Enigma, #1, page 2
With his eyes darting between mine, Mr. Holt slides a sleek phone out of his trousers pocket. “Yes.”
His tone alludes to his authority, but I’m too busy taking in the time on his Rolex to work out who he’s bossing around. I only have twenty minutes before the check-in for my flight closes.
“Thank you for your assistance, but I must go, or I’ll miss my flight.”
I snag my satchel off the countertop, then push off my barstool. Mr. Holt seizes my wrist before I can dash for the exit. He advises his caller to wait before he lowers his phone from his ear.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine, thank you,” I reply graciously.
With reluctance, he relinquishes me from his grip. After exhaling a long, tedious breath, I hot-foot it to the exit doors of the business class lounge, not once glancing back at the mysteriously captivating Mr. Holt.
Chapter 2
As I splash water on my face to calm the heat spread across my cheeks, I take in my disheveled appearance. My eyes are wide and bright, my dilated pupils making them appear darker than usual. Sunbathing for hours has given my beige skin a vivid glow, meaning the hue of my cheeks is less illuminating, and my lips are plump from the sting of whiskey.
I want to say my rouged appearance isn’t entirely based on the enthralling Mr. Holt, but that would be a lie. At least my clumsy display in front of the most self-assured man I’ve ever met warranted a moment of reprieve from my panicked state. I’ve barely thought about my fear of flying the past thirty minutes.
After exhaling a big breath, I hook my satchel over my shoulder, then pull open the heavily-weighted door of the ladies’ restroom. I rush toward my departure gate, hustling to avoid being late since my run-in with Mr. Holt has left my time stretched thin. I swerve, dart, and weave between thousands of commuters who appear just as frantic as me.
By the time I make it to my departure gate, my neck is drenched with sweat, and my cheeks are blemished. I blow an unruly hair out of my face before handing my ticket to the immaculately dressed airport staff member behind the counter. Her top lip snarls as her eyes roam my flustered appearance.
“It’s not as it seems.”
A tsk escapes her lips as her slitted gaze lowers to the computer monitor on her desk. With my bright-eyed expression and flushed cheeks, my appearance could be mistaken for someone who just tumbled out of bed after a night of rigorous activities. I wouldn’t mind being reprimanded if that were the cause of my late arrival. After all, it’s been a while since I’ve seen my sexually satisfied face in the vanity mirror, but that’s not the reason I’m arriving at the departure gate without a minute to spare. It was my disastrous run-in with the most strikingly handsome man I’ve ever met that has me scampering.
Once my ticket is thrust back into my hand, I head down the gangway. My knocking knees become more apparent with every step I take. I focus my attention on the male flight attendant standing at the end of the corridor, hoping his light blue eyes that pop right off his face will distract me enough to board without incident.
They do—somewhat.
My hand tremors when I give him my ticket. “Good afternoon, Ms. Brahn.”
I fleetingly smile. I’ve lost the ability to speak now that fear has once again emerged from deep within.
“Today you’re seated in 1A. Upon entering, take a left at the second corridor.” He hands me back half of my ticket.
Nodding, I take a hesitant step forward. Loud pounding rings in my ears with every shaky step I take. After walking through the galley, I turn toward the coach section of the plane.
A flight attendant clipping back a pair of dark blue curtains moves to stand next to me. “Can I help you?”
“Umm, I’m looking for seat 1A.”
She glances down at my ticket before returning her eyes to my face. “Seat 1A is this way, Ms. Brahn.”
Gesturing behind me, she skirts by before walking through another set of curtains. I apprehensively shadow her. After ruffling through the thick curtain, I discover her standing near the front of the plane. My brows furl as my eyes bounce around the elegant-looking space—luxurious, well-spaced black leather reclining chairs, elegantly dressed men and women sipping on glass flutes of champagne, and the piquant aroma of wealth filtering through the air.
There must be a mistake. I don’t belong in business class.
I scamper down the wide corridor, not missing the numerous gasps of disdain when my rhinestone-embedded Juicy backside sashays by. “There must be a mistake,” I inform the flight attendant.
Her manicured brow shoots into her auburn hair before her eyes turn down to my ticket. “1A.” She points her French-tipped nail to the 1A marked on my ticket. “1A.” She extends her long, skinny finger to the 1A displayed on the overhead compartment two seats down from where I’m standing.
After rubbing my arm soothingly, she saunters back down the aisle, snubbing my shocked expression. I stand mute, frozen in both fear and shock until the ‘Fasten Seat Belt’ sign illuminates a few seconds later.
I shove my jacket and satchel into an overhead compartment, then skedaddle to my assigned seat. I may be scared, but I’m not flying without a seat belt. When I move my eyes from the fluorescent lights lining the aisle, I’m confronted by an intense gaze that has me clumsily tripping over my feet.
You’ve got to be kidding me!
“A beautiful woman falling at my feet twice in one day. This has to be a new record,” Mr. Holt banters when I crash into his thigh.
I greet him with a grin before scampering past him to take my seat, which is next to his. When I plop into my chair, my hands lurch out for my seat belt. My nerves have me jittering so much, I have trouble fastening the silver clips together.
Sensing my struggle, Mr. Holt stills my shaking hands before he clasps my belt. He tugs on the light gray strap, securing my belt firmly around my waist.
“Thank you.”
He smirks before dropping his gaze to my white-knuckled hold of the armrests. “Scared of flying?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“You do know recent studies have shown—”
“Traveling in a car or a truck is one hundred times deadlier than flying. Yes, I’m aware of that. It still doesn’t help.”
“Actually, I was going to say recent studies have shown the endorphins released during sexual activities can overtake cortisol and other fear-induced chemicals.” He glances at me with entrancing, wicked eyes. “You should consider testing the theory out.”
My pulse quickens. Is he propositioning me?
Before I can form a response, our intense stare-down is interrupted by a radiant voice above. “Can I help you with anything, Mr. Holt?” When I raise my eyes, I’m met with a beautiful blonde flight attendant who is appreciatively glancing at Mr. Holt. “Perhaps I can take your jacket?”
Mr. Holt’s gaze remains on mine as he stands to remove his suit jacket. I lick my dry lips when his suit-covered crotch that’s straining to hold in the enormity of his, umm, manhood is shoved into my peripheral vision.
When my perverted gaze returns to his face, the situation becomes ten times more heated. He has a mouth-watering smirk formed on his sculptured lips, revealing he spotted my ogling glance. Mortified at being busted staring at his crotch, I divert my eyes, catching the mad glare of the flight attendant in the process. She plays the part of a scorned woman well.
“Would you care for a drink, Mr. Holt?” Although her eyes are narrowed into slits, her tone doesn’t allude to her anger. Her performance is remarkable—a genuine ten out of ten.
Mr. Holt hands her his suit jacket. “Teeling 30-Year-Old Single Malt Irish Whiskey.”
“Excellent selection, Mr. Holt.”
When Mr. Holt retakes his seat, the flight attendant walks away. She barely gets two feet away before Mr. Holt’s hand shoots out to snatch her wrist. “Are you going to ask Isabelle if she’d like something to drink?”
I’m unable to see his face, but if the flight attendant’s pupils are anything to go by, he’s infuriatingly angry.
The flight attendant’s feared eyes drift to me. “W-would you like something to drink?”
I shake my head. “No, thank you.”
With the somersaults my stomach is doing, I can’t trust it to hold down anything.
“Are you sure?” Mr. Holt cranks his neck to face me. His intense eyes have me swallowing harshly, but unlike the flight attendant, I’m not scared by his angry glare. I’m turned on.
Unable to speak through the lump in my throat, I nod. Spotting my agreeing gesture, Mr. Holt relinquishes the flight attendant’s wrist. She scurries down the aisle, her steps as wobbly as my heart rate.
After offering Mr. Holt a grateful smile, I lean my head on the leather headrest. When I take a breath to settle my nerves, a strong aroma overwhelms my senses. Expensive cologne, body wash, and a smell I can’t quite identify make an enticing, mouth-watering scent I’d happily spend hours smelling.
My eyes snap shut when the plane jerks toward the runway. Here it comes, the one part of flying I fear the most. After tightening my grip on the armrests, my teeth gnaw on my bottom lip.
The closer the plane gets to the end of the runway, the more my heart palpitates. I’m on the verge of a debilitating panic attack.
My heart jumps out of my chest when a jolting buzz electrifies my clenched hand. Glancing down, I spot a long, elegant finger tracing the veins protruding in my hand. My breathing lengthens as my eyes lift to Mr. Holt. He’s staring at me, his gaze penetrating and utterly consuming.
“How about we test the theory?”
Too terrified to form words, I fleetingly nod.
The hairs on my body bristle when his finger leisurely runs up my arm until it stops at the throb in my neck. When his big, manly hand grips my throat, my pupils widen. His hold isn’t tight enough to cause discomfort. It’s a domineering clutch that has me releasing a husky moan.
After loosening his grip on my neck, he saves my bottom lip from my menacing teeth. “I’m going to bite that lip.” His words are more a confirmation than a suggestion.
When his thumb slides over my lips, wetness pools between my legs. Brazenly, I nibble on the tip. I’ve never been bold, but his demanding eyes are making me reckless.
My body temperature turns excruciating when his hand curls around the nape of my neck. The sting of his fingers adds to the tingling in my core, and they turn my breathing ragged. His eyes skim my face before darting down to my famished mouth. His stares at me for several long seconds, his head tilting like he’s preparing to kiss me.
I snap my eyes shut and lick my lips, preparing to taste his perfectly structured mouth.
When a whoosh of air hits my cheeks, my eyes pop back again. Mr. Holt isn’t advancing toward me. He’s retreating. Once he’s again sitting on his side of the plush leather seat, he takes a hefty gulp of whiskey. Even being disappointed, my core can’t help but spasm when his Adam’s apple bobs up and down. When his glass is void of liquid, he places it down before shifting his eyes to me. His heavy-lidded gaze still shows his hunger, but something in them has altered.
Slanting his head, he gestures to the window behind me. I gasp when I follow the direction of his gaze. Nothing but puffy white clouds in a brilliant blue sky reflect back at me.
“I’d say the theory has been proven,” Mr. Holt mutters aloofly.
Although he distracted me long enough I survived the take-off without a meltdown, a ping of disappointment hits my chest. The touching, the rush of excitement, the desire, it was all a game? A ploy to lessen my panic?
Chapter 3
I press my palms on the black marble vanity of the business class bathroom. Although this washroom is larger than the economy bathrooms I’ve become accustomed to, I still can’t extend my arms without hitting a partition wall.
After taking a big breath, I lift my eyes to the gold-encrusted vanity mirror. My face is flushed, my lips are swollen and red from Mr. Holt’s thumb rubbing along them, and the unbridled look of lust is in my eyes. That’s what reflects back at me—a look that doesn’t belong on my face. This isn’t me. That woman nibbling on a stranger’s thumb isn’t me. I have rules. I have morals—morals I’d forgo just for one taste of his sinfully delicious-looking mouth.
What? Jesus, Isabelle, get a grip!
I’ve been hiding in the washroom for the past twenty minutes, trying in vain to reel back the dignity that eluded me when I sucked on Mr. Holt’s thumb. Thankfully, the flight has another hour and twenty-three minutes until we land.
Yes, I’m counting.
Unfortunately, that means I still have an hour and twenty-three minutes of being seated next to a man who makes me disregard all my ethics. I swear I’m not generally like this. At the very least, I expect to be wined and dined before allowing any man to get close to my panties, but one look from Mr. Holt’s piercing gray eyes makes me want to tear off my panties and hand them to him on a shiny silver platter.
An urgent knock on the door startles me. “Just a minute.”
I shouldn’t be surprised by the interruption. I’ve been hogging the only bathroom in business class since the ‘Fasten Seat Belt’ sign was switched off.
I exhale the nerves fluttering in my stomach before swinging open the door. My breath hitches when I discover who’s knocking. Mr. Holt’s six-foot-plus, well-formed physique fills the doorway. As his eyes roam my body, he boldly steps into the washroom. My thighs touch when his enticing scent permeates the air, ridding the space of its offensive sanitizer smell.
His gaze is unyielding like a man who knows what he wants and has no intention of backing down until he gets it. And from his gaze alone, I can tell he wants me. Pleased by my inner monologue, a pleading moan vibrates my lips. Don’t judge. I may be in a washroom thirty thousand feet in the air, but I haven’t had sexual contact with a man in months, let alone with one as devastatingly gorgeous as Mr. Holt.
“Why are you hiding in the bathroom?”
“I’m not hiding.” My tone hints at my deceit.
Seconds feel like minutes when we stand across from each other in an intense gray-eyes-versus- brown-eyes, lust-driven stare-down. We’re close enough for the hum of intimacy to be felt, but far enough apart I still hold a shred of composure.
A victorious smile tugs my lips when he turns his gaze away first. Scrubbing one hand over his head, he shoves his other into his pocket. “I don’t have time for relationships.”
Brazenly, I reply, “That’s okay, neither do I.”
In my industry, I can’t have a pet much less a relationship.
His eyes lock with mine, shocked by my blasé response. “If we do this, you need to be aware it’s a one-time-only deal. There won’t be any calls in the morning, no dates next week. One time only.”
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 out what you look like under all those 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 taste all of 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.”
