Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 118309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 592(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
“There you go.” The bartender places my order between two men with bulky shoulders and seedy mustaches.
“Thank you.”
My breasts squash against one of the man’s shoulders when he fails to budge so I can collect my drink. His breaths quicken like my budded nipples are from his demoralizing gawk instead of the cool conditions, and when he licks his lips with a zealous amount of spit, it is the fight of my life not to barf.
“Where are you going, sweetheart?” the stranger asks with a laugh when I veer for the exit. “The bathroom is in the other direction.” His tone could only be more insinuating if he spoke while removing his wrinkled dick from his pants. “That’s where you want us to meet, isn’t it?”
My eye roll stops halfway when an unexpected pocket of turbulence shakes the plane. Its shudder is so firm the chuckles of the drunk travelers dull to a simmer, and half of my bourbon and coke splatters onto the crisp white shirt of the passenger in Seat 1A.
Not even proof that I’m not going mad will stop me from apologizing to the man with soul-stealing eyes and a dislike of apologies. “I’m so sorry. Your shirt. It’s… ah…” My reply veers in another direction when I spot a bottle of soda water in the selection of beverages in his travel cubicle. “Fixable. Soda water will draw that stain right out. It can remove bloodstains, so I’m sure it can handle some bourbon.”
Maksim remains quiet when I pluck him from his seat and veer him toward the bathroom the drunk passenger nudged his head at earlier. The rowdy crowd quietens so ruefully when we walk past them that you’d swear the seat belt sign had been illuminated.
My mouth falls open when we enter the bathroom. It isn’t the standard washroom you find on most commercial planes. It’s three times the length and double the width. The vanity has sample-sized lotions, perfumes, and aftershaves available, and to the far left is a shower.
A shower!
I remember the reason I forced a man into a bathroom with me when Maksim snickers at my parted lips and hued cheeks. He’s clearly accustomed to the finer things in life.
His dislike of my earlier request for some penny-saving tips is a surefire sign of this.
After walking to the vanity, I snag a handful of paper towels from the dispenser. Except they’re not paper towels. They’re rich and luxuriously soft cotton towels that deserve more than one brush before soaking them with soda water.
“This was the first skill I picked up at medical school. I went through socks more than any other clothes my first month.” Once the cloths are damp enough to compete with the stain on Maksim’s shirt, I spin to face him. “The big clamps they use to open the chest plate during surgery are super clunky. They’re dropped during almost every operation…” My words fade for a moan when the image that confronts me far exceeds the extravagance of a ten-thousand-dollar airline ticket.
Maksim has removed his button-up shirt, and even though he is wearing an A-shirt like the night we met, since it is white and fitted, it clings to every cut line of his pectoral muscles, stomach, and arms as if he were shirtless.
The visual is enticing. So much so that I almost choke on my swelling tongue.
My eyes shoot up from the bumps in Maksim’s midsection to his face when he says, “What are you going to do now, Doc?” My mind goes instantly to the gutter. I fantasize about the many places I’d love to run my tongue across but realize that isn’t what his question was referencing when he mutters, “There’s nowhere for you to run this time.”
“I wasn’t running last time,” I lie.
His sultry grin sends a pulse straight to my needy pussy. “Really?”
He steps closer until I’m crowded against the vanity, and his lips brush the shell of my ear.
I won’t lie. The briefest contact has me on the edge of combustion.
“You’re a shit liar. It’s almost on par with your ability to issue a heartfelt apology.”
I sense his eyes on me as I stammer out a reply. “My apologies are based on the severity of my crime, so I rarely need to fall to my knees and beg for forgiveness.”
My nostrils flare when he leans in so deep it announces I’m not the only one turned on by our closeness. He’s hard.
“Is that so?”
I can’t speak, so I nod.
He inches back and locks our eyes. I see anger there, but that isn’t all they’re displaying. “What if I believe you should?”
I bounce my eyes between his, which are more hooded now than earlier, before asking, “Should what?”
I melt like a popsicle when he answers, “Get on your knees and beg for forgiveness.”
“You’d first need to tell me what I’m meant to be apologizing for.”