Page 22 of Mile High Ruin

That’s what reaches me.

Not the desire. Not the heat gathering between us or the way she’s clinging to my shoulders. It’s the fact that she’s allowing herself to go pliant in my hands, even though she has known me for only a few hours and disliked me for nearly all of them.

The knowledge should make me step back.

Instead, something fierce and selfish rises inside me.

I want to keep her this way. I want her beneath my hands without the uniform, without an aircraft full of men waiting beyond the door. I want to see whether she would make the same sounds beneath me, whether she would say my name with that same breathless disbelief while I open her thighs and take everything she’s offering.

The plane shifts again. The movement is mild, barely more than a change in balance, but Sloane’s heel slips against the floor. Her head knocks against the wall beside the door with a dull sound. She cries out, and the desire vanishes beneath something immediate and violent.

I catch the back of her head and steady her. “Look at me.”

She blinks. “I’m fine.”

“Look at me, Sloane.”

Her eyes focus on mine.

I run my hand carefully over the back of her head, checking for swelling, then examine her face. Her pupils appear even. There’s no blood, no confusion, nothing beyond surprise and the lingering flush from my mouth.

Still, guilt tightens inside my chest.

It has been a long time since I felt it.

I’m familiar with responsibility. I understand consequences. Men have been hurt because I ordered it, and men have died because I decided they should. I don’t waste guilt on choices I made knowingly.

This is different.

She’s not part of my world. She’s a flight attendant, standing in an aircraft restroom with her blouse partly open because I kissed her before either of us had the sense to stop.

There’s something almost painfully unguarded about her in this moment. She is fierce, yes. Controlled. Capable of pouring wine onto a dangerous man because he wounded her pride. But beneath that, she’s the most innocent thing I’ve encountered in a very long time.

Not naïve. Untouched by what I am.

There’s a difference.

My hand remains against the back of her head. “Does it hurt?”

“Only my dignity.”

I study her for another second. “You should sit down.”

“I don’t need to sit down.”

“You hit your head.”

“Because you were mauling me in an aircraft restroom.”

“You were participating.”

Her eyes narrow. “I was temporarily confused.”

“Your hands were in my hair.”

“Still confused.”

Despite myself, my mouth almost curves. Then I look at her swollen lips and the open buttons of her blouse, and the selfish need returns with enough force to make me tighten my grip on her waist.