When the plane comes to a halt, we unclick our seatbelts at the same time. I clear my throat and stand, not actually planning on speaking unless I have to. I situate the wheelchair at an angle to his seat. He scowls at the thing as if he's personally offended by its presence in front of him, but he doesn't argue. He realized quickly getting onto the plane that not using the walker was not only exhausting, but dangerous.
“Ready,” I ask as I stand in front of him.
“Do I have a fucking choice?” he grumbles.
I shake off the irritated words. I know him well enough to know they aren't directed at me. He's not a hateful person, but like any normal person, he hates being in this situation.
I try to help him from the seat by only holding his hands for leverage, but it doesn't work. I look around the cabin of the plane, trying to find something that will make this easier because I know he wouldn't be impressed if I leaned in and helped lift him under his arms.
“The angle of the seat is fucking stupid,” he grumbles.
I decide quickly to get it over with. Maybe by the time we get to the housing provided by Cerberus, he'll get over whatever attitude forms by needing my help. I lean in close and I figure it's instinct that has him lifting his hands to my cheeks rather than lifting his arms to give me access. My heart rate doubles, my palms going sweaty in an instant as he looks into my eyes for a brief second before his gaze drops to my mouth. Weirdly, I feel dizzy in this moment.
“Brynn,” he whispers, the sound of my name on his lips for the first time sends a shock of heat racing down my spine. It leaves me stunned, completely speechless, incapable of pulling away when his lips meet mine.
Instead of having the wherewithal to pull away, I open my mouth when his tongue brushes my lower lip. The sensual glide of his tongue over mine feels like a miracle. I lean in closer, angling my head to give him better access. I'm debating climbing into his lap when a throat clears near the cockpit.
I jerk back like a scared teen getting caught by a strict parent. I wipe my mouth as if the brush of the back of my hand will rid my lips of the warmth he activated there.
“We'll be out of your hair in just a minute,” I tell the pilot, locking eyes with him in a silent plea for him to give us a moment of privacy. He nods in understanding, heading back into the cockpit and my eyes find Aro’s as the door clicks.
“It's completely natural,” I assure Aro. “To want to have a physical distraction after such a traumatizing situation.”
His lips form a flat line as I speak. He isn’t impressed with my explanation, and I know I'm coming off cold and unaffected, but it’s the only way I’ll manage to hold on to any level of professionalism at this point. “I won't tell anyone it happened,” I say stupidly.
“I'm not a fucking business transaction,” he growls. “I completely understand that you're not attracted to me.” His eyes clench down where the bottom part of his right leg used to be, sheer disgust in his eyes.
“Let's get you in the wheelchair,” I say, rather than arguing the point. I can't tell him that I've always been attracted to him, that I have imagined our lips touching the way that they did more times than I can count. This isn't the time or the place to have that conversation.
If I opened my mouth to explain all of that, he would think that I pitied him and that I'm backpedaling to save face.
Aro touches me as little as possible when I help him into the wheelchair.
Chapter 8
Aro
“The house is empty,” I say as we approach the front door. Other than the rental that Slick drove us in today, no other cars are in the driveway. I don't know if it's a complaint or if I feel relief. I don't know why I expected Cerberus members to meet us here. The clubhouse is a little over three hours away. For every member on the team, that's a simple bike ride to come visit.
Slick opens the front door and steps to the side. “It's fully furnished,” she says in response to my statement, thinking I was talking about the décor, rather than it being the absence of people. She doesn't offer a helping hand as I hobble along inside with the help of the walker.
Making eye contact with her has been impossible since that kiss on the plane. I imagine most people would say “I don't know why I did it,” but I'm not most people. I’ve wanted to kiss her for as long as I've known her. Some of the guys give me shit back at the clubhouse for the way I would watch her every time she entered a room. Avoiding her back home was as much about trying not to give in to that urge, as it was not wanting her to overanalyze everything I said, every action I took.