Page 72 of Desperate Actions

The flight attendant blinks, then quickly recovers, her smile polite, professional.

“Oh! Apologies, sir. And may I offer my congratulations?”

I barely acknowledge her, already turning toward Aella instead.

“Aella, would you like a coffee?”

She blinks up at me, momentarily caught off guard by the shift in attention, then quickly regains herself.

“Oh, um, thank you,” she says to the attendant, always so damn polite.

“And, yes. Can I please have an iced Americano with oat milk and cinnamon?”

The flight attendant nods. “Of course. For you, sir?”

“Just coffee. Black.”

“Very good.”

She leaves us to prepare our drinks, and in the quiet that follows, it hits me.

I must have sounded like a damn barbarian.

I exhale slowly, running a hand through my hair, already regretting the unnecessary edge in my voice.

“Um, sorry about that,” I mumble, my voice lower now, quieter.

Aella tilts her head, a small crease forming between her brows.

“About what?”

I inhale, trying to ease some of the tension from my body with the movement.

My hand still rests on her thigh, fingers still absently tracing patterns on the soft fabric covering her.

“Correcting the attendant. I should have left it alone.”

She stares at me, like she’s trying to figure me out, like she’s waiting for some punchline she missed.

Then she shrugs.

And smiles.

“That’s alright.”

She leans in, her voice lower, just for me.

“It’s kinda hot when you claim me publicly.”

My heart starts to pound.

A slow, thick, heavy beat pulsing through my blood, coiling low in my gut.

This woman is so mine.

I turn toward her fully, my fingers tightening slightly on her thigh, my mind already spinning with a dozen ways to claim her properly right here, right now.

Fuck the coffee.

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