Chapter One
I AM IN THE COACH CABIN bathroom of the 747 when a bout of turbulence throws me against the door. It stays locked — thankfully. My jeans are bunched around my knees and I’ve just shoved my cami up to my neck.
I am—unfortunately—alone. Still, I wonder: How on earth does anyone join the mile high club? There’s barely room for me and my imaginary partner, the man from seat 3B. My stomach tightens with anticipation and a heavy dose of lust. I haven’t felt this in ages, this raw need, and it’s fueling my desire to join the mile high club, even if it’s a solo membership.
The blame is squarely on the man in seat 3B. Or at least, that’s my excuse. On my way onto the plane, I shuffled behind a young mother, her baby and toddler. I was trying, without much success, to help her with the diaper bag. It swung one way. I ducked, stepped back, and tripped over the carry-on of the person behind me. I fell into the first class row, into someone’s lap.
That someone was the man in 3B. He caught me around the waist, his hands sure and steady. I looked up into dark eyes framed by impossibly dark lashes. His jaw was covered with just enough stubble that I wanted to reach up, run my finger along his face.
“You okay?” he said.
Instead of responding with something clever, all I could do was nod. When the aisle cleared, he scooted me from his lap. Even when he let go, the impression lingered. When I sat, it grew stronger, as if he’d started a fire and now it was spreading across the plains of my skin—down my legs, up my ribcage, across to my belly, and then lower.
I was flush. I knew that. I’d unbutton my shirt, grateful for the cami beneath. If I weren’t twenty three, I’d say I was having a hot flash. Only when the male flight attendant passed by for the fourth time, slowing down for a long, hard stare, did I realize my nipples were standing at attention.
That’s how I ended up here, locked in the coach cabin bathroom, and I realize now that no man has touched me since Caleb. Hell, I haven’t touched me since Caleb, not since I walked out, shut the door on that part of my life only to discover he’d locked all the other doors and windows as well.
I deflate at the thought of him, then rally. I think of 3B. That stubble along his jaw and how it would feel against my thighs. A bit of gray threaded through his hair, although he can’t be that much older than I am. I love that in a guy, that total acceptance of who he is, that life will hand you things you may not want, but you deal.
Caleb was never very good at dealing.
I lick my lips and focus again. The guy in 3B. Part of me wants to burst through this door, march down the aisle and into first class. There, I’d straddle him, inspect the salt and pepper in his hair before running my tongue along the sandpaper of his jaw. I’d rim his lips, bite an earlobe, then whisper:
Come with me.
My stomach tightens at the mere thought. God, I want him. This crazy, raw need is close to tearing me apart. Where did it come from? How on earth did it lead me here? His hands, his hands, his hands. There was something about his hands that now—locked in this tiny bathroom—I can’t let go of. I need the man in 3B. I am reckless and wild. Just this once, I think. Just this once.
Behind me comes a knock. My eyelids flutter, then spring open. The plane hits another round of turbulence. I pitch forward. My head smacks the wall. I wrench my wrist.
I yelp, but not in pleasure. I catch a blur of my image in the warped bathroom mirror. Good God. Who is this girl and what is she doing? She is not me.
Or maybe she is, because I can’t even get this right—and really, how difficult can this be? Clearly it’s out of my skillset. I yank down the cami and button my shirt over it. I leave the bathroom, easing past a line of disgruntled passengers.
Only when I’m halfway to my seat do I realize: my jeans are still unzipped.
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