But if that’s the sole reason, why didn’t I get turned on by the cabin attendant? She was certainly pretty. Even shot me a flirty smile every so often. But the only thing I wanted from her was my meal and drinks, and then to be left alone to go over some work emails.
Come on. Jo is so much hotter than the cabin attendant. There’s no comparison.
That is true. Her dress reminds of a flame, red and irresistible. It shows off her curves—from breasts to waist and that gorgeous, amazing ass. But the display isn’t blatant. It’s more of a seduction, a lure—a softly whispered Come closer and discover more.
And God, do I want to.
A server in a crisp uniform passes by with a tray of drinks, and I snag two flutes of champagne. Need to test and see if this spark is real or I’m just imagining things—which means I need to try to replicate it. I hand a glass to Jo, making sure our fingers brush.
My heart goes erratic again, like somebody pushed a button. So it isn’t a fluke. I try to swallow, but my mouth is dry.
“Thank you,” she says with a smile, then takes a sip. Her dark brown eyes sparkle with pleasure. “Mmm. This is so good.”
I try to imagine how those eyes would look when she’s writhing on twisted sheets. “So good…” Would they glitter with lustful greed? Would they lose focus? Would she be demure or demanding? How would she taste on my tongue? How would she feel around my cock?
Half a drop of bubbly wine clings to her plump lower lip. An urge to lick it off grips me, but I forcibly push it away and put my own flute to my mouth. As the vintage fizzles in my throat and nose, I wonder if it’d be better from her lips. Sweeter. More potent…
Jo is looking up at me expectantly. Does she want me to kiss her? Did she leave the champagne there on purpose?
But if that’s the case, the angle of her chin is wrong. She should’ve shifted more invitingly…
Sudden clarity cuts through my lust-hazed mind. She isn’t hinting to be kissed. She’s waiting for an answer to something. The only problem is: I have no clue what the question was.
Can’t tell her the truth, so I opt for the second-best option—a lie. “Sorry, I was just thinking about something from work. Could you repeat that?”
“I asked if you come out here a lot. I mean, don’t you run Blackwood Energy? Do they have an office in L.A.?”
“No. And you’re right, I don’t come out that often.” Coming to Los Angeles today was an impulsive decision that I made when Yuna texted me about the party and how she missed me. But much as I like her, the trip had more to do with my argument with Dad, the kind we wouldn’t have to have if he weren’t stuck in the past, rather than thinking toward the company’s future.
And there’s some family stuff that I might have to tell my brothers soon. The question is the timing. There will never be a really good opportunity to tell them our divorced parents might be getting back together, since divorce was the least Mom deserved. She’s lucky she isn’t rotting in a jail cell.
“Maybe you’ll have a reason to visit more when your brother has babies,” Jo says, peering at me.
“Doubtful,” I reply. “Blackwood Energy keeps me very busy.”
Playing the power game with Dad sucks up a lot of my time. He wants to maintain the status quo—a focus on oil, the old boys’ club, centralized offices, that sort of thing. I want to shake things up. Diversify into green energy, place an emphasis on actual achievement rather than connections or gender, and rethink our place in the future of the energy sector. Unfortunately, Dad still has a lot of influence within the company. Most of the top executives were his picks.
“Oh.” Jo nods, looking down at her drink.
Her expression reminds me of something Tony’s best friend Ryder said, that I’d have made a terrible best man at Tony’s wedding because I’m more suited for somber occasions like funerals. It’s true I’m not exactly the fun Hollywood playboy type—like Ryder—because to me, life is serious. And responsibilities matter.
At the same time, I don’t want Jo to think I’m dull.
“But corporate talk is boring,” I say, trying to recover. “What do you do?”
She looks like she wants to contradict me, but says, “I’m a fashion consultant and personal shopper.”
“Sounds interesting. Women love to shop, right? You must be exceptional to get paid to do it.”
“Mmm, yes,” she says. But she doesn’t look happy.
“What? Has the excitement gone out of it? Just a job now?”
“Just a job?” She looks up at me. “What do you mean?”
And the sheer interest in her warm brown gaze starts to undo something inside me that’s been wound tight ever since I can remember. “I remember reading a porn star interview—a guy—where he said sex took on some distinctly chore-like qualities once he started having to do it for money.”
The second I finish saying it, I want to bite my tongue. What happened to good manners and propriety? If my brain was functioning right, I would’ve said something more…neutral. Perhaps the “treat” Yuna mentioned is some kind of hallucinogen in the drink I’m having.