Page 142 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
“Olivia.”
“I am not joining the mile-high club with you.”
He places a hand to his heart feigning offense. “Wow. That hurts. I didn’t even say anything about sex.”
I arch a brow.
“Yet,” he adds, smiling like a man who’s already planning the crime and the alibi.
“You’re terrible.”
“And you love it.” He leans in, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear with his thumb, lingering a little too long on my cheek. “You like how I make you feel. You enjoy knowing I’m sitting here wondering if you wore anything under that dress.”
I glare at him. Which is significantly more noble than moaning into his mouth or climbing into his lap and begging him to ruin me with that maddeningly perfect mouth and the cock that should honestly be illegal in at least forty-nine states and all the countries in this world. Maybe even in the galaxy.
He grins, reading me too well. “Did you?”
“I’m not answering that,” I say, aiming for icy, landing somewhere in the vicinity of breathy and doomed.
“So that’s a no.” His voice drops to a husky growl. “Good. Because when I finally get my hands on you, I don’t want anything slowing me down.”
I shift in my seat—not for effect. Not to be sexy. Just pure survival. My thighs press together like they’ve entered panic mode.
“You aren’t allowed to start anything on this jet,” I hiss, pointing a very serious, very trembling finger at him.
Lucian raises both brows, all mock innocence. “That’s not what the benefits agreement says.”
“There’s nothing in the benefits agreement about fucking on private transportation,” I shoot back.
He gasps, clutching his chest like I’ve just accused him of tax fraud. “That’s because we haven’t added the Mile High Addendum yet.”
I blink. “There’s no such thing.”
“There is now. Section Eight. Subsection A. Clause: ‘If a dress is worn without underwear and the flight is longer than thirty minutes, physical contact is permitted as long as the passenger moans at least once.’”
I gape. “You just made that up.”
He shrugs. “I’m an innovator. You should be grateful I’m this thorough.”
“You’re unbearable.”
“And you’re squirming.”
“Because you’re a menace.”
“Because you’re turned on.”
He reaches out and presses a hand to my thigh—just above my knee. Just enough to make me forget the laws of self-control. His thumb moves in slow, lazy circles, like he’s barely touching me at all. But oh, he is. He’s setting me on fire, one casual stroke at a time.
“Lucian,” I whisper. A warning. A plea. I’m not sure which.
He leans in, lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Tell me to stop.”
I don’t.
I can’t.
Because I might not survive ninety minutes of this jet ride without combusting.
