think I’m a sex-crazed deviant, and that would be bad.
Or maybe . . .
I notice a flash behind those killer eyes, like he can read the X-rated thoughts playing in my head. Interesting. I may not be alone in my naughty wishes.
He leans down to me until our faces are nearly touching. “Don’t tell me that after our conversation, after falling asleep on each other, a time-out is all you want.” The muscles in his sharp jaw twitch. “Because I certainly want more.”
“Oh.” The hot air in my lungs escapes as a slow hiss.
“Here.”
He grabs my hand, which still has my phone clutched in it. The firm yet gentle way his palm cradles the back of my hand makes it impossible to breathe. He somehow knows how to touch, how to hold, how to bring my heart to a complete standstill with five seconds of contact.
He types his name and number into my phone, then dials himself. Then he releases me, saves my number to his phone, and meets my gaze once more. There’s renewed intensity in his eyes. It’s eagerness, confidence, and some mystery emotion I haven’t quite worked out yet. I’ve never seen it in all the times that we’ve looked at each other.
“I’m here until Tuesday, and I’d very much like to see you outside of this plane,” he says. “Call me if you’re interested.”
He grabs his bag from the overhead compartment, then smooths the front of his shirt with his free hand.
I shove my hands in my pockets to keep from tearing at the fabric and exposing that perfect chest, that flawless highway of light skin, hard lines, and even harder muscle.
I lick my bottom lip, then shake my head. I’m surrounded by strangers, families, children. My feral behavior is beyond ridiculous. I’m in public and need to keep the eye-fucking down to an absolute minimum.
Must regain control. I inhale slowly, steadily. “You think that’s a good idea? Us meeting up?”
As much as my body wants it, it can’t be a good thing. Our respective livelihoods depend on us ruining each other. Getting involved with each other outside of work, no matter how hot, would blur the lines for sure.
Quarters are so close in this cramped row of seats that when he leans toward me, it’s practically a hug. I can feel the heat from his body skimming across my skin. We’re barely two inches apart and this is how he feels? How hot would he feel if we were naked, skin-to-skin, under bedsheets, his body on top of mine?
A moan tickles the back of my throat. I suppress it. Airplane. Families. Children. Public decency laws.
That foreign look in Callum’s eyes takes on a familiar sheen: dilated pupils that are also cloudy. I’ve seen it many times in many men. But this is the first time I’ve ever witnessed it in Callum’s. And it has a name: lust.
His chest heaves. He lowers his mouth to my ear. “No. It’s a bloody bad idea. But I’m keen on bad ideas if it involves you, Nikki.”
Callum steps out of our row and strolls down the aisle toward the exit, without a second glance at me. Turning the corner, he disappears.
I’m relieved. Because those words he whispered in that low rasp cause me to fall back into my seat, and I don’t want him to see the effect he has on me after just one transatlantic flight.
I’m going to need a minute to recover. Or ten.
I take a steadying breath, noticing the flirty flight attendant staring daggers at me from the front of the plane. She must have observed the exchange between Callum and me just now. There’s no mistaking our eye contact, the closeness of our bodies, the way he held my hand in his when he typed his number into my phone.
Callum just threw down the gauntlet. The only question: am I bold enough to be bad?
* * *
• • •
I trudge up Primrose Hill, Callum’s words from two days ago still fresh in my head.
I’m keen on bad ideas if it involves you, Nikki.
Even two days of sightseeing in central London and exploring the Camden Town neighborhood where my aunt and uncle live did little to distract me. His words have been at the back of my mind the entire time.
I still haven’t reached out to him. He hasn’t reached out to me, either, but that’s not a surprise. He left the ball in my court. It’s one hundred percent up to me where we go