“You’ll like this one.”
She looked up into his eyes and saw the sparkle of amusement there, along with something else . . . white-hot heat. She had a feeling his stark declaration about her desires was dead-on.
As usual.
A few minutes later, she stared out the window, her mouth hanging open. “Ian, what are we doing?” she exclaimed as Jacob drove them up a ramp.
“Driving onto the plane.”
They rose into the sleek jet that sat on the tarmac of a small airport. She felt like Jonah going into the belly of the whale. “I didn’t know you could do that.”
She stared at him, stunned, when he chuckled, the low, rough sound causing the skin at the back of her neck and along her arms to prickle in awareness. He reached for her hand across the table and drew her onto the seat next to him. He placed his hand on her jaw, lifted it, and swept down to cover her mouth with his, sandwiching her lower lip between his own, nibbling at her. He dipped his tongue into her mouth and moaned, his coaxing kiss transforming into a voracious one.
He lifted his head when he heard Jacob’s door slam. The car had come to a full halt. She stared up at him, half-slain by his unexpected kiss.
He leaned up and grabbed his briefcase at the same moment Jacob rapped once and then opened the door. Francesca followed him out of the car, feeling dazed, excited, and extremely aroused.
The jet was unlike anything she’d ever seen. They took an elevator up to a second level and entered a luxurious compartment with a wet bar, a full entertainment center and shelving unit, a built-in leather couch, and four luxurious, wide chair recliners. Expensive drapery covered the windows. She would never have guessed in a million years she was on a plane.
She followed Ian into the compartment, her hand in his.
“Would you like something to drink?” he asked politely.
“No, thank you.”
He chose a pair of recliners that faced each other, a table between them.
“Sit there,” he said, nodding at the chair to the left. “There’s a bedroom, but I’d prefer if you rested here. The chair fully reclines, and there’s a blanket and pillows in that drawer there,” he said, pointing at the gleaming mahogany entertainment center.
“There’s a bedroom?” she asked, experiencing a ridiculous wave of embarrassment at just saying the word.
He sat in his own chair, immediately pulling his computer and some files out of his briefcase. “Yes,” he murmured, glancing up at her. “But I would prefer if you slept where I can see you. You are free to use the bedroom, however, if you prefer. It’s in there,” he said, pointing to a mahogany door. “And so is the bathroom, if you should need it.”
She turned away so that he wouldn’t notice her breathless reaction to his words. She returned a moment later carrying the soft blanket and pillow she’d retrieved from the drawer. He said nothing, but she noticed his small smile while he started up his computer.
She sat and studied the electronic control panel on the arm of the lounger, figuring out how to recline it. She started to do so.
“Oh, and Francesca?” Ian asked, not looking up from his computer screen.
“Yes?” she asked, lifting her finger from the control button.
“Take off your clothes, please.”
For several seconds, she just stared. Her heartbeat began to throb in her ears. Perhaps he’d noticed her frozen state, because he glanced up, his expression calm. Expectant.
“You can put the blanket on while you sleep,” he said.
“Then why do you want me to take off my clothes, if I’m going to be covered up, anyway?” she blurted out, confused.
“I’d like to know you’re available to me.”
Liquid heat surged through her sex. God help me. She must be as much of a sexual deviant as Ian was, to respond so wholly to a few uttered words.
Slowly, she rose on trembling legs and began to strip.
* * *
He hit the Send button on his computer, zooming off a detailed memo to his senior staff. For the fiftieth time in the past five minutes, he glanced over at the outline of the shapely feminine form curled beneath the blanket. The tiny, even rise and fall of the cover told him she still rested soundly. He could have guessed within seconds the precise moment Francesca had finally succumbed to sleep about five hours ago. He was that aware of her. If he was having trouble concentrating—if he suffered—he could blame no one but himself. He’d been the one to insist she take off her clothes. He’d been the one to sit and stare, hypnotized, as she’d removed item after item, while his mouth went bone-dry and his heartbeat began to throb along the shaft of his cock.
Every time he recalled her lowered gaze and pink cheeks, her long, glorious hair swishing next to her narrow waist, her bare, thrusting breasts and luscious, fat nipples, legs that could make a man weep they were so long, shapely, and supple—and worst of all—the soft-looking, red-tinted, golden hair at the juncture of her thighs, the amount of it sparse enough so that he could clearly see her plump labia and slit, the blood began to pound fiercely again in his cock. Since he was thinking of the vision constantly, he’d pretty much sustained an erection for the past five hours.
It would be hell not to touch her until tonight, but he’d promised himself he’d make this experience as special for her as he could.
An even worse torture would be to touch and not take her.
He whipped off his glasses and stood.
It would be a delicious torture. And he was used to suffering.
He lowered onto the seat next to her. She lay on her side, facing him, her face still and lovely in repose. Her lips were a shade deeper in color than their usual lush pink hue. His cock leapt against the restraining fabric of his boxer briefs. Was she, by chance, aroused as she slept?