Uncharted(11)

Bending me to his will.

I’ve never felt this way before. I barely recognize these strange desires swimming inside my head. It’s entirely out of character for me to be unhinged by the mere sight of a man’s hands, and yet… I want to trace their tendons, want to study every callus and learn every line.

His throat clears softly, drawing my gaze up. I feel my cheeks heat, embarrassed by the strange course of my own thoughts. My heart thuds against my ribs like a wild animal trying to escape its cage.

“No,” I force out, breathing too hard. “N-no thank you.”

“Suit yourself.”

He shrugs and settles back against his seat. A few seconds later, we hit another dreadful bump of air, strong enough to jostle my entire body sideways. Biting the inside of my cheeks to suppress a squeak of fear, I watch as bolts of lightning streak the clouds just outside our windows. Planes may be engineered to survive a strike, but the thought of being hit with that much electricity sends a shiver down my spine.

I close my eyes to shut out the view and turn my focus inward, counting down in my head until the turbulence subsides.

One Mississippi

Two Mississippi.

Three Mississippi.

When the shaking ceases, I open my eyes and look straight into the stranger’s. He’s watching me again with that all-too-perceptive gaze. A true photographer, he takes inventory of every detail, from my white-knuckled grip on the armrests of my seat, to the tension in my ramrod spine, to the lack of blood in my complexion.

“What?” I snap thinly, annoyed by the implication in his eyes.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Just because your mouth didn’t open, doesn’t mean you weren’t communicating.”

“Oh?” His eyebrow quirks. “And what, exactly, was I saying? Since you seem to be an expert in the matter.”

My teeth grind together. “You were judging me for— for being afraid.”

His dark brows pull inward. When he does respond, his voice is uncharacteristically soft. Almost like he’s talking to himself. “Nothing wrong with fear. When you’re afraid, you know you’re alive.”

I’m unsure how to respond. Every thought in my head seems painfully childish, every opinion inadequate.

“Anyway.” He seems to snap back into himself. His eyes refocus on mine. “What I was actually wondering…” His lips twist in a smirk as he turns the flask over in his hands. “Was how many bumps you’d last before you change your mind.”

“I don’t—” My words turn to a wince as we hit more turbulence. I bite my lip and ride it out. “I don’t make a habit of drinking with strangers,” I say, when I’ve finally gotten ahold of myself. “Especially while I’m on the clock.”

His gaze moves to Samantha, who’s slackened face is half-concealed by a sleep mask. He doesn’t say a word, but I can read his thoughts like a billboard.

Your boss wouldn’t notice if you did a keg stand, let alone took a single sip from the flask.

I grimace as the whole jet jostles once more. This time, it takes five full Mississippis before we level out — and another five after that for my breathing to return to normal.

He notices.

“Nervous flyer, huh?”

I clench my jaw. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” he says bluntly, eyes scanning my bloodless face. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“If anything, my nausea is inspired by present company,” I say sweetly. “It has very little to do with the turbulence.”

He laughs, a flash of white teeth in the darkness of the cabin. My stomach clenches at the sight of his chiseled features smiling instead of smirking or scowling in my direction. Asshole or no, he remains the most attractive man I’ve ever seen, let alone had a conversation with.

Taking one final swig from the flask, he twists the cap back on and tucks it away in the side pocket of the duffle bag beneath his seat. When he straightens, he catches me watching.

“Can I help you, oh judgmental one?”

I scoff. “You do realize one of the perks of flying private is that you don’t have to BYOB?”

He shakes his head. “Afraid blue label Johnnie doesn’t come in airplane nips.”

“Johnnie?”

“Walker.” He assesses my blank look. “It’s a scotch whisky.”

“Oh. I’ve never had whisky.”

He’s studying me carefully across the half-dozen feet that divide us. “How old are you?” he asks softly, as though it’s just occurred to him that I might not be of legal drinking age.

My mouth opens to respond but the word seventeen never leaves my throat because, out of nowhere, the whole world flips on its axis. A brilliant flash of lightning envelops the plane as we pitch left, then start to plummet. I know instantly that this is far worse than the other times — infinitely worse. This is no mere bump, no small pocket of air pressure that makes the plane wings rattle.

This is a nosedive.

A plunge.

A crash.

There’s a blood-chilling creak from outside as the plane struggles to right itself — a groan of metal, as though the whipping winds of the storm raging outside are strong enough to tear us apart. The lightning flashes seem closer than ever, or maybe that’s just the cabin interior lights flickering, a terrifying strobe. My ears pop painfully, an explosion of pressure going off behind my eyes as we lose altitude too rapidly to compensate.