Page 18 of Mile High Ruin

He doesn’t move. Not even slightly.

I begin blotting the stain, careful not to rub it deeper. The cloth passes over the hard plane of his chest. His shirt is fitted closely enough that I can feel the muscle beneath every movement of my hand.

He’s much larger than I realized. The suit hides some of it. In the cabin, he looked broad and powerful. Up close, with my hand pressed against his chest, there’s no mistaking the strength in him.

I move lower. The restroom is too cramped for me to step back, so I have to lean closer. My breast brushes his arm. The contact is light, accidental, but my whole body notices. His arm is hard beneath the fabric, the muscle tightening slightly when I touch him.

I freeze for half a second.

Vadim’s gaze drops to my face.

Neither of us mentions it.

I continue working.

My chest brushes him again as I reach toward the stain near his side. This time the contact lasts longer. The stiff material of my blouse drags against his sleeve, and heat gathers beneath my skin.

He still doesn’t move.

That’s almost worse.

If he stepped back, the moment would break. If he said something rude, I could become angry again. Instead, he stands there and lets me touch him.

My breathing becomes too shallow.

I imagine, suddenly and vividly, what would happen if he stopped pretending this was only about the wine. If one of those large hands closed around my waist. If he pulled me forward until there was no space left between us. If he bent me back against the sink and put that hard mouth on mine. The thought arrives fully formed and completely unwelcome. Heat floods between my thighs.

I press my lips together. Absolutely not. I’m not becoming aroused while cleaning champagne off the man I just assaulted with a bottle of wine.

I’m not.

My body disagrees. I can feel the dampness gathering beneath my underwear, humiliating and immediate.

I move the cloth lower, focusing on the stain. The shirt clings to his stomach now. The fabric outlines the hard ridges beneath it, and my fingers brush the edge of his belt.

Vadim inhales slowly. It’s the first real sign that he is affected.

I look up. His jaw is tight. His eyes are no longer cold. They have darkened, fixed on me with an intensity that makes the tiny room feel even smaller.

For a moment, neither of us speaks.

Then the aircraft drops.

The turbulence comes without warning. My balance disappears, I lurch forward, and Vadim catches me around the waist before I can hit the sink. My hands flatten against his chest. His body is solid beneath mine, one arm locked around me, the other braced against the wall.

The restroom door swings shut behind us with a sharp click.

We are suddenly enclosed. Alone. My face is inches from his, and his hand spans almost the entire width of my waist.

The plane steadies, but he doesn’t release me.

Nor do I step away.

I can feel the heat of him through our clothes. His chest rises beneath my palms. One of his thighs is between mine, not pressing, but close enough that another shift would bring it exactly where my body is already aching.

His gaze drops to my mouth.

I should move. I should open the door. I should apologize again and leave before I make another mistake.