McCallan. Now .”
I can tell by his tone—which isn’t harsh, just insistent with quiet power—that he’s used to getting his way.
“Yes, sir.” The flight attendant snaps to attention. “And you, Miss?”
“I would adore a glass of red wine.”
I bend at the waist to tuck my bag in front of me, and when I look up, the man’s eyes bore into mine.
He shuts the closet and says, “Would you like the window seat?”
Shocked that he’d care to offer, I shake my head. “No, thank you.”
The idea of being confined and pinned into a tight space triggers me.
“If you change your mind.” He swaggers back to his seat, his scent wrapping around me.
Spice, mint, and leather.
“Thank you.” I finally plant my ass into the comfy seat of buttery-soft leather.
Settling in, I tuck my arm close so I don’t hit his. But that’s unnecessary because First Class seats are huge, while narrow coach seats are for making new friends.
Or enemies.
My body relaxes and melts into the luxuriously, overstuffed seat. Movement next to me yanks my attention toward my neighbor sliding those dark horn-rimmed glasses back on again. The Clark Kent/Henry Cavill vibes have me nearly sliding off my seat.
I sigh, and all movement next to me stops.
The sexy Irishman hits me with a volcanic expression.
I quirk an eyebrow. “Yes?”
“Is that how you sound when you come?” The honey-over-gravel thing is real.
Mixed with the brogue, I’m ready to come. But I blink at him, feigning outrage. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” He takes more liberty with his once-over this time. “It’s nice to see someone dressed up for a flight. The pajama look really grates on my nerves.”
I pinch my skirt. “This trip was last minute. I was...”
Embarrassment floods me. On a date. A bad one. But bad dates with men I’ll never see again are a thousand times better than what I went through with my ex.
“Anyway. How would I know how I sound?” God knows I haven’t had an orgasm with a partner in years.
I get myself off, but it’s pathetic to cry out masturbating. Although, Jerk here will flash into my mind next time and it might make me more vocal.
“Me, I love a screamer,” he offers unsolicited. “Whimpering my name because you’re so mindless with pleasure is my kink. Among other things.”
Is this happening? I just met him. I don’t know his name and we’re discussing orgasms. And kinks!
“Wow,” I laugh. “Before we continue this conversation, how about first telling me your name.”
After a pensive stare, he says, “Balor.”
Damn, that’s a sexy name.
“Balor,” I whisper, liking the way it rolls off my tongue. “Like valor.”
“I don’t mind the comparison.” He smiles like I’ve pleased him somehow.
“Nice to meet you.” I extend my hand but he makes no move to shake it.
“I don’t...like people to touch me. Nothing personal.”
I lower my hand. “None taken. Though doesn’t no touching make sex hard? No pun intended.” God, shut me up. Now!
“I manage.” His wicked smile confirms he has absolutely no difficulty in the sex department.
“Anyway, my name is—”
“ Don’t want to know.” His quick retort deflates me and the entire conversation ends abruptly.
Back to Jerk.. .
The captain makes his announcements, disappointing me with his flat American accent. Although, after six months in Sydney, listening to carbon copies of Hugh Jackman started to get old.
I’m glad to be going home and getting my life back on track. A new job awaits me and my best friends, Hannah and Val, are meeting me for brunch tomorrow. Or is it in two days? Crossing over the international date line confuses the heck out of me.
“Sorry, folks,” the pilot comes back over the loudspeaker. “We’re in for a long wait on the tarmac. I’d tell you how many planes are in front of us, but I can’t count that high.”
“At least he has a sense of humor,” I say. “It must be obscenely high.”
“Don’t need obscene humor. I need to get the hell home.” Jerk pulls out his phone, taps away, then slides it back into his pocket.
“This is the captain, again, folks. Strike my last transmission. We’ve been advanced to number two. Flight attendants, prepare for take-off.”
Jerk closes his eyes and rests his head with a sly grin ghosting his full lips.
What the heck?
Who is this guy?