Thorne Princess(40)

Deciding it was time she got a perk after everything she’d been through, I allowed her to have a drink during the flight.

She polished off three glasses of wine—the first time she’d drunk alcohol since I’d arrived in the picture—before smacking her lips and announcing, “I’m going to the restroom. Be right back.”

I stood up before she did, cracking my knuckles.

She tilted her head up in confusion. “I’m not the queen. You don’t have to stand up when I do.”

“I’m tagging along.”

Was it absolutely necessary? Probably not. But it wasn’t superfluous, either. I didn’t know what I was dealing with when it came to Kozlov. I didn’t know how much he knew about our whereabouts. And I didn’t want to take any chances.

“No, you’re not,” she said firmly, standing up and taking a step sideways. I rounded my pod, blocking her way to the bathroom.

“What if you use drugs?”

Of course, I was fucking with her.

Tilting a thick eyebrow, she said, “Then at least one of us would be in a good mood. Move out of the way, assface.”

I didn’t budge.

She stared at me, wide-eyed and exasperated. The plane hummed as it charged through the sky. People around us napped or worked on their laptops.

“Random,” she said slowly, again with this stupid nickname. “I need to go number two.”

She let the words settle between us and I decided I was going with her to the bathroom, after all. I did not believe her for half a second. Not even a quarter. And I’d force her to call my bluff.

“I cannot afford to take my eyes off you,” I said shortly.

“Wow. That’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever told me, and it’s coming from a guy I would likely stab if I could guarantee there wouldn’t be any criminal repercussions,” she bristled.

I almost let loose a smile. Almost. I had to admit, even though she was a royal pain in the ass, and likely the most self-centered person I’d ever met, she was mildly entertaining.

“Move it, or your bladder will burst with all that wine,” I barked.

She rolled her eyes but charged forward, muttering profanities all the way there. She didn’t put up a fight, and in doing so I knew she was planning something that would piss me off.

We both entered the tiny lavatory (why were they always the size of a matchbox?) and Brat got to business immediately, pulling her pink, studded sweatpants down and squatting in an angle toward the toilet seat, without actually touching it with her thighs.

I turned around to give her some privacy. I was an asshole, not a creeper.

“So, tell me,” she started, a solid stream of pee as our musical background. “Do men pay less attention when they pee in public places? Like, do you care less about aiming when you’re on an airplane?”

“I’ve always been a good shot.” Both with my dick and pistol.

She groaned behind my back, “Unsung American hero. The Pulitzer Prize is on its way.”

“I’ll hold my breath.”

“Now there’s an idea I could get behind.”

“I pity women,” I drawled, in the mood to throw her off-kilter. “You have to crouch like a constipated frog to keep from touching the toilet seat for fear you get an STI or pregnant.”

“Don’t pity us. We outlive you, have stronger immune systems, and scientifically, have way better memories. I’ll take doing a few squats over being a man any day.”

“You seem to know a lot about this. Don’t tell me you opened a book,” I concentrated on the door, and not on the reflection of her in the mirror.

“God forbid. It was on the back of a tampon box.”

I allowed myself a small grin, listening as she flushed the toilet. The sound shook the walls. She washed her hands, squirting a generous amount of soap.

“I do apologize,” she said.

Here we go.

“What did you do now?” I demanded. If she’d peed on my black Italian wingtips, I was going to punch a hole through this goddamn wall.

“Nothing…yet.” She leaned forward in front of the mirror, applying lip gloss and smacking her lips. “But I’m about to.”

She pocketed the lipstick, turned around, then leaned close to my ear. Being a true dom, I could read her body language, anticipating what she was about to do before she did it. Her mouth fell in an O-shape.

She was about to scream.

I acted quickly, pushing her against the sink, covering her entire body with mine. My palm squeezed flat against her mouth, sealing all of it.

“Are you crazy?” I hissed in her face with a snarl. “Do you think this is funny?”

She attempted a smart-ass answer, from the look in her eyes. Her words were muffled by my hand.

“That was a rhetorical question. You’re as crazy as a soup sandwich. You’ve gone a step too far now, Brat.”

In response, she sank her teeth into my palm, then started grinding her jaws like a Chihuahua. My skin broke, creating a slow, scarlet trail of blood that ran down her chin and along her pretty little throat. The little shit bit me.

And that turned me on. Because when I got bitten…my instinct was to bite back even harder.

I pressed my hand more forcefully against her mouth, feeling aroused and annoyed and fuck, I should have chosen the Mayor Ferns post. My blood was the exact shade as her hair. Another turn-on.