Page 78 of Pretty Mess

Hmm. That seems pretty clear-cut. Entertain yourself while Daddy’s working. He bends his dark head over the laptop and begins tapping on his keyboard, his clever eyes busy and already far away.

A ping sounds, and I see a sign requesting we fasten our seat belts. I hasten to do as instructed. “Mac,” I say urgently. “Seat belt.”

He raises his jacket, and I see he’s already strapped in. He continues his work, and I feel dismissed, which is probably good because it means my feelings align with reality.

I watch him, enjoying the few seconds when I can observe him without him saying anything sarcastic. Now that my exams are over the real world is intruding again, and I can’t put off any longer the big decisions that I need to make. I’m very aware that I probably don’t need to continue my arrangement with Mac anymore. I have more money than I could ever dream of, and it’s likely to stay that way as long as Tyler doesn’t spaff it up the wall again.

So, why am I still here? Is it that I’m being cautious and gathering more cash for my nest egg? Or is it that I simply can’t bear the idea of finishing the arrangement and never seeing Mac again.

I look at him as he frowns down at his laptop. It’s patently obvious that he’s not bothered by any deep thoughts about me.

I’m shaken out of my dismal thoughts, when the plane slowly eases out onto the runway. Within minutes, we’re thundering down it and lifting into the air. The speed is thrilling, and I press my face against the small window, watching as England falls away beneath me, the houses and gardens getting smaller and smaller until we vanish into the clouds. I release a breath I didn’t know I was holding and look up to find Mac watching me, his laptop forgotten.

“Alright?” he says. “Are your ears okay?”

“What?”

“Well, that answersthatquestion.” I snort, and he smiles at me. “Do you want a sweet?”

“No,” I say crossly. “Because I’m not five.”

His lip twitches. “For your ears. Sucking on a boiled sweet relieves the pressure.”

“Oh, no, I’m fine.” I look around. “I can’t believe I’m in a plane. And a private one at that.”

“Are you enjoying it?”

I grin at him. “Well, it’s not bad. I suppose one can get used to any slummy situation if one tries very hard.”

He snorts. “Such abraveboy.” His eyes are full of a reluctant amusement.

“That’s me. Brave.”

“And bold,” he offers, and immediately looks like he wishes he hadn’t.

“I can be bold,” I whisper and wet my lips. “Very bold if you want me to be.”

His eyes flare as hot as the sun shining through the windows, and he leans almost unconsciously towards me. He immediately pulls back as the door slides open, and Maeva appears.

“Would you like fresh juice, water, or the alcohol menu?”

“Water, please,” Mac replies. He nods at me. “Have a drink if you want one.”

“Atlunchtime?” I say, scandalised, and his lips quirk. I turn to the air hostess. “I’ll have a juice, please.” She nods and glides away.

My stomach rumbles loudly. Mac’s eyes twinkle but he refrains from saying anything.

Maeva reappears with our drinks. “There’s a selection of sandwiches in the fridge so help yourself. As you requested in your phone call this morning, I’ll leave you alone. We’ll be landing in Paris at one thirty. Please press the call button if you require anything else.”

The click as the door shuts behind her is like a starter gun on my cock. I suddenly remember how long it’s been since he fucked me. “All alone.” I look at Mac. “Are we joining the mile-high club?” I say with a nice leer, but I might as well keep my leer to myself as he’s gone back to his work. Obviously, sex wasn’t on his mind when he asked her to give us privacy.

I sigh and unfasten my seat belt. Even that doesn’t distract him, so I stand up, swaying with the plane’s movement, and wander to the fridge that Maeva indicated. My stomach rumbles again as I survey the selection of sandwiches. It’s nice to feel hungry, as my appetite has been a bit off during my revision. I grab a BLT and look over at Mac. “Shall I bring you one?” He doesn’t answer. “Mac?” He’s checking his phone, but eventually he looks up. I gesture at the table. “Sandwich?”

“Oh no, thank you. I’m not hungry.”

“But it’s lunchtime.”

He waves a dismissive hand, his attention on whatever he’s reading on his phone. “I rarely eat during the day,” he mutters, then gives a cross-sounding huff and starts typing again.