Page 56 of Sinful Desires
His gaze met mine, intrigued. “Jealous?”
“Desperation’s not my kink, soldier. You can keep the ones who beg.”
The plane began to roll down the runway, the steady hum of the engines vibrating through the floor beneath me. I buckled my seatbelt, more for something to do than any real concern for safety.
“Who said you’d have to beg for it?” His voice was quieter now, like a secret meant to be overheard.
I looked away, heat crawling up my neck.
The city was vanishing below us, lights blinking out like little stars. The rhythmic click of his keys seemed to fill the silence between us, like some strange background music.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in France?” I muttered. “Eating croissants, wearing a beret, judging everyone with joy in their lives?”
He twisted the cap off the bottle and brought it to his lips, drinking slowly and deliberately, his eyes fixed on me. He didn’t look away, not even as he set it down and dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, jaw tight.
There was something filthy in the way he did it, and it sank beneath my skin before I could stop it.
He lifted a shoulder. “Never been to the Hamptons. Figured I’d tag along. Make sure nothing regrettable happens while you’re there.”
Regrettable.
My chest tightened, knowing exactly what he was implying. Did he think my father would hit me again?
Yeah, probably. But never there. Not in front of everyone. Not when he had his legacy to uphold. Not when the family had to look perfect, his kids polished and ready for the show, the spotlight onhim.
He’d save the hits for when it was just us. For when nobody could see, and his pride wasn’t at risk.
“Don’t worry. If anything happens, I’ll just remember your little lesson. Straight to the heart or the head, right?”
“Hope you don’t miss this time. Though knowing you, you’ll still find a way to fuck it up.”
I sighed. “Have you always been this—” I stopped myself, shaking my head instead.
His fingers paused over the keyboard. “This what?”
My eyes skimmed over him. The rolled sleeves. The watch. The veins in his forearm. The tattoos. The stillness that somehow took up all the space.
I tilted my head. “Unbearable.”
That earned me a slow glance. “And yet, here you are, still wasting your time on me.”
I leaned back, fighting the way my skin heated under his gaze. “Trust me, it’s not because I enjoy your company.”
He snapped his laptop shut, his eyes never leaving mine as he stood. One hand braced against the table, the other hanging loosely by his side, muscles coiling beneath his shirt. He leaned in slightly.
“Good,” he said, his voice dangerously calm. “Because I’m not here to hold your hand, Miss Harper. I’m not here to be your friend, or your therapist. I’m here to do what I’m fucking paid for: keep you alive. Nothing more. Nothing less.” He turned and walked toward the private suite at the back of the plane.
Not my friend. Not my therapist. Just my babysitter with a gun.
Got it.
The seatbelt sign flickered off, its soft buzz breaking the silence, but I didn’t move. My fingers gripped the edge of my seat. I raised my gaze to lock on him as he reached for the door of the suite.
“What doesMon étoile dans l’obscuritémean?”
The words came out rougher than I meant them to, dragged down by my mangled accent. I cringed inwardly, cursing myself for paying more attention to the Conrad brothers in high school than to my French teacher, Madame Blanche.
He stilled. His fingers curled near the handle, freezing for a split second. I could almost feel him holding back something, whatever it was.
