Brown-Eyed Girl (Travis Family #4)(73)

“Sorry.” I tried to relax and regulate my breathing. “Let me ask just one thing: Your family has a private plane, right?”

“A Gulfstream. For business.”

“Yes, but if you wanted to use it for personal reasons, would your brothers and sister object?”

“I would object. It’s five thousand bucks per flight hour.”

“Is it a light jet, or a midsize, or —”

“It’s a Gulfstream large-cabin super-midsize jet.”

“How long in advance do you have to call before they can have it ready?”

“For a trip like that, two or three hours.” The covers were drawn back from my legs.

“What are you doing?” I couldn’t see him, could only feel him moving in the darkness.

“Since you’re so interested in my plane, I’m going to tell you all about it.”

“Joe —”

“Quiet.” The hem of my nightgown inched upward, and I felt a soft, hot kiss on the side of my knee. “The Gulfstream has Internet, TV, a Global Satcom phone system, and the worst coffeemaker in existence.” A kiss descended to my other knee, followed by the long ticklish streak of his tongue trailing upward along my thigh. “The two upgraded Rolls-Royce engines,” he continued, “provide about fourteen thousand pounds of thrust each.” I drew in a sharp breath as I felt the slither of his tongue high on the inside of my leg.

His breath stirred private curls until each hair stood on end, individuate with sensation. “The plane takes about forty-four hundred gallons of fuel.”

A single, idle lick. I whimpered, all my focus zinging to that soft place. He nuzzled deeper into the tenderness.

“Fully fueled, it flies nonstop for forty-three hundred nautical miles.” His fingertips nudged me open while his lips descended, forming a hot, wet seal. I was dazed and silent, my hips catching a tight upward arch. Just as the pleasure approached an unimaginable spike, his mouth lifted.

“It’s been updated with thrust reversers that shorten the landing,” he murmured, “and an enhanced vision system with an infrared camera mounted on the front.” A long finger slid inside me. “Is there anything else you’d like to know?”

I shook my head, beyond speech. Although he couldn’t have seen the movement, he must have felt it, because I heard his quiet sound of amusement. “Avery, honey,” he whispered, “you’re gonna sleep so good tonight…”

I felt his mouth and tongue again as he worked me with delicately ruthless precision, and I was lost in a tumble of heat. Pleasure gathered, lifted, refracted. When it became too much to bear, I tried to twist away, but Joe wouldn’t let me, persisting until my groans had broken into long sighs.

After he was finished with me, I didn’t fall asleep so much as I fell unconscious. I slept so long and hard that I barely registered Joe kissing me good-bye the next morning. He leaned over the bed, showered and fully dressed, murmuring that he had to leave.

By the time I was fully awake, Joe was gone.

Two days later, I boarded a private Citation Ultra with Hollis Warner. A flight attendant served us Dr Pepper on ice while we waited for Bethany, who was running late. Fashionably dressed and heavily made up, Hollis relaxed in the cream leather seat next to mine. She explained that her husband, David, offered compensation plans to some of the top executives in his restaurant and casino businesses to have the jet for a specified number of personal-use hours, with the company picking up the tab. Hollis and her friends often used the Citation for shopping trips and vacations.

“I’m so glad we’re staying two nights instead of just one,” Hollis said. “I’m having dinner with some girlfriends tomorrow night. You’re welcome to join us, Avery.”

“Thank you so much, but I’m having dinner with friends I haven’t seen in much too long. And there’s a meeting I have to attend tomorrow afternoon.” I told her about the meeting with the producers of Rock the Wedding and being interviewed as a potential host of a spin-off. Hollis seemed delighted by the news and said that when I became a celebrity, she was going to take credit for helping to launch me. “After all, if I hadn’t picked you as Bethany’s wedding planner, you wouldn’t have gotten on that show.”

“I’ll tell everyone it was you,” I assured her, and we clinked glasses.

After taking a sip, Hollis tucked a lock of smooth blond hair behind her ear and asked in an offhand tone, “Are you still going out with Joe?”

“Yes.”

“What does he say about this opportunity?”

“Oh, he’s being very supportive. He’s happy for my sake.”

I knew without being told that should the television opportunity come through, Joe was determined not to influence my decision. He would not ask me to stay or give up anything. Most of all, he would make no promises. There were no guarantees about what our relationship might become or how long it would last. Whereas there would be guarantees, contractual ones, if I was hired by Trevor Stearns’s production company. Even in case of failure, I would have some incredible takeaways. Money, connections, a heavily bolstered résumé.

I was spared the necessity of replying when Bethany boarded the plane. She was dressed in a vibrant Tory Burch tunic and capris, her hair gilded with fresh highlights. “Hi, y’all!” she exclaimed. “Isn’t this fun?”