Chapter Seventeen

Alfie

By the time we tied up loose ends with the group, they fed us leftovers, and we ran the gauntlet to leave the Zone without getting our brains bashed in by furious Purists, I was running on reserves.

I’ve never been in a crowd of people before, except for holiday parties, which were filled with family. I’m a recluse. Whether by necessity or choice, it doesn’t matter. I’m an introvert and too much peopling has sucked my energy dry.

Steph, as always, runs interference, getting me to the tarmac and arranging for the rental car’s return.

“You look beat.” She eases into the plane seat next to me and happily takes the glass of champagne the flight attendant offers.

“No offense, but you do too.” I never thought of her as delicate, but the purple, almost-bruised looking skin under her eyes hints at just how much this trip has taken out of her.

“There’s a bed in back,” the flight attendant says cheerfully.

I guess that makes sense. For what I’m paying for this charter, it should also come with a personal chef and a side of Kobi beef.

“A bed?” That caught Steph’s attention.

“It’s your lucky day. There were no available C-class planes like the one you arrived in. The airlines upgraded you.”

“It is our lucky day. C’mon, Steph. Let’s sleep our way back to Georgia.” I must be more tired than I thought. Steph’s going to flip out at such a brazen offer. Instead of acting like the southern gentlemale my mother tried to raise, I just propositioned my assistant to join me in bed. I’m certain I’ve not only offended her but embarrassed her in front of the flight attendant.

“Do you have some O.J. you could add to this? Put it all in a bigger glass?” She holds her champagne flute out. “I’d love that.”

A moment later, the attendant returns with the requested mimosa.

Steph drains the bubbly concoction with a few swallows and hands the empty glass back to the attendant.

And without a word or even an eyeroll, she rises from her seat and makes her way to the back of the plane.

With her hand on the doorknob, she asks, “Is this the bedroom, or will I step out into midair?”

I’m not sure if that was a joke or just a product of her fatigue.

“That’s the door to the bedroom.” The flight attendant is a woman in her forties who, by her nonchalant attitude, has probably seen enough in private airplane cabins to write a scandalous book or two.

Now that Steph has claimed the bed, I lean over the side of my chair, looking for a lever that might convert it into a horizontal configuration. I’m certain she doesn’t want me joining her.

“You coming?” Steph calls as she slips through the doorway.

First, I replay her words, making sure I’m not imagining that straitlaced Steph invited me to join her in what the flight attendant described as a “bed,” and not “beds.”

When I say nothing, still replaying Steph’s words in my mind, making certain I heard them correctly, she says, “If you’re half as beat as I am, you should get back here before you fall out.”

“Okay.”

She doesn’t have to ask me twice. Well, she did, but I have no intention of waiting for a third request.

Although she’s only been back here for a minute, two at the tops, I think she might already be asleep. She’s kicked off her shoes, wiggled under the covers, and is lying on her side with her head on the pillow and her outstretched arm tucked underneath.

At the risk of acting like a perv, I take a moment to observe her. She’s just a lump under the bedspread, which is pulled up to her neck. Despite being completely concealed, I’m certain there is a fully clothed woman under that bland blue bedspread. Why this hits my cock as the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen is beyond me.

Maybe it’s that her face is so sweet with her lips slightly parted and her wayward brown strands more out of her ponytail than in it. Or perhaps it’s that I jacked off to thoughts of her this morning and have been marinating in her arousal scent all freaking day.

She sleepily pats the bed in front of her and mumbles, “Come on. I won’t bite,” without opening her eyes.

I lie on my side, facing her on top of the spread with two pillows under my head to accommodate my horn.

“You must be dead on your feet, Alfie.” Her words are slurred. She’s halfway to dreamland. It’s adorable.

“Yep.”

I want to scoot closer, to sling my arm around her waist. It’s not that I want to be sexual, I just want to slide my palm up and down her back to soothe her. Damn, I’ve got it bad.

Instead, I keep my hands at my sides and order myself to close my eyes and quit staring.

“You were amazing today.”

I’m surprised she’s still awake, but I like her like this—softer than usual, her voice lazy and slow.

“Amazing?” I can’t help it. I’m a sucker for praise. If she’s dishing it out, I might as well ask for specifics.

“So very respectful of every single person you met. So sweet to that little heifer who looked at you with stars in her eyes. The gentle way you let down the people you weren’t choosing for your band. Masterful, thoughtful, kind.”

She takes such a deep breath and sighs with so much contentment, I figure she’s fallen asleep until she adds, “So very kind.”

There’s a long pause. Now, certainly, she’s asleep. Except her lids open to half-mast to look at me.

“Do you know I’d never seen you play before? You sneak off to your studio where I imagine the first thing you do is tear off your clothes and then you compose your music all day.”

Really? Did she just admit that she imagines me in my studio playing naked? I like knowing she pictures me like that. My cock, now doing jumping jacks in my jeans, likes it even more than I do.

“I thought about using my phone to record you on stage today, but you hadn’t given me permission. I just thought it would be amazing to be able to play it back.”

How much champagne has she drunk? How tired is she? Or maybe it’s me. Perhaps this is a dream, because certainly Stephanie Taylor didn’t just admit she wanted to record me so she could watch it over again.

“You were…”

The pause is so long, my inner fifteen-year-old is chanting, Come on, come on, I was what? Don’t go to sleep on me now!

“Ethereal. The look on your face was, for lack of a better word, otherworldly. I’ve never seen you so at ease, so at home in your own skin.”

“Really?”

“Umhmm. And your fingers…” Her lids flutter closed and inside my head, I’m repeating every curse word I know because she’s just fallen asleep at the best part. “Your fingers. So fast, moving perfectly across the strings and along the holes of the flute, and as they beat the skin of the drums.”

Is it me? My horny internal fifteen-year-old? Am I reading something into her words that she didn’t mean? Because it sure sounded there, for a minute, that she was alluding to something sexual.

“Yeah?” Tell me more! Don’t leave me hanging!

“So lovely.”

Lovely?

Yes, I must be dreaming because I don’t need to scoot closer and put my arm around her. It’s Steph who inches closer to me. She gently grips my hand, the one that’s lying on the bed between us, and touches it as though it were an exquisite antique.

“Your fingers were…”

Time stands still. It’s true, corny as it sounds. There’s the deep thrum of the engines and the stale scent of recycled air, and Steph’s soft little hand holding mine. Why this is the sexiest moment of my life, I have no idea. But it is.

“My fingers were…” I prompt, my voice gone, the question posed as mere breath.

“Sexy, Alfie. So, so sexy.”

I’m not asleep. I didn’t imagine that. Even if it’s an auditory hallucination, it doesn’t explain the look in her sea-glass-green eyes, or the way she licked her lips—too slowly to be a mere function of thirst.

“Sexy like this?” I ask as I lift her hand to my lips and kiss a knuckle.

“Like this?”

I lick one knuckle. Just one. I lick and nibble with moist lips as I watch her face. Her lids flutter closed, only this time it’s clear this has nothing to do with fatigue because she rewards me with the softest gasp.

“Sexy like this?”

I turn her hand to access her palm and lick the center of it with the point of my tongue after deciding I’m not moving from this spot until I garner a moan. I lick and nibble and lap at that one tiny patch until I get what I’m after. In fact, I not only get a breathy moan, but she eases even closer.

I’m a big male. No match for this mattress. She passed the point of no return and when she moved those last few inches, she hit the tipping point and the mattress sagged enough that she drifted even closer.

I continue to make love to her hand, returning to her knuckles, then laving the pulse point on her wrist, which pulls a surprised gasp from her. From her responses, this is as sensual for her as it is for me.

“Can I kiss you, Steph?”

Her eyes flutter open, a haze of desire shining within them.

“Yes, please,” she whispers. Her voice is a mix of breath and anticipation, sending a shiver down my spine.

I lean in, savoring the moment, taking in the sweet smell of her shampoo mingled with the faint scent of champagne. My lips brush against hers gently, tentatively, as if testing the waters. Her lips are soft and plump, and the touch sends a surge of desire through my body.

As our lips meet, I taste the remnants of the champagne and orange juice, a hint of tart and sweet on top of what is distinctly Stephanie. It’s a delicate connection of lips, an exploration of uncharted territory.

My senses are heightened, and I become acutely aware of every detail. The warmth of her breath against my face, the slight quiver in her bottom lip, and the way her hand slides up my furred arm, circles my nape, and her fingers tangle in my thick ruff.

Her taste is addictive, intoxicating. I deepen the kiss, my tongue gently teasing her bottom lip before delving into the warmth of her mouth. It’s a dance of tongues, an intertwining of desires and passion. The soft moans escaping her lips only fuel the fire within me, urging me on.

Time becomes meaningless as we explore each other’s lips and mouths, savoring each moment. It’s a symphony of sensations, the taste, the smell, the touch, all coming together to create a masterpiece.

I pull the hair band off her ponytail so I can run my hands through her glossy hair. I’ve wanted to do that for weeks.

“Pure silk.” The strands slip between my fingers while my other hand caresses her cheek, delighting in the softness of her skin.

She pulls away slightly, her eyes filled with desire. “Alfie,” she breathes, her voice barely a whisper. From the depth of her expression, I expect sentences, paragraphs, an articulate soliloquy, but it’s late, and she’s tired. All she says is, “More.”

I can’t deny her request. I need more as well. Leaning in once again, I capture her lips with mine, infusing the kiss with a newfound hunger. Our lips mold together, moving in sync as our tongues entwine, exploring and tasting each other.

The sensations are overwhelming. The brush of her soft lips against mine, the subtle graze of her teeth, the gentle pressure of her kiss, each adds to the growing heat swirling within me. I can’t get enough of her. Our desires are perfectly in tune.

My hands move to her waist, pulling her closer until I’m fully aware of the curves and contours of her body pressed against mine. The gentle rise and fall of her chest matches the rhythm of our kiss, and I find myself lost in the moment, completely ensnared by Stephanie’s allure.

We’re on our sides, facing each other with her leg cocked, resting on my thigh. When did that happen? Her hand eases to my waist and slides under my tee.

“Alfie, I’ve been wanting to touch you like this for… forever.”

The sensation sends shivers down my spine, electrifying every nerve ending in my body. I’m hyper-aware of her touch, the warmth of her palm as it burrows through my fur.

We’re in our own little bubble of bliss, where time ceases to exist and all that matters is the connection we share.

I break the kiss, wanting to explore other parts of her. My lips forge a path down her jawline, leaving a trail of delicate kisses in their wake. I move lower, peppering her neck with soft, teasing nips and licks, relishing in the sound of her surprised gasps and whispered moans.

Her breathing becomes faster, more ragged, encouraging me to keep going. I find my way to the hollow of her throat, layering lingering kisses against her skin. The taste and scent of her combine to drive me wild with desire.

My palm that has been roving her back for long moments now slides to the valley of her waist as she lies on her side. Is it conscious thought or muscle memory that causes me to slip my hand to the button of her jeans?

Suddenly, a terrible thought slams into my head. My lids fly open, and any remnants of sleep are banished in the blink of an eye.

“I’m your boss,” I blurt.

“Umhmm.”

“This is… workplace harassment.” Shit. This is such a terrible idea.

I sit up, then decide that doesn’t move me far enough from the object of my desire, so I edge backward and practically fall off the bed in my haste to stand.

“As I recall, I’m the one who invited you to lie down with me.” She looks fully awake now, her green eyes blazing with anger or… the hurt of rejection?

“Yes. Yes, you did invite me to join you. When you were half dead on your feet and already had a glass of alcohol. I promised myself I wouldn’t do this.”

“You did? That means you’ve given it thought.” She looks pleased, smug, even.

Okay. I gave myself away. That still doesn’t mean I can just surrender to my desires.

“Gave it thought, Steph? That’s like saying Hemingway gave thought to writing or Van Gogh gave thought to painting. No. I’ve been fucking obsessed. I watch you when you’re busy. I know your little mannerisms possibly better than you do.”

I scratch my ear, causing the golden hoops to jingle.

“You hum in the back of your throat when you’re deep in thought, and you clear your throat when you’re on your way to being pissed.”

I take a step back from the edge of the bed.

“I watch the way your throat works when you take a sip of water. You twirl a strand of hair when you’re bored. Bet you didn’t even know you do that. Well, I do. I watch you and think of you when I’m awake and dream of you, Steph. I fucking dream of you at night and wake up in a sweat.”

Although I stop myself, it’s like shutting the barn door after the horses escaped. I just word-vomited things that should have never been uttered aloud. At least I didn’t finish that last sentence with the rest of the truth, which is that I’m not just in a sweat, I’m hard enough to dent steel.

“But that doesn’t change anything because I’m your boss. I write your paychecks and have undue authority over you. I’m not a predator.”

I leave the little bedroom and use more self-control than I knew I possessed when I refrain from slamming the door.