Chapter 39
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Olivia
Wherever You Sit, Sit Closer
The jet is.
.. obscene.
If luxury and testosterone had a baby, and that baby grew up in a gated community with a private chef, a trust fund, and a penchant for matte gold finishes—this would be its personal aircraft.
Creamy leather seats.
Authentic wood paneling.
Fixtures that appear to be crafted from melted-down Rolexes.
Plus, there’s a full mini-bar that’s likely better stocked than my entire kitchen.
“Liv,” Lucian calls from behind me, his voice warm and smooth, like the lighting in here was designed to make you fall in love with the nearest man in sweatpants.
“You good? Or are you having a minor emotional breakdown about flying private?”
I glance over my shoulder, trying to look nonchalant and probably failing.
He’s standing there with our overnight bags as if this is just another day.
Like I didn’t just walk onto a plane that screams Miss Kensington, with guards armed and the champagne already chilled (insert stuffy accent).
Okay, so my last name isn’t Kensington and there are no guards.
But I could totally fake an accent if needed.
“I’m fine,” I lie. “Just coming to terms with the reality that your tray table is pricier than my first car.”
Lucian grins, infuriatingly casual.
“Good news is, this tray table doesn’t die when the temperature drops below forty.”
I roll my eyes, facing forward again, pretending my heart isn’t doing somersaults because I’m wearing a dress.
A real one.
Not leggings.
Not a sweatshirt that has a faint odor of dog treats and regret.
A soft, cream-colored, flirty dress that flutters just enough when I walk to make me question all my choices.
I may or may not have shaved above the knee for this man.
He hasn’t said a word about it yet, which means one of two things: he’s either playing it cool .
. . or he’s saving it up to say something I won’t be able to recover from.
“Where should I sit?” I ask, setting down my purse like I haven’t already scanned the cabin and mentally chosen the seat farthest from the temptation of lap-based disaster.
Lucian doesn’t gesture vaguely or offer me a seat like a normal person.
“Come here.”
That’s all he says.
No directions. No specifics.
Just that.
Like an invitation and a challenge all wrapped in soft velvet and a smirk.
I turn slowly.
He’s watching me—not just the dress, not my legs, not the shoes I regret wearing, but also kind of don’t.
He’s watching me.
Me.
And the look on his face?
That I’m-going-to-fuck-you stare he sometimes gives me for free?
It’s not even the loudest thing happening right now.
Because beneath it, layered under the heat, is something quieter.
Something worse.
He sees me.
“I knew you’d look fucking good in a dress,” he says, low and honest.
“Thank you.” I resist the urge to smooth the hem.
Or fidget. Or throw myself out of the aircraft for being too affected by a man who smells like expensive cologne and makes eye contact like it’s foreplay.
“You look beautiful,” he continues.
Not sexy. Not hot. Not fuckable.
Beautiful.
And I swear to God, that’s what does me in.
Because it’s not a tease.
Not flirtation dipped in sarcasm.
It’s sincere.
Quiet.
Dangerous.
It slips past every defense I have and lands somewhere right behind my ribs.
Somehow, I manage to keep my voice casual.
“Did you practice that on the way here or just go off instinct?”
Lucian steps closer.
The aisle is so narrow that I have to tilt my chin to keep eye contact, and wow, that should not be this distracting.
“You think I need to practice?” he murmurs, his mouth tipping into that lopsided grin that makes poor decisions feel like destiny.
I open my mouth, ready with something witty, probably involving snacks or a dig about his ego.
Instead, he brushes a knuckle down my arm.
Just once.
And suddenly, my brain forgets how to be clever.
“Sit wherever you want.” His voice takes an oddly casual.
Then he adds, “But fair warning—if it’s not next to me, I’m going to take it personally.”
And just like that, I’m airborne—and we’re not even off the tarmac.
I glance around the plane as if I might actually sit somewhere else.
Like there’s even a chance I’d choose the cold solitude of a leather armchair over the magnetic pull of the six-foot-something athlete with a mouth that should come with a warning label.
“Liv, please choose a seat. We’ve got a thirty-minute runway wait and then approximately an hour to the estate.”
“Perfect,” I mutter, lowering myself into the seat beside him like I’m not secretly buzzing with tension.
“Just the right amount of time to regret every decision I’ve made since shaving above the knee.”
Lucian chuckles, leaning back in his seat like this is all very casual.
“We’ll make it the most productive ninety minutes of your life.”
I narrow my eyes.
“Lucian.”
“Olivia.”
“I am not joining the mile-high club with you.”
He places a hand to his heart feigning offense.
“Wow. That hurts. I didn’t even say anything about sex.”
I arch a brow.
“Yet,” he adds, smiling like a man who’s already planning the crime and the alibi.
“You’re terrible.”
“And you love it.” He leans in, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear with his thumb, lingering a little too long on my cheek.
“You like how I make you feel. You enjoy knowing I’m sitting here wondering if you wore anything under that dress.”
I glare at him.
Which is significantly more noble than moaning into his mouth or climbing into his lap and begging him to ruin me with that maddeningly perfect mouth and the cock that should honestly be illegal in at least forty-nine states and all the countries in this world.
Maybe even in the galaxy.
He grins, reading me too well.
“Did you?”
“I’m not answering that,” I say, aiming for icy, landing somewhere in the vicinity of breathy and doomed.
“So that’s a no.” His voice drops to a husky growl.
“Good. Because when I finally get my hands on you, I don’t want anything slowing me down.”
I shift in my seat—not for effect.
Not to be sexy. Just pure survival.
My thighs press together like they’ve entered panic mode.
“You aren’t allowed to start anything on this jet,” I hiss, pointing a very serious, very trembling finger at him.
Lucian raises both brows, all mock innocence.
“That’s not what the benefits agreement says.”
“There’s nothing in the benefits agreement about fucking on private transportation,” I shoot back.
He gasps, clutching his chest like I’ve just accused him of tax fraud.
“That’s because we haven’t added the Mile High Addendum yet.”
I blink.
“There’s no such thing.”
“There is now. Section Eight. Subsection A. Clause: ‘If a dress is worn without underwear and the flight is longer than thirty minutes, physical contact is permitted as long as the passenger moans at least once.’”
I gape.
“You just made that up.”
He shrugs.
“I’m an innovator. You should be grateful I’m this thorough.”
“You’re unbearable.”
“And you’re squirming.”
“Because you’re a menace.”
“Because you’re turned on.”
He reaches out and presses a hand to my thigh—just above my knee.
Just enough to make me forget the laws of self-control.
His thumb moves in slow, lazy circles, like he’s barely touching me at all.
But oh, he is. He’s setting me on fire, one casual stroke at a time.
“Lucian,” I whisper.
A warning. A plea. I’m not sure which.
He leans in, lips brushing the shell of my ear.
“Tell me to stop.”
I don’t.
I can’t.
Because I might not survive ninety minutes of this jet ride without combusting.
And that? That’s probably clause eleven or .
. . who knows what the benefits are anymore?
I just need him to take care of my cravings.
Lucian lifts his hands like he’s being arrested by the bedroom police.
“No touching. No teasing. No violating FAA regulations. Got it.”
“Good.”
Good this is good, right?
My body tenses when he says, “But.” Because I think he’s about to violate all regulations and I might enjoy it.