Page 6 of Enigma: The Complete Collection
I nod. Even with my shrewdness blinded by lust, I can appreciate his frankness. I hate the false promises men give to get in your panties. Don’t get me wrong, I’m an old romantic at heart, and one day, I hope to have my fairy-tale ending, but for now, I’ll happily unleash my inner vixen to participate in what I’m sure will be mind-blowing sex with another consenting adult.
Mr. Holt smirks at my agreeing gesture before stepping closer to me. His movements are effortless, yet still demand my attention. My brows furrow when he places a business card for a nightclub called The Dungeon into my palm. “Meet me here Saturday night at ten o’clock.” A moan spills from my parched lips when he adds on, “Make sure you wear a dress. Panties are optional.”
I gasp in frustration when he pivots on his heels to make his way back to the door. Upon hearing my groan, he spins back around. His heavy-lidded gaze is ruthless, pinning me in place with desire.
“Believe me, there’s nothing more I’d like to do right now than find outwhat you look like underallthose clothes, but if I start, I won’t stop.”
Who said I wanted you to stop?
Mr. Holt arches his brow, making me realize I said my last statement out loud instead of in my head.
“Are you on your period, Isabelle?”
“What?”
Although his disrespectful question has credit, I’m too embarrassed to articulate a better response. His captivating allure has entranced me so much, I forgot I’m smack-bang in the middle of red week.
Seeing the forlorn look on my face, Mr. Holt mutters, “That’s what I thought. There’s no way I’ll only be able to sample half of you, Isabelle. I want to tasteallof you.”
Oh God.
My pulse intensifies when his eyes rigorously assess my body. Once his appraisal is finished, he makes his way out of the restroom even hastier than he arrived.
After gathering the minute smidge of dignity I have left, I exit the bathroom and head back to my seat. The flight attendant’s eyes narrow as I walk by. I don’t refute her accusation. My flushed face alone warrants her allegation.
Mr. Holt’s gaze strays from his crystal glass when he notices me approaching. His gorgeous lips curve into a seductive smirk that has my insides purring like a kitten.
“Isabelle.” His one word is a ravishing roar.
“Mr. Holt.”
I hurry past him to take my seat where I strive to keep my focus on the brilliant blue sky outside my window, but my quintessential need to know everything gnaws at my insides until I eventually blurt out, “How did you know I was on my period?”
His lips brace the rim of his whiskey glass before his eyes turn to mine. “Other than the fact your Kindle was open on a sappy Mills and Boons romance book and the two empty chocolate wrappers in your satchel, the tampons were the biggest indication.”
I smile at his unease from saying ‘tampons’ out loud.
“They could have been my emergency stash.”
He shakes his head. “Like guys who carry condoms in their wallet?”
When I nod, he alters his position to lean closer to me. “Any guy who tells you he’s carrying a condom in his wallet in case of an emergency is full of shit. We only put a condom in our wallet with the full intention of using it the night we put it in there.”
“So, let me guess, the first thing you do when you wake up is place a condom in your wallet?”
He chuckles an intensely scrumptious laugh that awakens my core. “Not every morning.” He saucily winks. “Just every second morning.”
Ignoring the bitter taste in my throat, I continue my interrogation. “Did you put a condom in your wallet this morning?”
Before he can answer me, a cough sounds from above. Raising my gaze, I’m confronted with the slitted eyes of the flight attendant.
Ignoring her, Mr. Holt’s entrancing eyes never once leave mine. “No, I didn’t. Why do you think it took me so long to join you in the bathroom?” His reply is loud enough for the flight attendant to hear.
Once she finishes serving him his glass of whiskey, I whisper, “So even if I weren’t on my period, we wouldn’t have done anything?”
Excitement melds through me when he leans in close to my side. His whiskey-laced breath flutters my lips when he motions his head to an overweight gentleman seated in 3A. The formally dressed man has a white napkin tucked in the front of his ivory business shirt. Oblivious to Mr. Holt’s and my intense appraisal, he continues munching on a marinated chicken drumstick.
“He’ll need to replenish his wallet before he goes on the prowl tonight.”
