Jill Shalvis - Aussie Rules

She risked a quick glance at him. “As if you’d ever be at my service.”

“Try me.”

Something deep inside her leaped but the plane took another stomach-dropping dip. She bit her lip and gripped the controls.

“Easy,” he murmured. “Just stay on it.”

“I know how to fly.” She scanned the horizon, but all she could see was a solid, sickening gray.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said quietly. “You just concentrate on what you do best, and we can get back to the servicing later.”

“Been there, done that,” she said, referring to the other night.

“Yeah, but it’s worth a repeat.”

“I don’t know,” she quipped, eyes scanning the horizon, teeth clenched as she tried to make light. “I mean, sure, the first time was pretty great, but I doubt you could repeat the performance.”

He let out a low laugh of disbelief. “A dare, Mel? You know better than that.”

They dipped again. “Goddamnit,” she muttered, leaning forward as if that could help her see through the clouds that were thicker than cream soup.

“Stop wasting your time searching for a visual you’re not going to get. You’ve got the instruments, use ’em.”

Right. Damn it, he was so right, and that pissed her off enough to jolt her into the rock-solid concentration that had eluded her until now. She focused in on the controls and breathing, and once she did, her instincts kicked in.

The plane shuddered and dipped and shuddered again, but she was in firm control.

Behind them, Mrs. Hutton gasped. Her husband put an arm around her. Outside the plane, the wind and rain battered the plane while Mel began their descent. Another trickle of sweat ran down her back but she didn’t think about that now, thought about nothing but the work right in front of her. Flying was like breathing, and breathing was second nature.

Bo didn’t say another word, and for that, she felt grateful. She knew what to do, she didn’t need direction, and that he didn’t butt in was testament to how much he trusted her.

She’d think about that, and the implications of that trust, later, but not now. Not when her heart still raced, adrenaline flowing through her like a raging river.

When the wheels touched down, the Huttons let out a collective sigh. Shocking her, Bo became the consummate flight attendant, getting the passengers off with their luggage, through the driving wind and rain, and off the tarmac as quickly as possible.

Then he was back for Mel. “I swore I wasn’t going to do this,” he said, then yanked her into his arms, his voice low and rich in her ear when he spoke. “That was some class-A flying, Mel.”

She resisted for all of half a second, then hugged him back, her insides still quaking. “Thanks.”

He looked at her, his smile fading, desire and heat filling the spot. “Ah, hell. Hold on darlin’, here comes another storm.” And he kissed her, his mouth warm and knowing, his tongue sweeping in her mouth as if it belonged there.

She certainly enjoyed the invasion, and as amazing as it seemed, with his hands in her hair, on her back, pressing her as close as she could get, the rest of the world faded away. She was reduced to nothing but the sensation of being held against his body and how he made her feel-which was alive, vibrantly, wonderfully alive. When he finally pulled back, he smiled. “It’s time.”

She was still breathless. “Time?”

“I believe there was a question of servicing.”

Oh, God. Now that they’d actually been together, she knew exactly what he meant, and how good he was at it. Her thighs trembled. Between them she went damp, at just his voice, his words. She was worse than Pavlov’s dog! “I don’t think so. I have to prepare for the flight back.”

He laughed softly. “We’re not going back tonight. You know that. No one is flying in this.” As if to solidify this statement, lightning cracked. Thunder boomed. Rain and wind slashed at the plane.

“Hotel room,” he said. “Shower. Dinner. And then…”

Her voice was not steady, not even close and yet she couldn’t help but ask. “Then?”

His smile looked like sin personified, wicked and naughty to the nth degree. “Then…Let the servicing begin.”

After Mel’s charter left Dimi found herself craving chocolate. It was all Bo’s fault, she decided, as she inhaled a Hershey’s bar from Mel’s hidden stash. Bo’s and…damn it, Mel’s.

Yeah, that’s right. She really wanted to blame Mel for not fixing this the way she’d fixed everything else over the years, even as Dimi hated herself for the thought. It drove her to go for yet another chocolate bar, after which she felt like crap and was filled with self-loathing, a sense of worthlessness, and a fear for the future she couldn’t eat away.

“Damn it.” She reached for the phone and called Brian, the tall, dark, and hunky guy she’d drooled over at the gym the other night while watching him go through his weight-lifting routine.

He’d worked out shirtless, wearing only shorts, looking amazing at every single station. When he was done, his body taut and quivering and damp with sweat, he’d swiped his face with a towel and locked gazes with her.

She’d felt that familiar thrill, that age-old “gotta have him” lurch deep inside, and she’d smiled.

His eyes had bloomed with heat and a good amount of trouble as he’d smiled back, and her engine had revved.

When she’d gotten to her car after her own workout, he’d left his card on her windshield. Brian Desota, attorney at law.

Yum.

Even better, he answered his phone, he was available, and thirty minutes later, he picked her up at North Beach, looking hot in all black as he drove her to a new restaurant in town.

It started out good, with lots of potential, so it shocked Dimi when he insulted the waiter. He’d also, she remembered, been rude to the valet. And no matter how many drinks Dimi ordered, he still got uglier and uglier.

She sure could pick ’em.

Finally the meal was over and they stood outside his car. She didn’t want to get into the passenger seat and let him take her home, despite the fact that it was fifteen miles from North Beach, it was raining cats and dogs, and she was more than a little tipsy. But in truth, she’d rather risk life and limb, and walk every single one of those miles barefoot than spend another moment with him.

“Get in,” he said, adding a little nudge to the small of her back.

Another problem: having met her drink for drink, he wasn’t feeling any pain, either. Always, that had seemed like a turn-on for Dimi, a man who could drink right alongside her.

But suddenly, it felt old. She wanted to get to know someone and remember what they had to say. She wanted to wake up without a headache, wanted to get through the afternoon without yearning for a glass of wine.

She wanted to look in the mirror and not see a woman who looked harder and colder every single day.

“Get in,” he said again, raising his voice over a boom of thunder.

No. The word was no, but as everyone in the entire universe knew, she had a little problem saying it. “Actually,” she began, and sent him a smile she hoped looked halfway genuine, “I-”

“You’re not changing your mind about coming to my house,” he said. “Not after that expensive dinner.”

Her brows knitted. “I never said I’d go to your house.”

“Sweetheart, it was implied.” His hand, low on her spine, became firm as he tried to get her inside his car.

“No.” She lifted her chin, and with rain coming down into her face, looked into his now cooling eyes. “No.” She backed out of his grip and stood beneath the restaurant awning next to the valet. “Thank you for dinner, but good night.”