Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Kindra

T hanking the powers that be for a reprieve, I rush toward the front of the line with my boarding pass outstretched. The sooner I can get in my seat, the sooner I can pretend to be asleep. Ezra is pleasant enough to talk to and would have been an upgrade from sitting beside Cat for an entire flight, but there's just one little problem.

He's my goddamn kryptonite.

Tall, dark-haired, and handsome, with glasses perched on his perfect nose. It's very Clark Kent chic, and the only thing physically defective about him appears to be his vision.

I like my frigid persona. I enjoy being a walking block of ice. But Ezra is like a furnace aimed right at the space between my legs. His t-shirt hugs his broad shoulders and chest, and I've never wanted to be woven cotton so badly in my life. I would allow this man to use my tongue as a loofa.

The mental image of Ezra in a shower has my thighs pressing together as I walk. I can see it so clearly. Water cascading through his dark hair and catching on his long, dark lashes. His brown eyes opening as he licks a stray water droplet from his full lower lip. Me on my knees in front of him, drowning as I deepthroat a cock the size of a Hickory Farms sausage log.

Okay, I made that last part up, but I don't see how a man as perfect as Ezra could have a gherkin down there when the rest of him looks like that . He is walking male perfection, and unless I'm reading the room incorrectly, he's into me.

And that's not good.

Any other day of the week, I'd be down for a one-nighter. Hell, I should be down for one now. An orgasm would disintegrate my stress and let me unwind for a few hours, at least.

But I have to focus. In less than forty-eight hours, I'll finally meet the man who slaughtered my brother.

I push onto the plane and stow my carry-on bag in the overhead compartment. I've just plopped down in my seat when Ezra appears in the aisle. My thighs clench again as he settles so close that I can feel the heat from his skin, and I silently curse myself for choosing a tank top this morning.

Raising the window covering, I stare out at the tarmac and busy myself by counting the luggage being removed from a plane in the distance. Anything to keep my attention away from the man seated beside me.

"Do you fly often?" he asks, forcing me to engage with him.

I shift in my seat. "Not as much as I used to."

"I used to be afraid of flying."

"You?" I turn and look at him. He looks like flying should be afraid of him . He's all muscles and mystery, and that bit of scruff on his sharp jaw makes him look almost dangerous. "I can't imagine you being afraid of anything."

A laugh rumbles out of him, and even that sounds sexy. "I've never been a fan of heights. When I was young, my father took me on holiday to Dover. Standing at the edge of the cliffs and looking into the water below was all it took to start a lifelong fear."

"How'd you get over the fear?"

"How does one get over any fear? I faced it. Sometimes when you look into the face of the thing you fear, it doesn't seem so scary anymore. You tend to realize you built it up into something it's not."

Does he have to be attractive as well as intelligent? I mean, glasses make you look intelligent, but he actually seems to be. And that accent. He could narrate an instructional calculus video and I'd hang on every word.

Then again, he has a point. Isn't that what I've been doing since I saw him? Building him up into something that can derail me? He's just a fucking man, and maybe it won't hurt to do a little flirting until we part ways. And we will part ways, after all. When we reach Miami, Cat and I will shuffle away to a hotel, and he'll be off on some adventure with his brother and their friend.

I turn to speak, but my stomach chooses this moment to push everything I've eaten in the last twenty-four hours toward the exit. My rosebud puckers to the point of nonexistence, but I fear it won't be enough to hold back whatever waits behind that gate. Unwilling to find out if this is a fart or a shit the hard way, I simply excuse myself and try to stand.

A nearby flight attendant flitters toward me with a saccharine smile, her hands waggling at a frantic pace. "We're about to take off, so I'll need you to stay in your seat until we're in the air."

My stomach clenches again. With Ezra's face so near the danger zone, the anxiety only adds to the urgency. Goddamn Cat for wanting to stop at that greasy diner this morning.

"I just need to use the restroom," I say. "It won't take long."

This isn't a lie. I'm fairly certain the entirety of my insides will evacuate my body in less than three seconds flat.

The flight attendant's smile doesn't drop. "I'm so sorry for the inconvenience, but we really need everyone in their seats."

"Excuse me," Ezra says as he peers around the detonation zone. "You lovely ladies haven't even given the pre-flight speeches yet. Surely she could pop off to the powder room?"

He gives the woman a smile that could melt a heart made of Antarctic ice, and she reconsiders her stance.

"Well, I'm sure your wife?—"

"We're complete strangers," he says with a wink that sends a bright flare of jealousy through my chest, even though he's helping me.

The woman steps out of my way, and a breath of relief rushes out of me. Thankfully, it chooses my mouth as its exit. I clench my ass cheeks for the entire walk of shame to the toilet. God help anyone who enters the bathroom after me.

I squeeze into the tiny space and fumble with the braided leather belt pressed against my midsection. Goddamn my need to be fashionable, but also, goddamn my fingers for suddenly turning to putty. Or maybe it's my brain that refuses to work correctly, because for the first time since I was in preschool, I have forgotten how a fucking belt works.

A hot wave of regret washes over me, and I grip the sides of the metal sink until the cramp passes. Sweat collects on my brow, and I stare back at myself in the mirror. Teeth gritted in sheer terror is not a good look for me.

The intense rush of pain recedes, and I return to the belt. I unfasten the buckle, lower my pants, and flop onto the toilet. What comes out of me can only be described as that pea-soup scene from The Exorcist, only out the other end.

The smell, however, is indescribable.

Any hope I had of playing this off disintegrates with each inward breath I take. Now I can only cling to the prayer that the ventilation is top-notch.

Once I'm certain I have nothing left to offer, I clean up and flush the evidence of my crime away. I turn to the sink to wash my hands, all while wondering if the lessening stink is because of the sanitation liquid that rushed my waste away or if it's because I've gone nose blind to it.

Then there's a knock at the door.

"Are you okay in there?" a voice says from the other side, and based on the British accent, I'm certain it's Ezra.

"Yes, just washing my hands," I call back.

"You might want to hurry," he says. "The third passenger in our row arrived, and when they pushed their bag into the overhead compartment, your luggage started...buzzing."

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I say under my breath as I swipe my hands across a few rough paper towels and toss them away. "I'm coming!"

"Judging by the sound of that thing, you probably will be later."

Is there a word in the English language that is stronger than mortified? Because there should be.

I rush out of the bathroom and head right for my stowed bag. It isn't hard to find. It's the one that's rattling the entire cabin with a low bass hum. With all eyes on me, I unzip the side pocket, reach in, and flip the switch. Only then do I look down and see who's sharing our row.

A fucking priest.

I'm not a religious woman, but something about my sex toy randomly activating a few feet above a clergyman's head fills me with an intense amount of guilt. It's not my fucking fault. Blame the TSA. They're the ones who require these things to go in carry-on only.

I slide past Mr. Judgement Journey and the British sex symbol, then flop into my seat and shrink as low as I can. The embarrassment is finally beginning to fade when Ezra leans closer and shoves something into my hand.

Looking down, I spy a packet of Imodium AD in my palm.

Just let me die.

"No need to be ashamed," Ezra whispers close to my ear. If shame didn't have a firm grip on my body, the brush of his warm breath against my ear would have sent goosebumps skating across my skin.

"For almost shitting myself? Or did you mean the sex toy going off above a fucking priest ?" I whisper back.

Ezra stifles a chuckle. "For starters, everyone on this plane has had a case of the trots at some point. Even the priest has to exorcize the demons sometimes."

"Even you?"

"Why do you think I carry a sachet of pills in my pocket?"

His admission—coupled with a smirk that shouldn't be that sexy, considering he's talking about explosive diarrhea—does the job and puts me a little more at ease.

"And what about the sex toy?" I ask. "How do I get over that ?"

"When you get off this plane, you'll likely never see these people again, including the priest. You'll be a funny story at a few office parties for a bit, but then they'll forget all about it."

"And every time I use it, it will be all I think about," I say with a groan.

Ezra adjusts in his seat and turns toward me a bit more. "Maybe you just need someone to hold it against you so you can take your mind off this and focus on something a little more fun."

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you were propositioning me," I say with a laugh, though I'm only half joking. Most men are too insecure to allow toys in the bedroom, so I'm certainly intrigued by this fantasy he's conjured in my mind.

"Maybe I am." He shrugs his broad shoulders. "Would that be such a bad thing?"

Instead of answering him, I peer out the window as the plane starts down the runway.