Less than an hour later, we’re standing on a private airfield with a small aircraft before us and no pilot.
‘Ash, what’s going on?’
‘You ready for some fun?’
‘Fun? In that?’ I point a shaky finger at the thing, which looks more like a large child’s toy.
‘Don’t tell me you’re afraid of flying.’
I spit out the rain that’s gathered over my lips and pull my hood further forward, tugging my coat tighter around my neck. Our bags have already been taken on board and I know it’s just me he’s waiting for.
But seriously...?
‘No, not afraid of flying. But that... In this.’ I fling a hand around me at the weather.
‘It’s quicker this way—no traffic.’ He holds out a hand to me. ‘Come on. We’re getting soaked.’
I slip my hand in his, but I don’t move.
He gives me a little tug. ‘Trust me.’
I take in the zippy-looking aircraft, bright shiny red, and I’m still convinced it’s more toy than vehicle, but I trust him—I really do. I give the ground one last longing look and then climb into the cockpit, looking for a way into the back.
‘Sit down,’ he calls up.
‘Here?’ I say, pointing to the two seats that look far too pilot-worthy for me.
‘Yes.’
I can tell he’s enjoying this; his eyes have the playful glint to them that normally precedes a cheeky make-out session, not a flight. I sit my arse down as he closes the door. My gaze sweeps over the multitude of instruments...screens, buttons, joysticks, levers...
Oh, crap.
I’m so distracted I don’t realise I’ve lost sight of him outside, but then he’s back, and the door is opening on the other side as he climbs in right alongside me.
My eyes widen. ‘You’re flying it?’
He shakes his head, eyes still dancing. ‘My ego really isn’t safe around you, is it?’
I can only smile as butterflies kick up in my belly. I’m nervous—I can’t deny it. But as he slips into pilot mode and starts chatting to someone I can only assume is air traffic control while navigating his phone and what looks to be a flight plan, I admit to becoming awestruck.
He catches me staring and gives me a lopsided grin as he speaks into the headset. He passes me a similar contraption to wear. Then he helps to strap me in, his hands brushing over me, and all the time there’s a look of concentration on his face that I find as sexy as his come-to-bed look.
If not for the fact that he’s talking, I’d pounce—and, judging by the flash in his blue eyes as he settles back into his seat, he knows it too.
I force myself to behave and let him get on with piloting, but I have so many questions. Like, how he learned to fly, why he learned, whose plane is this...? But they can wait—at least until we’re airborne.
And even then I’m mesmerised. As we hit what he tells me is cruising altitude, I can’t take my eyes away from him—the way he navigates the various controls, watches the screens, the gobbledygook he speaks into the headset. He’s so confident and in control.
Who’d have thought flying could be a form of foreplay?
I’ve never understood the fascination with a man in a pilot’s uniform before, but now I’ll be right up there with heart eyes.
‘Flying is in the Livingston blood.’
His voice pipes up through my headset and subconsciously I touch my fingers to the ear pad, my cheeks flushing at my inner ramblings.
‘My father learned for fun, but his father was a pilot in the RAF, and his father before that. There’s nothing quite like taking to the skies and getting out of the rat run below.’