8: Bolt Saga, Book 8 Read online

  “Reece.” I curl my fingers around his before he’s done pulling out the seat belt and securing it into the slot near my hip. “Where are we going?”

  For a long moment, he’s still. I’m certainly not complaining. With his gaze fixed on my hand and his presence leaned over so close, it feels good to rewrap ourselves in a bubble that’s all our own, in a stolen drop where only we exist. I almost wince when he pops the seal by lifting his head, despite keeping his face close enough to nearly go nose-to-nose.

  “Trust me?”

  His rasp curls through me with sweet roughness. The vocal brown sugar finally coats every inch of me, resulting in my slow, full smile. Once upon a time—okay, only six months ago, but it feels like a lifetime—I’d issued the same words to him, tugging him into a golf course sand trap so we could escape the crowds and cameras in another magical bubble of our own creation. And damn, had that been a really incredible bubble…

  So maybe I’ll let the froth gods lead yet again…

  “Yes.” I affirm it to him by stroking my hand up and over his arm until wrapping my fingers across the broad plateau of his shoulder. I slide my other hand around his opposite triceps, stopping there for two reasons. One, getting to feel the coil and release of his muscles is a sublime sorcery of its own. Two, if I copy the grip of my other hand, the temptation will be too great to keep going. To circle my arms all the way around his neck. To use that grip and welcome him all the way atop me, then to position him between my open legs, and…

  God.

  So much for resisting temptation. My imagination’s already gone there and then some. Will I ever be able to be near him and not fantasize about fucking his gorgeous guts out? And do I ever really want to know that answer?

  “Yes.” I underlined it by dragging my lips from his chin to his Adam’s apple. “I trust you.” Then speaking that oath against the corded ridge in his neck, savoring how it bobs beneath my nipping lips and tongue.

  After he follows the gulp with a dark panther’s rumble, he dips his mouth into my hair. Another growl later, he dictates, “Say it again.”

  His tone, quiet yet commanding, curls into me at once. Reaches to a part of me that opens for him alone. That succumbs solely to him. From the depths of that spiritual space, I utter, “I trust you, Reece. Completely. With my own life, if that’s what you need.”

  “Damn.” His hot breath flows through my hair. “How I love those words on your lips, Miss Emmalina Crist.”

  I suckle higher up his neck. “How I love you, Mr. Reece Richards.”

  No more growls from him now. Instead, he vibrates with a fierce, feral groan as he twists his head in and down, clearly bound for one destination. When he reaches my mouth, he captures my lips with a single, brutal sweep. I’m conquered and subjugated and opened, left with no choice but to spread for his thorough, perfect invasion. For that minute and at least the twenty after that, I’m lost to his devouring heat, his passionate mastery, his thorough desire, his urgent caresses—until the car rolls to a stop once more.

  And the divider to the front seat slides down.

  Reece chuckles as I push him away, catching a fast glimpse in the descending glass of my kiss-stung lips, mussed hair, and wide eyes. In short, I look exactly like a girl caught sucking face with her boyfriend in the back seat of a limo.

  As we pull up to the curb in front of the VIP terminal at LAX.

  “Oh, my God,” I mumble.

  “You rang?”

  I shove him harder as he caps the crack with an extended snicker. “Don’t push it, buddy.” I fumble for a frown, but the task is impossible in the wake of my mounting excitement—and damn it, how the man can already feel it. How he’s probably predicted that as soon as I caught sight of the tarmac and inhaled a good long breath of my insatiable wanderlust, I’d be up for any adventure he has in mind for us today. And after all the wrenching twists of our yesterday, maybe this is exactly what we need.

  The door swings open, revealing Z’s dark fingers on the handle of my rolling overnight bag. After a second, his cheesy grin pops into view as well. “Ready to go, Jackie O?” he quips while Reece completes the trip around to this side of the car.

  I refine my responding giggle, paying homage to the icon Z has just invoked. “Why yahss, my dee-ah friend,” I answer, butchering the elegant accent but at least getting things right with how I slide on my sunglasses. “Let us go and go propahly.”

  The snorts we share are abbreviated as Reece helps me out of the car with princely regality. At once, Z is all professionalism again too. Not that the guy is ever a slovenly jerk, but there’s something nice about having him around as a fellow LA native to help with funny things like making sense of a New York country club accent.

  “The flight is running on time, sir,” he ensures Reece. “So you’ll have an hour to relax here before they drive you across to the tarmac.”

  “Thanks, Z.” He pivots to me and kisses my knuckles, a chunk of his dark hair finally breaking free from the pomade and tumbling into his eyes. “I couldn’t book us a private charter on such short notice,” he murmurs with apology in his voice. “So we’ll have to settle for first class.”

  I’m not sure whether to swoon or laugh again, so I try to funnel both into the smile I beam up at him before popping onto my tiptoes, circling my arms around his neck, and laying one hell of a lingering kiss on his full, strong lips. “I think I can deal with first class.”

  Only once we’ve been driven out to and boarded the plane—a giant jet plastered with the familiar logo of a larger world airline brand—does my comprehension get blown to pieces.

  In the middle of the aisle, I whirl back toward Reece and blurt slowly, “First…class.”

  “Yyyessss…” His reply is drawn out with curiosity. He glances from bulkhead to bulkhead. “Are you disappointed?”

  “Disappointed?” My stare is bugged out.

  “What’s wrong?” His is narrow and dark as asphalt.

  “This is first class.” I spin around.

  “I think we’ve established that part, baby.”

  “This is all of first class.”

  He tilts his head. More hair gets loose, colliding with his jaw. “So…you’re not disappointed?”

  “Oh, my God.” I smack a palm into my face, remove it, and flip it around to tap at his. “I’m not disappointed.” Then I grab him by the neck and slobber a bunch of kisses across my impact area. “I’m just…”

  The worshipful wonder in his eyes contrasting with the masculinity of his stubble and ruggedness of his cheeks sucks the words out of my throat. Probably a good thing, since a flight attendant looking like a hummingbird with feet appears, giving us a warm but impatient smile.

  “Monsieur Richards, Mademoiselle Crist. Bonjour and welcome to the flight. My name is Cosette, and I will be your in-flight assistant to Paris today. Can we ask you to take a seat, s’il vous plaît? Truly, any seat is fine.”

  And that’s the moment my words are truly, officially, gone.

  REECE

  “Velvet?”

  It’s the third time I’ve repeated her name, and we’ve only just turned onto the runway to get airborne. Now I’m vacillating between pressing her for a fourth time or just demanding that the plane be turned around so I can seek some medical attention for her.

  “Emma. Talk to me, damn it.”

  More dumbfounded blinks from her side of the second-row seats we’ve finally decided to occupy. But nothing else. Not a sound. Not a gasp.

  “All right, that’s it. Cosette?”

  “Oui, monsieur?” The diminutive blonde appears like our own genie in a flying bottle.

  “Can you please inform the pilot that we need—”

  “A couple of glasses of champagne.” Emma’s interruption is like a game show contestant getting an answer in under the buzzer. She underlines the comparison by reaching her arm across me to pound a hand on the elbow rest. All she needs now is a TV studio buzzer. “Yes. Champagne,” she r
epeats. “If you please, Cosette.”

  “But of course.” The attendant beams. “Un moment.”

  As Cosette walks away toward the galley, I take instant notice of the slender arm still draped over my midsection. Now here’s an opportunity I’m not going to fuck around with…

  And at once, prove as much to the creature to whom the gorgeous appendage belongs. With a wolfish hum, I trail my fingertips up and down the area between her wrist and elbow, repeating the circuit several times over. At the same time, I allow myself a long, rapt stare at the fine blond hairs along her skin, turned into white gold in the light from the overhead lamps. So many times, touching her is like unwrapping a piece of gold filigree. I’m afraid to open it but unable to stop myself.

  Finally I venture, “Well.”

  Emma moves her hand up to the middle of my chest. Flows her fingers down the back seam of my tie. “Well.”

  I feel my smile warm, though I keep my voice formal. “Miss Crist.”

  “Mr. Richards.” An equally professional line, though her tug at my tie turns playful.

  “Does this mean you’re okay with my version of Krypton?”

  Her face is overcome by a wave of emotion I’m not sure how to interpret. It seems part confusion, part adoration, but completely Emma. I focus on the latter as she pulls her thoughts together and declares, “I’m not sure if ‘okay’ scrapes the surface of my reaction. But hold on, Sparky.” She turns her hand over, thumping the middle of my chest. “Before you turn that into scissors and run with it, let me clarify. That’s a good okay, even if I’m a little weirded out by it.”

  “Weirded out?” I let my scowl add the why? onto it.

  “Because I’ve always known you had a damn good strategic mind.” She shakes her head and furrows her brow as if being asked to spell “appoggiatura” in the final round of a spelling bee. “I just didn’t know how good.”

  “Thanks.” I don’t try to put away the frown yet. “I…think.”

  “I mean, I see it all now,” she goes on. “The urgency of the press conference, though purposely not inviting any of your family—because now it’s their turn to respond to you. And if they’re going to respond, why not make it in the city where you need to reestablish that common ground with them? Now, you’re the one setting the stage—and controlling the curtain, the lights, and the sound at the same time.”

  I press a hand atop hers and use my other one to cup the side of her face. Her incredible aqua eyes are sparkling. “And the woman calls me brilliant,” I utter before leaning over to take her lips, using the kiss to convey my awestruck tenderness.

  When we drag apart, her gaze is glimmering with deeper shades of blue. Her soft smile adds new angles to her stunning beauty. “I’m just grateful to be along for the adventure.”

  “To a point,” I clarify. “Because adventures are for fiction, baby—and when this one turns into danger, you can’t just be along for the ride.” I push my forehead against hers. “If anything ever happened to you because of some bullshit Bolt has to walk into…”

  “I know.” She slides her hand up to my neck. Squeezes hard at my nape. “I know, mister. And I promise I won’t be stupid about things.”

  I pull away. Only a little. “Says the girl who just ordered champagne when we’ve got all of first class to ourselves?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I’m waylaid from answering her by Cosette’s return with our flutes of French bubbly. “Merci,” I murmur, smiling when Emma says the same with an impressive accent.

  “De rien,” the attendant replies. “I must prepare for the takeoff now, but is there anything I can get for you once we are airborne?”

  Emma’s features brighten. “Do you have any macarons?” she queries. To Cosette’s soft oui, she responds, “And how much extra do you charge for pink ones?”

  I can’t help my chest-deep laughter. Cosette, with bewilderment stamped across her face, flings a stare between us as if Emma just asked what the airline charges for toilet paper. Deciding to put both women out of their distress, I offer, “My love, they’ll get you pink macarons even if they have to bake them exclusively for you. And they’re not extra.”

  “But of course.” Cosette’s concurrence comes along with her pleased smile. Nothing makes the French more amenable than the promise of witnessing true love at work, whether it’s theirs to experience or not. Sometimes I wish the whole world were more like France.

  For now, I’m dedicated to enjoying my own version of those rose-colored glasses instead of dancing at the end of everyone else’s marionette strings. My strings are my own again, and for the moment, I want them occupied with a very short list of tasks.

  Enjoying this champagne.

  Reveling in having my woman to myself.

  Hoarding her goddess perfection of a face. Her blinding glory of a smile. Her temptress’s perfection of a body…

  And maybe, if the champagne does its job well enough, doing a little more than just gazing.

  It’s been an hour, but now that the possibility has entered my head, every electron in the rest of my system won’t let it go.

  We’re above the clouds now, with a second round of champagne and macarons before us, officially laughing about shit that has nothing to do with the world that’s now tens of thousands of feet below us. On the in-flight entertainment system, she’s managed to find episodes of a show called Reign, which is supposedly about Mary Queen of Scots, though beyond the names of the key players and the basic events, I’m having trouble believing anything I see. Then again, I’m a guy once known to the world as the Heir with the Hair who still hasn’t fully explained to the masses why my fingers sometimes turn into lightsabers and my “hangover eyes” resemble Miami hurricane skies.

  “Okay, you have to watch this part.” She points at the screen, half-filled glass in one hand and a macaron with a bite mark in the other.

  “Watching.” And completely lying. Her profile is ten times better than the girl on the screen, who’s wearing what looks like a complicated prom dress, resulting in my happiness that Emma’s in nothing but an A-line skirt and matching sweater set. And her legs… Holy shit, her legs. They’re bare and sheathed to the knee in high-heeled boots, which of course means I’ve had nonstop thoughts of jumping her since the second I saw them this morning…

  This morning.

  A lifetime ago.

  A world away.

  Thank fuck.

  “You are not watching.” She swipes at my jaw, trying to redirect my gaze. “And it’s getting to the good part.”

  I chuckle and swing my head back down. Before she can react, I capture one of her fingers between my teeth and get in a teasing bite. “But what if I’m already at the good part?”

  No. Better than good. Watching her is more exhilarating than the surge of the plane as the pilot guns the engines. More uplifting than our new rise in elevation. And much, much more amazing than visiting any of the world’s wonders. This woman is my personal Taj Mahal, Machu Picchu, and El Caracol. She’s my Victoria Falls, Mount Everest, and Northern Lights. She’s a revelation at every second, an astonishment with every new glance. And yes, she’s all that even when nibbling on a little pink cookie.

  Especially then.

  Fuck, how she enchants me.

  Entrances me.

  Makes me so damn hungry for all kinds of sweet pink things…

  “Ohhhhh!” Her sigh modulates between octaves, adding to the perfection of my view because of the pink crumbs along her lips’ surfaces. “Look. Oh, my God. Bas loves her so much. Look, Reece!”

  “I am.”

  “You’re not.” Finally, she averts her gaze from the screen to me—and that’s it. The cocoon that’s all us is all ours again. Her adorable little gulp is more than enough confirmation for me. It’s followed by the hooded meaning beneath her gaze, now dripping down to take in my lips.

  Almost unconsciously, she finally licks the pink crumbs free from the succulent cur
ves of her mouth.

  I growl low.

  She releases a shallow breath. “Reece?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “You’re…ummm…”

  “What?” I press a thousand sensual “crumbs” of my own into the tone—mixing in a gaze through which I flow every drop of my complete carnal focus.

  “You’re letting me hog the macarons.” As soon as it’s emitted, she returns to cleaning up the cookie mess with her tongue.

  I turn my hum into a low growl while roaming my stare across her face. Let her shiver a little beneath my adoring scrutiny, lingering on every graceful angle and satin-soft curve, before centering my attention once more on the sweet dessert of her lips. “That I am.”

  Without veering my attention, I join my fingers with hers on the crescent of cookie she’s still holding. I rearrange it so one end points to her and the other to me. I lift the cookie, prodding it at her lips so she opens for a bite—at the same time I lean over, biting into my half.

  At once, our mouths meet. Lips and sugar and need are a warm, soft, enticing mix between us, mashing as we chew and then swallow, not waiting to devour each other as soon as the food is gone. Jesus, she tastes amazing—and it doesn’t have a damn thing to do with the cookie. It’s her, all woman and passion and freedom. It’s the person she turns me into—a man helplessly, giddily in love for the first time in my life.

  And the last.

  There will never be another woman like this for me. She’s it—for always. For forever.

  With that vow my new sugar rush, I lap her up without restraint or reserve. I suck all the remains of the frosting still on her tongue and then move outward to keep her chin encased in my grip as I lick the fresh array of sugary crumbs away from her parted, sighing lips.

  When I finally pull back, it’s only by an inch. “Delicious,” I grate, celebrating how her eyelashes stutter along her cheeks and her breaths pump in aroused rhythms in her chest.