Page 20 of Deep In Love
The need for human contact—for comfort I rarely ask for—outweighs every reason to ignore Mateo, which was my original plan when we arrived at the airport.
My fingers tremble as I squeeze his hand like I’m making orange juice.
He pulls out his phone, pausing whatever he’s listening to, and clasps my hand between both of his.
“Are you okay?”
It’s probably a rhetorical question, given the nervous sweat dotting my brow and the impending anxiety attack looming, but Ishake my head. We gain altitude and my ears pop, adding to my discomfort.
“I-I don’t like flying,” I admit, the confession sour on my tongue.
“It’s completely safe,” he assures me, “even if there’s turbulence—” He pauses when he clocks my terror. “You’re right. Not helping.”
Nausea rolls in my gut as Mateo peels his hand out of my death grip. I can add embarrassment to the slew of emotions banging around my chest, right beside undiluted fear, and my stomach swirls with physical and emotional discomfort.
I’m not a fan of others witnessing my weaker moments, and this one right here, while occurring thirty thousand feet in the air, is very close to rock bottom.
He’s supposed to view me as the one woman he can never seem to beat. The incredible, witty scientist with a brilliant mind. Not a fully grown woman who is terrified of flying.
Somewhere toward the back of the plane, a child screams—a loud, sharp pleading sound.I’m right there with you, buddy.The heat from Mateo’s touch lingers against my palm, and although it’s horrifying to admit, I miss the fit of his fingers between mine. It’s not his job to offer me comfort. We are not that person for each other.
The barrier between us vanishes as he lifts the armrest and, without warning, pulls me against his side. His skin is warm, a balm to my anxiety, and it wards away the chill of the aircraft. If I weren’t mortified, I might admit how nice it feels to accept the comfort offered by another person.
In one smooth movement, Mateo interlaces our fingers and rests our hands on the hard muscle of his thigh. My pulse beats erratically as I study the sharp bridge of his nose, the soft flush of his cheekbones, the subtle smirk perpetually curving his lips, and the barely there dimples on each cheek.
He’s a complicated mathematical equation I can’t solve. For every teasing comment or sharp retort, he offers a moment of unexpected gentleness. Right when I believe I’ve solved the problem, the equation changes—our relationship morphs—and I’m back to staring at the chalkboard.
Though he calls me “bruja” and teases me for my messy desk and collection of bobbles, he continually checks in on me with a concern that feels genuine. He has no obligation to ask how I’m doing or offer his help, yet he does so freely.
And I don’t know how to answer the simple question:why?
“Here.” He offers an earbud, and I slide it in, ready to drown out my muddled thoughts with whatever music Mateo listens to, but instead, I’m greeted by a woman with a crisp English accent describing a…ship?
“What is this?” I ask, trying to concentrate on the words for context. The narrator of what I assume is an audiobook describes the linens of a bed and how rough they feel against the supple flesh of her thighs.
What the hell is Mateo listening to, and why the fuck is my stomach tingling?
“Historical romance,” he says, his voice rough around the edges.
The answer surprises me, but it’s outdone by the words spoken in my ear.
“Dominic’s member twitched beneath his britches, and though Elora was inexperienced in lovemaking, he made her feel alive, offering a deep pulsing between her thighs she’d never felt before.”
The earbud is ripped from my ear as Elora dives into how his velvety member feels between her thin fingers.
“I didn’t know it wasexplicit,” Mateo shrieks, his cheeks flushed and palm sweaty against mine.
His flustered appearance helps dissipate my anxiety, and a small laugh tumbles out when he swats at my hand as I try to snatch the earbud.
“Give it back,” I demand, stretching over him to reach his far hand. “It was getting good.”
“The book is horrible.”
“One man’s trash is this woman’s treasure. I need to know how Elora feels about his throbbing velvety member.”
The woman in the row across from us chokes, and Mateo’s face deepens to a shade of lobster red.
Before I can further convince him I’ll riot if I can’t listen to the audio, the plane jostles, jerking through turbulence, and I yelp while my heart skips a beat. The seat belt sign sings the tune to our impending demise, and the flight attendants scatter to their seats.
