Part 3 (1/2)

”Yes, I clean. You know, scrub floors, dust, tidy up. I'm very good at it. That's why I was applying for a housekeeping position. I'm stressed, I might as well get paid for what I'm going to be doing anyway.”

”What a strange way to get your stress out,” he said. He lowered his voice, so that only I could hear it through the buzzing of the engines. ”Me, I like to f.u.c.k.” And his eyes narrowed as he leaned in. His hips b.u.t.ted against mine and I felt, through his trousers, the hot bulge of an erection.

Oh my G.o.d. Oh my G.o.d. What was going on here? I scrabbled for sanity.

”You said I wouldn't be a wh.o.r.e,” I said breathlessly.

”And I'm not paying you, am I?” he replied. Casually he stepped back and made a huge show of inspecting the bathroom door. ”It says it's unoccupied. You should go in and take care of business. Are you feeling well?” His voice suddenly turned to one of concern.

”What?” I said.

He turned and spoke to someone. ”My friend is feeling ill,” he said. ”I'm going to help her out.”

”Sir, I'm afraid that's not allowed...”

A stewardess. He was talking to a stewardess.

I don't know what possessed me to do it, but I suddenly doubled over and began to cough. ”Kent!” I managed to say between gags. ”Kent, help...”

”I have to,” Kent said. ”Write me up, get the marshall to come over and make sure we're not terrorists, but she is about to yak everywhere.”

Strong hands landed on my coat and hauled me upright. Then he opened the restroom door, dragged me inside, and closed the door behind us.

The bathroom was crowded, and the opposite of s.e.xy, but now his rock hard body was pressed completely against mine and arousal raced through me. ”Jesus,” I said.

”I ain't Jesus. I'm way better in bed,” he said, and pulled me toward him, his lips cras.h.i.+ng down to meet mine.

My G.o.d, the man knew how to kiss. Soft, pouted lips worked against mine, his hot, rough tongue flickering over my mouth, and I opened before him with a moan. His hands ran over my body, in out and everywhere, hot and demanding. His thigh pressed between mine, straight into my crotch and I rocked my hips over it, rubbing myself against him.

What are you doing? I screamed at myself from the darkness of my head. This is your potential boss. Stop thinking with your metaphorical p.e.n.i.s!

But I couldn't. His touch woke something in me, something primal and needy that I couldn't remember ever feeling before, something that meant I couldn't stop, no matter how smart it would have been to pull away. He pulled out of the kiss and pressed his lips to my ear. The roar of the engines in the tiny bathroom were so loud I could hardly hear him, but the gust of hot, wet breath over the sh.e.l.l of my ear made every nerve on my body stand up and pay attention.

”No time for a good f.u.c.k,” he whispered hoa.r.s.ely. ”But always time to get off.” And he lowered his hands to my jeans and unb.u.t.toned them.

”Oh, G.o.d,” I said, or I think I said it. His fingers were calloused and rough, and after he'd yanked the zipper down he turned me around without tenderness and shoved his hand down my pants, insinuating his fingers between my panties and the mound of my s.e.x.

I was panting, riding high. He smelled rich and dark, like cigarettes and rum. His other hand grabbed my b.r.e.a.s.t.s and squeezed, kneading and tweaking in time with the thrust of his hips. His enormous c.o.c.k, burning through his trousers and my jeans, nestled in the crack of my a.s.s, and he ground it against my curves as his fingers slipped between my slick lips and began to move.

I put my hands out and braced myself on the vibrating walls, crying out as one calloused finger dragged over my sensitive c.l.i.t. His mouth was on my ear, moving quickly, flicking the complex folds with his tongue as though he were imagining going down on me, lapping at my c.l.i.t with the tip of his tongue. His finger was almost too much, dipping further inside me.

”You're so f.u.c.king wet for me,” he whispered. His voice, deep and resonant, echoed inside my head. I swallowed and closed my eyes as he ground his c.o.c.k against my a.s.s, his dipping and diving fingers sending me straight into the stratosphere.

I wanted to f.u.c.k him, badly. I panted and mewled against him as he thrust his c.o.c.k against me over and over. His free hand wandered over my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, down my rib cage, up to my throat. Long fingers closed over my windpipe and he pulled me into him, restricting my movements. I should have panicked, but I didn't. The feeling of being constrained, of being subjected to his carnal desires whether I wanted them or not, thrilled me darkly.

He held me fast, slipping another finger between my slick folds. I felt every rough, harsh ridge of the callouses on his fingers-the testament to his calling in life as a ba.s.sist-and when he lifted me with his leg, I let him tip my hips forward as he worked his way inside my core.

”Kent,” I moaned.

”You'd be a great lay,” he said. ”I wish we had more time. I'm going to make you come, though. Are you ready?”

His dirty words sent shockwaves of heat through me, and I nodded as best I could from my pinned position.

”Good.”

Withdrawing his hand from me, he released my throat before hooking his thumbs into the waistband of my pants. With a swift, strong yank he pulled down my underwear and my jeans.

”Stand,” he said. ”Brace against the back wall.”

Swallowing, I did as I was told. My hands splayed out over cold, vibrating plastic, and the din of the engines drowned out all ambient noise-including the sound of a zipper. When I felt the hot, petal-soft flesh of his c.o.c.k come to rest between my a.s.s cheeks, I started and tried to twist away.

A hand fisted in my hair. ”You only have to say no, and I'll stop,” Kent said.

I shook my head as best I could with him holding me immobile. Each strand pulling from my scalp stung, but it was the good sort of pain, the kind that heightens pleasure. ”Don't stop,” I gasped.

That was enough. Carefully he reached down and put his fingers against my slick flesh again, delving into the dark s.p.a.ce between my thighs, parting the lips and revealing the inner core with his index finger and ring finger. His middle finger curled and he placed the calloused pad of it against my c.l.i.t.

I squirmed at the contact. And empty s.p.a.ce was opening inside me. It needed to be filled. If he didn't put his c.o.c.k in me, I was going to perish.

He didn't put his c.o.c.k in me, and I somehow lived. What he did instead was slide his hot, thick shaft between my legs. With soft, gentle thrusts, he gathered moisture from my core, lubing up my thighs and crotch, until he glided easily over my skin. Then, with quick, small strokes, he began to f.u.c.k my closed thighs. My eyes rolled and my legs shook. Waves of pleasure washed over me, delectable sensations that only intensified with each thrust, and every flick of his finger over my c.l.i.t made my entire body jump.

He picked up speed, his hips slapping against my a.s.s. I could hear the meeting of our bodies over the roar of the plane. I moaned, writhing around his finger on my c.l.i.t, my hands scrabbling for purchase inside the tiny cabin, and a climax began to coil deep in my stomach, tight and heavy.

Somewhere far away, my common sense was despairing. What are you doing? it asked me, but I didn't have an answer. All I knew was the attraction was chemical, something in the water, something in the air. I'd spent enough time f.u.c.king a terrible bully and a loser over the past four years-at least this time I was actually getting something out of it. I'd never been f.u.c.ked like this, and I wasn't even getting f.u.c.ked, technically. My toes curled in my shoes, sending me up on my tiptoes as my calves knotted with the tension of striving to reach my release.

Then my back was covered in warmth as Kent curled over me. The smell of him blotted out everything, the cloying scent of tobacco and rum wrapping around me. ”f.u.c.k, Rebecca, your a.s.s is so sweet,” he moaned into my ear, yanking my head to the side. His lips found my pulse, and he sucked and bit, his hips hammering against me faster and faster, the finger circling my c.l.i.t harder and more insistently.

My o.r.g.a.s.m built without mercy, something I couldn't escape, even if I wanted to. He felt it in my tensing muscles, in the fluttering of my nether lips over his slippery erection.

”f.u.c.k, come for me, Rebecca. Come for me, now!”

I sobbed, reaching for that release, and when the dam finally burst I shrieked and thrashed against him, my hands finding his hair, tangling and closing in it, holding him tightly against me as shudder after shudder ripped into my body.

My knees buckled and I nearly fell, but his arm around me held me up by my c.l.i.t. The rough caresses of his calloused musician's fingers strummed over my sensitive flesh, playing my body like an instrument, and the climax he wrung from it was the most intense thing I'd ever known. Everything was his hand in me, his hand in me was my world. The grungy, cramped airplane lavatory melted away, the horrible things he'd said to me and others were wiped from my mind, the desperation of my situation, the power he held over me, my past, his rock star lifestyle-whatever it was-all of it crumpled and imploded beneath the weight of our mutual need.

I still thrashed in the grip of my release when his hips stuttered and his rhythm, until now impeccable, became erratic, falling apart. The heavy sac of his t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es, slapping against my closed thighs, hitched high and tight as c.u.m pumped up and through his shaft, and when he thrust hard against me, his enormous c.o.c.k poked out from between my legs and squirted stream after stream of hot c.u.m against the back of the toilet seat. White cream splattered over the black lid, the physical proof of our transgression.

”f.u.c.k,” he growled into my ear, his hands rough and restless on my body, gripping and pulling as if he could somehow crawl inside me. ”f.u.c.k, you feel so G.o.dd.a.m.n good...”

For a moment we stood, barely supporting each other, panting as we came down from the high. Then, abruptly, Kent withdrew. I felt him s.h.i.+fting behind me, but by the time I turned around, he had already stuffed his c.o.c.k back into his pants. Not wanting to be outdone, I pulled up my own jeans.

I was thoroughly confused by now. Did this guy like me or hate me?

The smell of him was still overwhelming me, filling my head with thoughts of rough s.e.x and long nights full of champagne and roses and whips and chains...

Oh dear. Where had those thoughts come from? It couldn't just be his scent... could it?