Page 19 of Mile High Ruin

Instead, I remain still in his arms, aware of his fingers tightening against my side.

“You did that deliberately,” he says. His voice is lower now.

I could lie, but there would be no point.

“You were rude.”

“That is your defense?”

“No.”

“What is it?”

“I don’t have one.”

His mouth almost curves. “You poured champagne on me because I questioned your experience.”

“You insulted me.”

“I made an observation.”

“You made several.”

“And you believed damaging my shirt was an appropriate response?”

“No.”

“Yet you did it.”

“Yes.”

His eyes remain on mine.

I can feel every beat of my heart.

“If another person had done that,” he says quietly, “they would already be regretting it.”

The words should frighten me.

They do, a little.

But the hand at my waist is not hurting me. His thumb shifts once against my side, almost absently, and the movement sends another pulse of heat through me.

“What are you going to do?” I ask. I hate how breathless the question sounds.

His gaze drops to my mouth again. “I have not decided.”

The aircraft trembles once more, less violently this time. His grip tightens. My breasts press fully against his chest.

A sound catches in my throat.

There’s no pretending now. He knows, and I know he knows.

My body is warm, my nipples hard beneath my blouse, my thighs drawn too close around his leg. The air between us feels charged and heavy, filled with everything neither of us should be thinking.

I push gently against his chest. He lets me go. The absence of his hand feels immediate.

I turn back to the sink, mostly so I don’t have to look at him. “The stain is lighter,” I say. My voice sounds almost normal. “It may need professional cleaning.”