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My door opens and Easton greets me with a smile. “Sleeping Beauty is awake.”
“Did I snore?” I whisper, feeling exhaustion creep in.
“A little,” he whispers with a smirk. “Tomorrow, we’ll sleep in, I promise.”
He follows behind me as we board. When we walk inside, we’re greeted by the same flight attendant who’s accompanied us on each trip.
“We’d like to be left alone for the duration, please.” Easton’s polite but also stern as he places his hand on the small of my back, leading me to the back area.
“Yes, sir,” she says.
As I turn to look over my shoulder, I see Weston and Brody board, but they take the executive seats toward the front of the plane.
Easton slides the door closed, and I realize we’re in a small room with a couch, television, and an executive chair and table.
“My private estate room,” he says. “For long flights.”
I take a step forward. “You’re telling me you have a bedroom on your plane, and you’ve not christened it?”
His eyes flutter closed as I kiss him. It’s slow and intentional.
“That ends today. But first, we buckle until we’re at a safe altitude.”
“And then?”
“Let your imagination wander.”
When the plane is soaring in the air, Easton unbuckles himself, then me. I turn to face him, our mouths desperate and hands needy.
“Did you wear this tiny fucking skirt for me?”
“Yes,” I admit, aching for this man so damn much that it hurts.
He lays me back and his hands graze over my hard nipples. He whispers, “We’ll have to be quiet.”
“I’ll try,” I say breathlessly.
I tuck my lips into my mouth when his hand gently slides between my thighs. I inch the material upward, showing him the black silk panties I wore.
He adds more pressure to my clit on top of the material. My eyes slam closed; the sensation of him is almost too much.
“Mmm. You’re already so wet for me,” he growls into my ear.
“I can’t help it,” I admit as he slides the material from my body, tucking it into his pocket. “A souvenir?”
“You fucking know it.”
My head is spinning.
Earlier, I was on a plane, biting my fist as I came, and now, I’m wearing a designer dress and Jimmy Choos, carrying a purse that fits nothing more than my phone. I was sent for a massage, a blowout, and makeup done by a celebrity artist. How is this my life?
Easton opens the door to the limo, and we’re parked in front of a contemporary Italian restaurant. It screams elegance, and a person obviously doesn’t enter without a reservation.
As soon as we step out of the car, the shutters of the cameras snap. I cover my face with my left hand. The beautiful ring Easton designed for me is on full display. I want the world to know this man is mine—even if it’s only for a year.
Easton wraps his arm around me, dressed in a black suit tailored for his muscular body. His red tie matches my dress. He leans in and whispers, “If you see a celebrity or someone you might recognize, pretend they don’t exist.”
“Easy,” I tell him. “My eyes will be locked on you all night.”