Page 97 of The Playboy

“I’m not teasing you.”

“Then, what are you telling me?”

“I’m telling you that if you want to come, in about fifteen minutes, I can make that happen.”

I lowered my finger through her wetness, feeling how turned on she was, and when I reached the bottom of her pussy, I dipped inside.

Just to my first knuckle.

That small amount made her legs spread, and she rocked her hips forward, probably figuring that would score her my whole finger.

But it didn’t. I stayed there, about two inches in, and I didn’t move.

Her grip tightened around my dick. “I don’t know if I can wait fifteen minutes.”

I chuckled, a laugh that was deep and gritty, dripping with fucking need. “You’ll wait. I’m giving you no other choice.”

The SUV came to a stop on the tarmac, feet from where the red carpet had been laid out, the staircase from the plane meeting the center of the rug.

Brooklyn glanced out the windshield before looking back at me. “But we have a forty-minute flight ahead of us. The math doesn’t add up.”

If the trip were just a little longer, I would take her into the bedroom in the rear of the plane, and once we reached cruising altitude, I would spend the remainder of the flight with my face between her legs. But once we got in the air and the seat belts came off, the ten or so minutes wouldn’t be enough before we’d have to buckle up again for landing.

My finger went all the way in, twisting as it reached the end of her, aiming toward her stomach, where it hit that famous spot. “You’re going to get touched. Don’t worry about that.”

“Fuuuck.”

She felt just what I wanted her to, and her moan made everything all right.

I pulled out to the tip of my finger and dived back in as she said, “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“When do I get to touch you?”

I fucking love that she wanted to.

But I also loved working her up to the point where she was ready to explode, where she was on the verge of begging, where she knew, without any doubt, how much power I had over her body. So, after our flight, she would go home and climb into her bed—a plan I’d had all along—and desperately want to be under my covers.

“When I allow it to happen,” I told her. “That’s when.”

The backseat door opened, the lights from the plane illuminating the short walkway from us to the plane.

My body was blocking the doorway, so the driver, while he stood outside the SUV, couldn’t see in. Reluctantly, I removed my hand from her pussy, holding my finger to my lips, where I sucked off the wetness, not letting any of it go to waste.

“Come with me, Tiny Dancer.”

I climbed out, waiting for her, and nodded at the driver and flight attendant as my hand went to the small of Brooklyn’s back to guide her up the stairs.

Within a few steps down the plane’s center aisle, she faced me.

Before she could ask where I wanted to sit—a question I knew was coming—I pointed at a row with two seats. “Right there.”

The placement didn’t matter. The plane was small, open. Wherever we sat, we’d be in the flight attendant’s direct line of sight.

Without a word, she followed my instruction, crossing her legs, wrapping the seat belt over her lap. And I took the spot on the other side of her. The flight attendant began making her way over to us.

“As requested, I didn’t have any hors d’oeuvres prepared for this leg of the trip,” the flight attendant said. The same crew had flown us here, and she had confirmed my request before we departed the plane. “I have champagne on ice and lemon water prepared. Is there anything else I can get either of you to drink?”

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