Page 134 of Sinful Desires
“Four weeks,” I whispered.
I pulled out my phone, scrolling through my calendar.
My schedule was clear. Three months of so-called “creative writing time” for the next album. Rehab had done its job. My father’s PR circus had been enough to keep the public fed and the media off my throat for a while.
“Okay. I’m coming.”
“On one condition, sunshine.”
I stepped into the hallway, heels clicking. Nicholas followed close behind, waving at Matthew, who was deep in conversation with his mother—something about twins, Brazil, and a sister I’d never met.
I grabbed my Dior bag off the counter and dug through it until I found my lip gloss. I twisted it open, eyes on their pink heart-shaped mirror. “What is it?”
“We’re taking your jet. My agent thinks business class builds character. I think we kill two spoiled bastards with one stone: you getamazingcompany, I get champagne and legroom.”
I chuckled and put my lip gloss back where it belonged and grabbed my bag. “Done.”
I waved them off, heels clicking as I stepped outside. LeRoy was right where I’d left him, pressed against the doorframe, phone to his ear, speaking in that low, gravely French that always made something twist in my stomach.
He had said he didn’t want to come in. Said he needed to make a call.
Right.
It had been days, and we still hadn’t spoken. Not properly. Not after the strip club. And the silence was chewing holes in my brain.
“Let’s go home,” I muttered, walking past him without looking. “We’ve got bags to pack.”
He ended the call without a word and followed.
In the elevator, he hit the button while I backed into the wall. He didn’t face me. Just stood there, towering, too close, his shoulder nearly brushing mine.
Black jeans. The usual boots. A plain black hoodie that did absolutely nothing to hide how massive he was. The whole elevator shrank around him. Around us.
“Where?” he asked.
My eyes flicked up, locked on the way his hair curled at the base of his neck. God, I wanted to dig my fingers into it. Pull. Bite. Scream.
I swallowed hard.
“Back to the country that raised you, soldier.”
The stewardess shuffled toward us with apologetic eyes and lips pressed so tightly they could’ve cut glass. Her hands fidgeted like she was scared to interrupt something sacred or explosive. We’d landed ten minutes ago, but for whatever reason, they weren’t letting us off.
Which meant I was still trapped. Still stuck facing LeRoy. Still suffering through the slow, deliberate torment of his thigh brushing mine every time the plane jolted.
If I’d thought living with him was torture, I clearly hadn’t considered what eight and a half hours of silent staring did to a person.
He’d sat there in silence, stroking his jaw, watching me like he was stripping me with his eyes, already thinking about how I’d taste, how I’d beg, how long I’d last once he finally had me again.
His eyes didn’t look away once. And if they weren’t so good at setting me on fire from the inside out, I might’ve slapped him for it.
Nicholas’s idea of “amazing company” turned out to be him spending the entire eight-hour flight dead asleep in the private suite, snoring like some overworked royal, because his precious twins had apparently spent the night purring in his ear for snacks.
So much for champagne and legroom.
And when I’d grabbed his shirt and begged him to stay, because God forbid I be left alone with my thoughts for five seconds and LeRoy’s eyes heating every inch of me, he’d just yawned, said he was too tired to gossip, handed me a bag ofReese’s Cups like that somehow counted as emotional support, and vanished.
Bastard.
