Managed (VIP #2)(10)

“Yes.” I settle down at his side. God, he’s cold. I sit up. He gives a sigh of apparent relief, but I merely pull my end of the covers over his legs before lying back down.

He squirms, making a half-hearted attempt to move away, but he’s already at the edge, and there’s nowhere for him to go. “This is highly irregular…”

“Yep. But we’re doing it.” In normal situations, I wouldn’t dare force this on a person. But he’s already focused on me instead of the turbulence, which is a step in the right direction. I rest my cheek against his biceps. The muscle is rock hard and quivering.

He clears his throat. “I don’t—”

“You’re one breath away from totally losing your shit. Accept the torment that is physical comfort.”

His arms twitch as if he’s trying not to lift them but really wants to. And then he gives up the fight and raises an arm, making room for me to come closer. Victory. I lay my head on his shoulder, wrapping my body against his side.

The contact feels good. Too good. Because, holy hell, touching him—really touching him—sends a jolt of warm pleasure through me. All the sensitive nerve endings in my body seem to perk up and pay attention. Which is wrong in this situation; I’m here to help the poor man, not get off on him.

I have no idea what he’s thinking. For a second he holds me. Or, rather, he holds on to me like a lifeline. Tremors rack his body, but it’s clear he’s fighting it.

“Shhh,” I murmur, stroking his chest. It’s a nice chest, broad and densely packed with muscle beneath the proper clothes. His heart thuds against my palm, and I feel him take a deep breath. “Just think of me as your friendly neighborhood cuddler.”

He’s quiet again before another question bursts from him. “Are you telling me you’d do this for anyone?”

I snuggle down. “No. That you’re insanely hot is a huge factor. I get to cop a feel under the guise of civic duty.”

“Oh, for f*ck’s sake.”

A smile pulls at my lips. “Can it with the outrage. I know for a fact that most people would rather snuggle up to a hot dude. If it makes me shallow for admitting that, so be it.”

He grunts even as his hand slips to the top of my arm. Long fingers stroke once before stilling. “Your honesty is astounding.”

“I know. Now hush, I have feels to cop.” I run my hand just a little down his firm pec, loving the way his abs suck in with his hitched breath. I’m teasing him, but damn, he’s nicely built. I force myself to stop. Only when I do, he tenses, and the tremors return. I realize my petting actually does soothe him.

I consider this a green light. Sinking into his hold, I stroke his chest and hum under my breath. He slowly eases, his body turning more toward mine, and my breasts press into the side of his ribs. The plane continues to jump and shake, and it’s a battle to keep him calm. Every inch of ground I gain, stupid turbulence pulls it back from me.

“I think we should name our kids by number,” I tell him.

His muscles clench and shift under my cheek. I can almost hear him internally debating how to respond.

“Dare I ask why?” he says finally.

“Because we’ll have so many, numbers seem easier. We can do like the king in Stardust. Una, Secundus, Septimus…”

“That seems inordinately cruel. Think of the shit they’ll receive in grammar school.”

“They’ll be too tough to be bullied. And I see you’re warming to the idea.”

I grin when he grunts. It’s not a no—more like a you’re crazy. I can work with that.

“I hate this,” he says.

“Snuggling?” But I know what he means.

His laugh is wry and brief. “Weakness.”

“Everyone is afraid of something.”

“What are you afraid of?” he lobs back, sounding dubious.

Never being good enough. Being used up and tossed aside. I swallow hard. “Tidal waves. I have nightmares about being swept away. I blame all those disaster movies.”

“Somehow I suspect you’d be the sort who would survive.”

I smile at that.

A gust of warmth along at the top of my hair makes me realize he’s pressed his lips to my head and is breathing me in. “What color is your natural hair?” he asks, almost idly.

“That’s an awfully forward question, Mr. Scott.” Turbulence aside, our little cabin is quite cozy with the cream-colored finishings and the lights dimmed.

“Supposedly I’m fathering at least seven of your children. A fair enough question to ask.”

The plane makes a particularly nasty thump, and he sucks in a sharp breath. I nuzzle closer, my nose filling with the scent of his cologne and, underneath it, the sweat of fear.

Closing my eyes, I spread my hand out, pressing my palm against his abdomen where his muscles quiver. “I’m a blonde.”

“I see that,” he deadpans.

“Natural blond, I mean. I went a few dozen shades lighter this time. Last week I had blue hair.” I smile a little, imagining how he would have reacted to that.

“I’m not surprised in the least.”

“Mmm…” The tip of my finger toys with a wrinkle on his sweater vest, which is cashmere—and I still resent the fact that he looks so good in it. The hem has ridden up, exposing his shirt beneath. My fingers drift to one of the buttons.