He shook his head. “You don’t need the added salt intake when you’re already dehydrated.”
I snorted, then licked the curve of his abs. “You’re not that salty.”
“Not yet.”
My laugh was cut short by the shock of cool water on my belly. He had found that damned washcloth again and he used it to full advantage this time, rubbing it along my body and limbs, over my hardened nipples and down into the soft, damp valley below. He teased me through the rough cloth, dragging me higher to a sharp-sweet crescendo.
I shook in his arms, until he released me and moved downward.
His tongue replaced the cloth, a caress infused with the absolution we needed in the past, a prayer spoken against tender, swollen skin. He took me to heaven and then pulled me back down again with the sharp, swift thrust of him inside me.
It would always be this way, the ecstasy and the pain. They twined together in a path we would walk, unknowing and unseeing, each glad to have found a friend. All I wanted was to be with Hunter wherever his rig should take us. Across the country, around the world.
Like chasing rainbows and capturing each one in the smile it gave us.
Epilogue
In French, the word “salut” means both “hello” and “goodbye.”
The only thing I could see was a long row of red No Smoking signs. The cabin had gone dark after dinner—which had tasted surprisingly good. Paneer masala and saffron rice. Not food I expected on Air France, but I didn’t mind. I wanted to experience everything the world had to offer, even if it came in small plastic trays from a rolling cart.
My skin had permanently pebbled in the cool airplane. A sandpaper blanket did little to warm me. And the bucket seat had stopped being comfortable around the fifth hour of flight. The man in front of me had reclined his seat so he was almost in my lap. A woman behind me tap-tap-tapped her foot against the back of my chair.
And beside me, the little boy managed to flick me with a rubber band. Again.
I tried to give the women on the other side of him a glare that would seem both understanding and firm. Yes, kids would be kids—but if anyone was going to deal with it, shouldn’t it be his mother? Unfortunately, she seemed to have fallen asleep.
The boy grinned at me, clearly expecting a response. I probably wasn’t allowed to flick him back…
Kids were another thing I didn’t know about, like Indian food and international travel. The massive circular X-ray scanners at check-in had seemed impossibly futuristic. Conveyer belts in the middle of hallways and an artistic lighting display overhead, as if O’Hare were a museum instead of an airport. Everything new and exciting and secretly scary.
Flick.
That was enough. I stood and stretched, hoping the mother would wake up from the daggers from my eyes. No such luck. I slipped my phone into my jeans pocket and made my way toward the back, feeling unsteady on my feet. Floor lights lit the way, a miniature runway leading to the back of the plane.
Everyone I passed had their eyes closed, sleeping probably. Some people wore the sleep masks provided by the airline. Others slouched over in their chairs, leaning on their neighbors—or in one case, hanging perilously into the aisle. I nudged the older woman with my hip, careful not to wake her as she slid back into place.
When I looked up, I met the gaze of someone in the very back aisle. I could see the whites of his eyes. A shiver ran through me. Was he some sort of security agent? What had Hunter called them? I had asked tons of questions, making him chuckle. Air marshals. That sounded futuristic too, as if they were shooting through the sky in one-man spaceships. Instead they were ordinary men authorized to carry guns on a plane.
He watched me silently, unblinking. Creepy.
Ignoring the twinge of nerves, I lowered my gaze and continued past him. There was a tiny bathroom that looked mildly suffocating from outside the door. I didn’t have to use it anyway; I just couldn’t deal with sitting down anymore.
Stop being grumpy. This wasn’t my first flight. Small spaces and hard chairs were par for the course on airplanes. I knew the real problem.
I missed Hunter.
Farther back, a small area connected the two parallel aisles. The galley, the flight attendant had called it. They’d said we could come back here for short periods of time if we needed to stretch our legs. Apparently, no one else did. The dim lighting and loud hum of the plane had lulled most everyone to sleep.
Except for Mr. Air Marshal. But then, it was probably his job to stay on alert.
I paced back and forth in the tiny strip of empty space. Was this how it felt to be caged? I had a sudden image of Hunter trapped in a space this small—not only for a few minutes. For years he’d been locked up. Imprisoned. Goosebumps rose on my skin.
A small room was off to the side, some kind of storage closet with a dark blue curtain for a door. The bins all had a special latch, probably so they wouldn’t slide open.
I read off the labels, whispering to myself. “Napkins. Sleep Masks. Sporks.”
Hah. Sporks.