Page 42 of Where Quiet Hearts Scream (Dark Hearts #3)

S erafina

“Well, that’s a small plane.” I stare open-mouthed at the miniature aircraft we’re about to climb into and try to bite back my nerves. I’ve only been on a plane once and I was too young to get nervous about it. At twenty-one, I’m old enough to have heard the news and read the headlines.

People die in planes.

Especially small planes like this one.

Andreas threads his fingers through mine and tugs me along the tarmac to the short flight of steps. “Trust me,” he says, simply.

Yeah. Famous last words.

A flight attendant greets us at the top. An older woman with a kind face and air of experience. When I enter the aircraft, my eyes nearly pop out of my head. I’ve been privy to my fair share of luxury—especially in the last few months—but this is something else.

The cabin looks more like a five star hotel than a plane—wide and open, with furnishings in various shades of champagne. A golden light bounces off polished wood panels and brushed brass fixtures, and cream leather seats curve elegantly around a low marble table.

My high heels sink into plush, sand-colored carpet as I make my way into the cabin, and the faint scent of sandalwood touches my nostrils.

Andreas guides me to a seat then sits down beside me.

I cross my legs, tugging the hem of my yellow pencil dress to my knees.

Despite my husband’s insistence that he enjoys my figure, I’m still self-conscious.

To my relief, the flight attendant walks over with two flutes of champagne.

“The vintage you requested,” she says, smiling at Andreas.

We each take a glass then Andreas looks deep into my eyes. “To you, Sera.”

My eyelids ping open, surprised at how romantic my husband is turning out to be. I shake my head and glance up at him through shy lashes, then take a sip.

The bubbles are crisp and creamy at the same time, and my mouth fills with the flavors of white peach and brioche. It tastes exceedingly expensive and I could definitely get used to it. But I’m going to need several cases to make up for the fact I no longer have a career or a life of my own .

“You don’t like it?”

I glance sideways at Andreas and he’s observing me closely. My thoughts have drawn my brows together. “Oh, no, it’s delicious. I love it.”

He nods to my seatbelt, indicating it’s time to buckle up. “We can get up again when we’re in the air,” he says.

My poor bottom lip gets a good chewing as the plane’s engines fire up and we taxi to the runway. Andreas takes my hand and rubs his thumb back and forth over it in an attempt to distract me from imminent death heading our way.

As we soar into the air, a new sensation comes over me. Now the ground is behind us, I don’t feel afraid. It’s almost as if my life is in the hands of the devil now and I have no control over what is to come, so I may as well appreciate it for what it is.

When the aircraft finally plateaus, without any warning, Andreas snaps open his seatbelt and mine, then pulls me onto his lap.

My thighs have to part wide to accommodate his thick thighs, and my dress rides all the way up to my hips.

The entire move swipes the breath from my lungs.

When I peer down at him, the look in his eye is both devious and ravenous.

Before I get a chance to speak, he shoves a hand up through my hair and pulls my mouth down onto his for a deep, wet, restless kiss.

His tongue pushes into my mouth with a groan and sweeps into every corner, exploring me and igniting a multitude of nerve endings .

It’s hot, it’s impatient, and it’s staggering.

His other hand splays across the small of my back, tugging me into his body. When my knees hit the back of his seat, my legs spread even wider, until I feel his thickened cock press hard between my thighs.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I wonder where the flight attendant is but she must know to make herself scarce.

If the last few weeks have taught me anything, it’s that my husband doesn’t like to share, so I expect the attendant is otherwise occupied because Andreas doesn’t seem at all concerned.

Especially now I’m practically dry-humping him through his slacks.

He pulls back from my lips for a second. “Pick one,” he says on a fractured moan, then fastens his mouth again to mine.

With my eyes closed blissfully, I run my fingers over my thigh until they land on a scar I haven’t yet loved.

“There,” I breathe.

He leans back again, his lips falling away, and studies the raised scar tissue.

He traces it with his finger. I should be leaping off his lap at the tickling sensation but I’m mesmerized.

He seems completely absorbed in the mess I’ve made and it fills me half with shame and half with red hot desire.

He licks his lips and looks up at me through thick, long lashes. “I want you across my knee.”

My lips part in shock.

“I’m not going to spank you.” His voice rumbles so low it could be buried deep in the earth, and I release a breath. “Not yet, anyway.”

I swallow and he jerks his chin, encouraging me to move. I dismount my husband, stand at his knees, then look to him for direction.

“I want you facing out of the window. Here…” He guides me to his right side, places a hand on my shoulder and pushes me almost to my knees. Then, he bends me over his lap until my stomach lies flat, my breasts fall over his thigh and my bottom is canted out.

He strokes a hand over both of my ass cheeks, taking a lazy, long time about it. Every now and then, his fingertips skim my pussy and I squirm on his legs.

“How do you feel about flying now?” he rasps above me.

“It’s not so bad,” I whisper.

“Good. Enjoy this, Sera.”

He tickles his fingertips over my clit and I push down onto them, trying to get some friction, but he just moves his fingers backward until they’re almost skimming another opening. I blush heinously.

He finds a rhythm, stroking back and forth from my entrance to my clit, his hand sneaking between my thighs and his wrist pushing against my bottom.

As the pressure builds, I want to cry out, or at least moan a little, or gasp, but the close proximity of a flight attendant is keeping my lips shut tight.

As if he can sense my need, Andreas rests his left hand against his jeans, just below my breasts, and lifts his thumb. “Put this in your mouth,” he says softly .

At this point in the proceedings, I’m losing my damn mind with lust, so I don’t care about the implications for my dignity by wrapping my lips around his thumb. If anything, I’d like something to bite down on when he continues to torture me with his teasing fingers.

His thumb is thick and calloused. It isn’t the thumb of the suited professional he appears to be—it’s the thumb of a man who knows brute, physical work. I close my eyes against the temptation to wonder what kind of work that might be, and to my stunned surprise, I feel the climax building faster.

I writhe on his fingers and suck his whole thumb into my mouth. I suddenly wish another part of him were in my mouth.

When my lids lift in a daze I catch him in the corner of my eye. He’s watching me, completely consumed, his gaze dragging from his thumb in my mouth to my canted ass circling on his fingers, chasing their attention.

As the orgasm crests, I tighten my lips around his thumb and muffle a loud moan.

“Oh that’s a good girl,” he coos, as he presses his fingers into my folds, rubbing that little nub of nerves until I’m practically fucking his hand. “So good.”

The orgasm sizzles languidly and I continue to squirm on his lap, chasing every last tremor. My head is slowly spinning, the blood whirring behind my closed lids.

His hand pulls away but his thumb remains. I let it pop from my mouth then kiss it gently, all over .

I hear a wet lip-smacking sound and without opening my eyes I know my husband is licking my arousal from his fingers.

It makes me lustful for more.

I suck his thumb back into mouth and swirl my tongue around it, hoping he gets the message. And of course he does, because Andreas Corioni is experienced .

“I love that you want more,” he murmurs, pushing his hand back between my thighs.

A pained moan falls out around his thumb when he softly strokes me again. I feel so wet I should be morbidly ashamed, but I’m not—I’m proud of myself for feeling unabashed and unapologetically turned on by my husband.

He pushes two fingers just inside my entrance and scissors them gently, giving me a sense of what’s to come, eventually. I rotate my hips, chasing his touch while also reveling in the growing thickness of his length beneath my stomach. Knowing how I turn my husband on makes me feel powerful.

“Whatever it is you’re thinking about, keep thinking it,” he whispers hoarsely. I feel like we’re being really naughty, doing sexual things when there are people so close by. “It’s making you very, very wet, my angel.”

Power. That’s what I was thinking about. The fact I make my husband—this beautiful, dangerous man who rules an entire army —hard.

I did that.

I do that .

If I have this effect on him before he’s been inside me, what’s he going to be like afterward?

I shiver with lust and I’m rewarded with calloused fingers softly circling my clit. I moan again and tease my teeth along his thumb.

“You were made to be worshipped, Sera.” he coos. “You fit so well in my lap. This exquisite, breath-taking body was designed just for me.”

My lids flutter closed as I focus all my senses on his caress. It makes my head spin.

Then he drifts a thumb over my bottom, pressing it to the opening there. My eyes flash open and I stop moving.

“Shh,” he whispers gently. “I’m not going to do anything that won’t feel good. Trust me.”

My pussy is aching and I can’t bear for him to stop pulling me to that edge, so I swirl my tongue around his thumb and whimper my permission for him to continue.

He doubles down on my clit, tugging it between his fingers, rubbing it softly, then firmly. Just as my moans become incoherent, his other thumb breaches my back entrance. This time, I’m too close to that pinnacle to stop him, and the more I writhe, the deeper I take his thumb.

“This is so. Damn. Hot,” he rasps, his hands completely full of me.

“Mmmm.” My whimper climbs in pitch, my jaw unhinges and my lips loosen around his thumb. I can fill the precipice so close.

He swirls his wet fingers over my clit and pushes his thumb inside a little more, then the climax rips into me, lifting me off the floor.

I convulse madly on his lap, his fingers drawing out the tremors.

When I come around, he’s panting heavily, like I’ve just pushed him to the very edge of his limits.

Thick hands reach around my ribcage and I’m lifted up, kissed softly, then placed back on my seat. Andreas reaches down, pulls out a blanket and lays it over me.

“I’ll be right back.”

I vaguely sense him stand then walk past me to the back of the aircraft, but I’m too heavily sedated by the aftereffects of two incredibly intense orgasms to pay too much attention. All I know is he’s gone to visit the restroom.

I vow to find out why he does that after every time he’s made me come. But then, despite the fact I’m thousands of feet in the air, distantly petrified that I’m about to die, my lids close again and I drift into a light, contented sleep.