Page 15 of Taking The Virgin

Chapter6

Once again,Owen’s appearance is perfect—not a hair out of place, not a stitch unraveled, not a wrinkle on him. He watches me with those dark eyes as if him showing up here out of the blue is the most logical thing in the world.

As the brunette flight attendant walks up to me and takes my bag and coat, I gather my wits, then turn back toOwen.

And what is my grand statement tohim?

“You’re here,” I say lamely. So much for gathering mywits.

“It would seemso.”

Silence beats between us, and I don’t know what to do with myself. So I peer around the jet, taking in the spotless pale leather seats, gold trim, and entertainment screens in this front area. There’s obviously more behind Owen, but his authoritative body blocks the passageway.

He gestures toward a single seat, and I hesitate. Then he says, “I decided to accompany you on the flight back to Miami.”

“Why?”

Owen tenses at my question. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the flight attendant duck out of sight.

He doesn’t answer.

I decide to leave things as they are. After all, here I am on a private jet. How many more times will I ever get to travel on one of these? It shouldn’t matter that Owen is about as predictable as the weather or that he left me in his frosty dust last night. I’m going to enjoy this, dammit, and I take a different seat than the one he motioned to. I slip onto a leather sofa, buckle myself in, and look out the window.

At my rebellious snub, I think there’s a subtle smile on his lips as he stares at me. I refuse to look back at him, even as he slides onto the sofa next tome.

Damn him. I know he did it on purpose, just to ruffle me, but I parry back by ignoring him. I keep looking at the tarmac out the window and try to shut out the clean smell of his skin, the heat of his presence. But no matter how hard I fight him off, my heart seems to be arching from one side of my chest to the other.

The flight attendant comes by and hands Owen an electronic tablet.

“And champagne for both of us,” he says to her without even consulting me first.

I don’t refuse. Might as well get everything I can out of thistrip.

As he begins to swipe over his tablet screen, I stick my earbuds in and access a playlist on my phone. I learned my lesson yesterday when I tried so hard to make conversation with him. I’m not about to be blown off again.

Why did he insist on being here? On sitting right next tome?

One playlist and two champagnes later, we’re well in the air, flying toward my home. My skin is still vibrating at his nearness, and I’m on edge, half-listening to my music, half eager to have him say something to me. But aside from feeling him looking at me every so often, as if he’s assessing my mood, there’s nothing between us. Nada. Zip.

I’ll never figure him out, so I’m not even going totry.

Eventually, my eyelids grow heavy, thanks to my lack of sleep the night before and the booze. Soon, I’m slumped in my seat, drifting off and away, unable to resist dreaming about the feel of Owen’s hands on me last night, his mouth sucking on my breast, kissing my belly, ravaging my pussy…

I feel so warm, so comfortable, and I softly moan at the feel of solid arms wrapped around me. This is a great dream because now I’m imagining Owen holding me, my cheek against his hard chest, my belly filled with a liquid heat that simmers.

I sigh and shift my hips. He shifts, too, and I start to realize that this is no dream.

I open my eyes, aware of the fact that I really am in his arms. I actually fell asleep on him, and he’s not pushing me away. I flush all over, my body flooded by warmth.

Then I feel a spot of wetness against my cheek, and embarrassment overtakesme.

Was I droolingonhim?

With a start, I back away from him, and he lets go of me. Even with the darkness of his flawless suit jacket, I see a drool spot on him, and I want todie.

“Oh my god,” I say, wiping at my mouth. “I’m so sorry.”

He merely looks down at the drool, and I fuss at his lapels, trying to erase the wetmark.

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