Harrison’s going to be pissed. I get that it’s a private plane and he won’t be leaving without me, but still. He’s used to things running a certain way, and he was the one who insisted on providing the transportation when I asked him about tonight.
So, when he texts me a picture of a drink, I nearly drop my phone.
Harrison: No promises. :)
Rae: Did you just smiley-face me? Who the fuck are you?
The limo pulls right up to the runway when I arrive, and I shift out with a single bag in tow. My boots click on the metal steps, echoing off the body of the plane. In the distance, others land and take off, but this section of LAX is quiet.
“Traffic was murder…” I say as I step into the private plane.
Harrison looks up from his phone. His mouth is pursed, brows pulled together on his handsome face. He’s wearing the reading glasses I got him, but it’s the way he’s dressed that has me pulling up.
His windowpane button-down shirt is a blue that matches his eyes. The dark denim underneath clings to his strong thighs.
“Damn,” I breathe. “I didn’t think you’d actually wear it.”
“In that case, I have a suit to change into.” But he motions me over, and I drop my bag on the floor before sinking onto his lap.
“Quick, tell me you want me.” My murmur is barely audible as the plane engine starts.
Harrison’s pale lashes jerk as he looks between my eyes and my mouth. “I’m wearing denim. There’s no greater evidence.”
I grin and press my lips to his. One arm bands around my hips, pulling me closer, while his other hand angles my mouth against his so he can invade me with his tongue.
I used to chafe at the possessiveness, but it’s growing on me.
Since Miami, we’ve been getting closer. We haven’t revisited the conversation after my show, but knowing he knows what happened to me means one less thing between us.
Our time together is addictive. I don’t need an excuse to see him. All I have to do is text him and we make plans. This man, the ruthless billionaire I used to hate, is a phone call away to share a joke, run an idea by. He makes me coffee before I’m awake, and even watched South Park with me for an entire evening when I didn’t feel like going out.
The sex hasn’t slowed down either. I take back my comments about age doing things to a man’s endurance. He’s relentless.
In bed, he takes me apart with his skilled hands and mouth. His body is a finely tuned machine, hard planes and smooth muscles that know exactly how to make me split open.
And though I’m no porn star and don’t play one on TV, you’d never know it by the way he looks at me, the sounds he makes when I’m touching him.
We haven’t defined it, but it’s so much more than casual. Not that anything with him has ever felt casual, but if there was any doubt, I’m pretty sure we blew past it the second I walked in on his stubborn ass sleeping on my couch in Miami, his rangy form contorted to fit the furniture because he refused to leave me.
Now, Harrison’s lips slant deliciously across mine, sending waves of desire down my spine that settle into a sweet ache between my thighs, and I ignore that part of me.
He pulls back an inch. “As much as I’d like to continue this, we have to go. And to do it, you need to sit there.”
I look at the leather seat over my shoulder. “Unfortunate.”
But I comply, fastening my seatbelt as the plane prepares to take off.
“I can’t believe you’ve never been to Red Rocks,” I say after settling in. “One of the world’s greatest outdoor venues.”
“I’m glad you can show it to me,” he says. “Thank you. For inviting me.”
Warmth floods me, has me looking away. “In fairness, we are taking your ride.” I gesture to the plane.
“I’m serious. When was the last time you invited someone to join you and your friends?”
My instinct is to say it’s not a big deal or deny the fact that I think about him all the time, that I naturally look to include him, and when I’m deciding what to do, I automatically check his schedule.
“Never,” I admit.