Page 3

Lovie

T here is no way I’m going to look for him in first class.

The smile he flashed me outside the gate, as he went to board, was flirty, but also direct. An invitation to come to his seat. The promise of what might happen if I did.

Even the thought of it makes a jolt run the length of me, down into my stomach where it contributes to the butterflies on crack. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m starting a new job, or maybe it’s the news from the clinic, but I don’t feel like myself.

Dysregulated, as Chrys would say.

Shifting in my seat, I resolve to push this feeling as far down as I can get it, and ignore it until the flight lands in Baltimore and I can forget all about that man, his smile, the smell of that coconut sunscreen.

The fact that he’s flying first class says that he’s probably been routed through here from somewhere much more exciting than Maine. I think of the way his eyes flicked to my lips, then back to my eyes. I had thought for sure that he might kiss me right there at the gate.

Now, clearing my throat, I take out my tablet and settle it in my lap, trying to ignore the man-spreading of the passenger next to me.

I’ll just work until we get to Baltimore, even if getting some sleep would be a better idea.

It’s late now—nearing midnight—and by the time I disembark at the airport, there will be just enough time for a shower before my first meeting of the day with the Blue Crabs.

“Here’s John Canton across the line, the third line to start the game for Baltimore. We have Canton, working hard, trying to win his first Stanley Cup. And—a penalty here for the Fire—two minute minor—this could be pivotal for the Blue Crabs, if they can take advantage of the power play here?—”

I only manage to watch two minutes of the game before the plane pitches, and a chorus of dings sounds, instructing us to put our seat belts on.

Anxiety shoots to the bottom of my throat, and I think about what Dr. Cohen said.

Chemically, your body responds to stress hormones negatively, which can degrade the quality of your eggs.

Just the perfect thing to think about to try to keep my stress low.

Taking a deep breath, I reach down and feel for my belt, making sure it’s still pulled snug across my lap.

Passengers around me don’t even seem to notice the turbulence, but my stomach flips when the plan jumps again, and I grip the armrests.

Thirty more minutes pass like that, with me clenching my jaw and telling myself to remain calm, that it would be silly to react to this turbulence. Professionals decide when it’s safe to fly—people who know more than me.

And yet, the moment the seatbelt sign goes off, I’m getting shakily to my feet and walking toward the bathroom, just wanting to splash some water on my face, even knowing how disgusting airplane water really is.

I’m so focused on getting to the bathroom without tripping over my feet that I trip on something else.

“Oomph,” the obstacle says, and I smell coconut. The guy from the gate.

“Shit.” I push off of him, then realize he’s swaying backward and reach to grab him, only to realize he’s messing with me when my hands land on his very generous biceps. “Fuck, sorry?—”

“Didn’t realize you had such a dirty mouth on you,” he says, and when my eyes flick up to his, there’s a challenge there. A challenge that I shouldn’t want anything to do with.

I swallow. “Just trying to get to the bathroom before the turbulence starts again.”

“Really?” he raises an eyebrow, then jerks his head back in the direction he came. “It’s a lot smoother in first class. I’ve got an empty seat by me—what do you say?”

I know what I should say. I should say, that’s very nice of you to offer. I should say no thank you, I’ll go back to my own seat. Maybe I should even point out that there’s no way first class is actually smoother than coach.

Instead, my traitorous mouth opens, and I hear myself breathe, “Alright.”

Two minutes later, having gathered my things from my seat, I’m walking into first class, the attendant smiling at me, like she knew I was coming. Did he arrange this for me?

My heart skips double time. This isn’t like me—I should just go back to my assigned seat. Stick to the plan.

In fact, I’m just about to turn around and go back to coach, where I belong, when a door to my left slides open, and he’s sitting there, smiling up at me.

Oh God. His little pod has two seats right next to each other, only folding armrests keeping them apart. I know from some ill-advised searching during boarding—and from my reviewing of the airline policies before buying the ticket—that any intimate activity on a plane is strictly forbidden.

I know from scouring some threads online that not only is it disallowed by the rules, but it’s also logistically difficult.

But this—this is practically a bed. Surrounded by walls on all sides. It’s like they want people to break the rules in here.

Maybe Harrison sees all this pass through my head, because he shoots me another grin, leans back in his seat, and says, “Pretty nice, huh? Perks of being a loyal traveler.”

As I set my things down and look around the cabin, I swallow again, sinking into the seat and nearly sighing at the soft leather and the way it cups my body. I’ve been mostly thinking about money lately in the context of my dad’s hospital bills, so luxury like this hasn’t even crossed my mind.

“Yes,” I manage, realizing I never answered him. “It’s very nice. You don’t normally fly first class?”

He laughs, leans forward, pops the cork on a tiny bottle of champagne. “Way to call me out,” he jokes. “No—I’m usually in business class. But I guess they had to do a lot of shuffling today, with planes and with people, so we ended up on this one together.”

“With this very nice first-class section,” I add, still in awe of what it looks like up here.

“Yes.” His thousand-watt smile still isn’t dimming. “In this very nice first-class section.”

When his eyes drop to my lips, a surge of awareness and excitement runs through me, and I think for a second that we might just do this right here, and right now—then he opens his mouth and says something I wasn’t expecting.

“Did you finish watching that game?”

I blink, then realize he’s talking about hockey.

Maybe I read this wrong. My cheeks flush warm with embarrassment, but I’m already pulling my iPad out of my bag.

I was planning on watching it anyway, and the turbulence is over.

Might as well sit in first class and get some input from a hockey fan while I do.

He gets the game up on the larger screen in front of us (wow, first class) and he pulls the blanket up from beside his seat and settles it over the two of us.

“Cold?” he asks, and I open my mouth to tell him he’s already gotten the blanket out, but then I feel his hand on my thigh, and it makes my entire body melt.

Oh.

“Yes,” I say, realizing too late how breathy my voice is. We settle back into the seats, thigh-to-thigh, and he keeps his hand on mine. Ten minutes later, I’m losing my mind with anticipation, and there’s a tiny knock on the door to his pod that nearly makes me jump out of my skin.

“Just checking in,” a flight attendant says, seeing the hockey on the screen, and clearly thinking the coast is all clear. “We are set to land in four hours. We’re delayed a bit from the storms.”

“Thank you,” he says, and the gruffness of his voice makes me think that those ten minutes with his hand on my thigh might have been just as frustrating for him as they were for me.

The moment the door closes, his hand slides higher.

On the screen, the Blue Crabs aren’t even done with the first period of the Stanley cup, and the tips of his fingers are sliding under the hem of my shorts.

“What’s your name?” he asks, letting his head loll over to me, his expression relaxed and almost lazy, like we’ve known each other forever.

“Willow.” I don’t know why, but I answer him with my middle name automatically. My logical brain is still checking in, despite the fact that I’m doing something so reckless.

“Willow,” he whispers back to me, his finger sliding up my thigh. I fight not to let my head fall back against the seat, to keep my body still, like he’s a bird that might startle and fly away if I even so much as shift in my seat. Tilting his head, he says, “Do you want to do this with me?”

“Yes.”

I surprise myself by saying it, but it’s true.

A wicked smile curls over his face, and I wait for something to happen, but he continues toying with the hem of my shorts, his face turned toward the screen, the light from the hockey game playing over his features.

Does he want me to initiate?

I’m not sure that I can. I might be up for agreeing to this, but the rule-follower inside me doesn’t want to go any further than that. So, for the next half an hour, we watch the game together, but I don’t see a single thing that happens.

Instead, I focus on the soft, slow, sure movement of his fingers against my leg, the gentle sweep of them, the way he presses his thumb, for five seconds, into the meat of my thigh. It feels like he’s pressing directly into my core.

Finally, when I’m sure this isn’t actually going anywhere, and he was only teasing me, he slips his hand under the hem of my shorts.

I’m so wet, I know he can feel the dampness of it when he slides the backs of his knuckles along my panties, and despite my every effort to stay still, I arch into the touch.

He sucks air in through his teeth, and it’s the first time—apart from him asking if I wanted this—that he’s even acknowledged what’s happening here.

When he slips his fingers around the line of my panties and dips into me, I realize I don’t even know his name.

It doesn’t matter—my mind goes completely blank, devoid of all thoughts and questions as he circles my clit once, twice—large, slow circles that feel like deep breaths. A deep lungful of lust is coursing through my veins.

If I knew his name, I’d be whispering it now.

We move together silently, the shuffle of the blanket sounding supersonic in the small space. I’m sure someone is going to rip the door open, see what’s happening, and ban us from ever boarding another airplane again, and I also don’t care.

I expect to feel unmoored, wild without the comforting element of my adherence to rules, but this is strangely freeing.

He situates himself behind me, his mouth hot against my shoulder, his hand still working steadily against my clit, bringing the pleasure rising in a tide over my body that never quite crests, never quite breaks through.

This is why people say you should date older men. The skill, the knowledge, the steady, sure way that he moves against me. There’s no uncertainty in his hand placement, no awkward fumbling.

When I feel the quiet, gentle vibration of his zipper against my ass, it occurs to me for a second that this might be a chance to make a baby without the thousands of dollars in egg retrieval and implantation. There are people all over the world conceiving in this exact way—why shouldn’t I?

But I can’t. First, I don’t know this man, and second, I may be desperate, and breaking the airline’s rules, but I’m not going to compromise my ethics. That would not be a good first parenting move.

“Do you have a condom?” I whisper the words so quietly, so imperceptibly, that at first I’m not sure if he’s going to hear me.

A second later, I feel the soft crinkle of the condom wrapper against my ass, and for some reason, it’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever experienced. Holding it under the blanket to muffle the sound, he rips it open, and I hear, rather than see, him rolling it over himself.

Nestling our bodies together, he runs a hand from my hip to my knee, then pulls my hair away from my neck and presses a kiss there, making chills scatter over my back.

“Ready?” he whispers.

This isn’t like me. This is my last chance to abandon this entire thing—go back to my seat, my little life back in coach. Avoid acting reckless just because I’m feeling wild.

But, then again, who’s going to know? I’ll relieve some tension, have some fun, and return to my life anyway. I can keep this little secret just for myself.

“Willow?” he asks, his lips rasping against my skin, sending another jolt of electricity through me. “Do you want this?”

I nod into the pillow, already arching my back against him, not wasting any more time.