Page 69 of Palm South University: Season 3
MR. CHURCH MUSTbe hungry.
That’s all I can think as I cross my legs even tighter, fighting against the heat building between them. It’s hard enough not to squirm sitting in a board meeting with Brandon at the head of the table, but with just a small table separating us in a private jet it’s damn near impossible.
I’d shown up at the hangar on time, just as promised, and we’d quickly loaded up into the jet, the personnel taking care of our bags and offering us a glass of champagne as we stepped inside. I’d found it hard not to gasp when I boarded, seeing the beautiful leather interior, complete with three sets of comfortable, reclining chairs with tables between them, and one long couch. The leather was a cross of beige and black, cut with thickly sewn stitching that reminded me of Brandon’s car interior. There were dark brown and maroon suede pillows on the couch and one small one in each chair, pulling all the aesthetics together, making it scream business and comfort all at once.
Brandon had taken a seat at the back set of chairs, the one across from the couch, and I’d followed suit, sitting across the small table from him. He’d been quiet as the flight crew explained our route and how long it would take, offering us more refreshments, and he’d remained silent until just after takeoff. Once we were in the air, he’d started small talk — literally talking about the weather in Atlanta and asking how my midterms went — before he fell back into a quiet state.
Except this time, his eyes weren’t on the newspaper.
They were on me.
Andthatis when I decided that he must be hungry, and that our first stop when we land will most certainly be a restaurant. Because the way he looked at me, the way he’sstilllooking at me, is like he’s a starved man and I’m a surf n’ turf buffet of the highest quality.
I glance at the small screen behind Brandon’s head, one with a map of our route and a little white airplane to show us where we are. It also details how fast we’re going and our approximate arrival time, which isn’t too long, being that the trip from Miami to Atlanta is a quick one in a jet. I try to keep my focus on that little screen, but I feel him in my peripheral, boring a hole into my skin with his gaze.
“I have a proposal for you, Miss Daniels.”
Are we back to last names now?
I snap my attention to him, swallowing hard as he steeples his fingers over his lap, his eyes dark and intense.
“And what’s that, Mr. Church?”
He smirks. “For the past month, the two of us have been acting like what happened between us didn’t happen. Which is professional, and certainly the right thing to do.”
I search his face for signs of sarcasm, but find none. So, I just nod in agreement. “Yes.”
“Yes,” he echoes me. Pausing, he watches me for a moment before leaning forward over the small table between us, his hands disappearing underneath it. “However, I’m in quite a predicament, Miss Daniels. Because it seems that you have awakened a rather persistent itch, one that I don’t see going away until I give in and scratch it.”
Warmth crawls up my neck, burning my cheeks as I reach for my champagne glass on the table, draining the last sip of it. Every nerve of my body is at full attention, hanging on his words, waiting for what he’ll say next.
“Now, I could live with this itch,” he says, catching my eyes with his before trailing them down over my chest. “But, judging by the way you’re clenching your thighs together under this table…” He leans forward a little more, and then I feel the warmth of his finger — just one — as it brushes the inside of my knee so slightly I’m almost sure I’m imagining it. “And the way your cheeks flush when I touch you, something tells me you’ve got an itch to scratch, too.”
It takes everything in me, including a tight grip on the armrests of my chair and a tight closing of my eyes, not to moan when the one finger on the inside of my knee turns into a flat, hot palm, sliding just an inch up, just enough to brush the hem of my skirt.
“So, what’s your proposal, Mr. Church?” The words leave my lips in something like a whisper and a groan, my eyelids cracking open again as I find his gaze.
“Until this jet touches down in Miami again, you’re mine,” he nearly growls the words, running his tongue along his bottom lip as he eyes mine. “And I’m yours. No boundaries, no rules, no thought of consequences. Just two people scratching an itch and keeping a little secret.” He shrugs. “And when we land back in reality, it’s hands off again. Responsible. Professional.”
My breaths are silent, almost nonexistent as I watch him, debating. “And you think we’ll be able to do that,” I challenge, uncrossing my legs to spread them just an inch. His nose flares at the bold act, his hand skating up a centimeter more. “You think you’ll be able to fuck me this week and let me go on Sunday night? That you’ll be able to see me in the office every day, knowing you’ll never touch me again?”
I run my fingers through my hair and trail the tips of them down over my neck, my collarbone, running them along the neckline of my blouse with my lip pinned between my teeth.
Brandon inhales a stiff breath, eyes on fire. “I think I’d rather know that torture than continue living in this one.”
My brain is in overdrive, ticking through the possibilities and the consequences if we were caught, but the overwhelming thought pushing everything else down is that the likelihood of us getting caught is slim to none. As long as we keep our hands to ourselves when we’re in public, and we go back to normal when we’re in the office again, no one would need to know.
And,God, how I want to taste him again, to touch him again, to know what he feels like inside me.
Fuck it.
“No one finds out. And when we land again, I’m off limits. No looking at me across the boardroom like you want to fuck me on the table while everyone watches.”
“You have my word,” he says, smirking. “So, do we have a deal?”
He doesn’t move his hand any higher, doesn’t lick his lips or raise an eyebrow — he simply waits.
“We have a deal.”