The temperature dropped twenty degrees in the gangway. My blue hoodie, which had felt perfectly cozy at Chicago’s O’Hare terminal, now felt paper thin. Hunter and I would have to pull warmer jackets out of our suitcases before leaving the airport.
But first, I had to find him.
He stood a little bit away from the crowd of disembarking passengers. His expression was inscrutable as I walked up. How did he feel about last night? As for me, I felt sore—and satisfied. They commonly went together where he was concerned. He knew exactly how to get me hot, and it was just our perverse luck that the same things worked for him.
Still, there was a big difference between fumbling in the dark and facing him the morning after. My cheeks heated, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t quite meet his gaze.
He chuckled. “Miss me?”
Evil man. “You know I did.”
“Bet you were thinking of me.”
God, if I let him keep going, he’d tease me until my face burst into flames. “I bet you were thinking of me too.”
“Always, sunshine.”
Pleasure filled me. Unlike the pleasure from last night, this one wasn’t tainted with fear or arousal. This was as wholesome and bright as the nickname he gave me, complete with summertime scents and floating dust motes. Our feelings for each other were pure in a way our base carnality would never be. The sky and the earth, one casting light, the other catching it. Each more complete in the whole.
“Let’s grab breakfast,” he said, turning to scan the wide terminal corridor. “Do you need a restroom first?”
“No, but I would like breakfast. Something very French. A croissant, maybe, or a baguette.”
He grinned. “I’m sure they—”
“Pardon me! Wait, please,” a male voice called out, and I froze. Every cell in my body screamed for me to run, but in a crowded airport there was nowhere to go.
The Air Marshal strode up to us. I managed to stop myself from taking a step backward. That would only make me look guilty. But I was guilty. So guilty that being forced was the only way I knew how to have sex. So full of shame every time I enjoyed it anyway.
He knows what we did. I tried to project the thought to Hunter, but he looked completely unfazed.
“Is this your first time in Paris?” the marshal inquired with the faintest accent.
“For her. Not for me, though it has been a while,” Hunter answered casually, as if the question had been asked in passing conversation with another tourist instead of an interrogation by a security official.
What if we were detained? Arrested? Hunter didn’t look concerned, but then he never did.
The air marshal glanced at my hand. My left hand, with its gold band. “Are you just married then?”
This time the question was clearly directed at me. I opened my mouth but only a mortified squeak came out. My life had plenty of embarrassing moments to choose from. But getting busted for sex on a plane would put the rest of them to shame.
Hunter raised his eyebrows at me. “A month ago.”
“Congratulations,” the marshal said. “I imagine you’ll be visiting the usual places. The Eiffel Tower. Notre Dame.”
“Of course. Do you have any recommendations?”
“I do, actually. La Dame de Canton. A restaurant on an old gypsy boat. Mediocre food, relatively speaking, but the ambiance is something to appreciate.”
“We’ll have to visit then.”
“Be sure to request the boudoir. It’s a small alcove in the back. Very private. I think you would appreciate it.”
Hunter raised an eyebrow. A warning? “On your recommendation, then.”
The air marshal nodded with surprising deference. “I always enjoy the company of newlyweds. It reminds me of happier times, when I was younger and less divorced.”
Hunter barked a laugh before bidding him au revoir.