So I had to go.
I was starting to question my decision on the drive from the hotel to the airstrip—in a car that had been sitting outside my hotel waiting for me, because Fenway prepared for everything, it seemed—wondering if I was giving him the upper hand over me.
But one look at the sheer relief I saw on his face when the car pulled up almost late, was all I needed to see to know I was still in control here.
I moved into the jet, trying not to seem impressed. But I was impressed.
I’d flown first class once and felt fancy as hell.
But first class and a private jet were worlds apart when it came to luxury.
The inside of Fenway’s jet was bright and welcoming with its sand-colored couches and chairs and the white oak table tops and storage bins.
There was a door opened in the back to a bedroom, the bed itself taking up the entire space, covered in all white bedding. To the side of that was what appeared to be the bathroom. Across from there was a small kitchen space where a woman in a tame gray and white flight attendant outfit stood.
This was Fenway Arlington here.
I half expected the staff to be wearing those dresses and hats straight out of the fifties.
I moved to the couch, settling down in the center of it, making it clear I wanted it all to myself.
Surprisingly, Fenway got the hint, dropping down across from me in a bucket seat with a table in front of him, pretending to ignore me as his assistant brought my luggage inside, and the flight attendant rushed around to make sure everything was just right.
“Fenway,” I called, making his head jerk up, turning to look at me.
“Yes, darling?”
Darling.
God.
Could anyone actually pull off that endearment nowadays?
I knew the answer immediately.
Somehow, Fenway could.
“I have two brothers,” I told him, lifting my chin. “They are both arms dealers,” I added, watching his assistant jolt to a stop in the aisle. “And they are both afraid of me,” I finished, watching as the facts settled in.
There was the expected surprise, a small flash of worry, but it was all replaced with his signature carefree, boyish smile that made his eyes brighten.
“I do adore a powerful woman,” he told me, making my eyes roll.
“Isn’t it rude not to introduce me to your assistant?” I asked.
“Alvy is going to spend most of the flight in the cabin.”
“To get away from you?” I teased.
“Most likely, yes,” he told me as Alvy did, indeed, disappear into the cabin, shutting the door.
“Hey, I don’t want to get it wrong. Alvy…—” I started, not sure how to ask, what was PC, how to broach a potentially sensitive topic.
“Alvy is non-binary.”
“Which means I should…”
“Use they/them pronouns,” he told me. “And don’t ask about body parts, or who they like sexually.”
“Right,” I agreed, nodding. “Because it is ever appropriate to ask someone if they are hiding a penis or vagina in their pants. Or ask if they like to suck dick or eat pussy.”
The way I phrased that was a test, wanting to see how he responded to dirty words. As much as porn wanted us all to believe every man liked foul-mouthed women in bed, there were a lot of men who didn’t like women who used those kinds of words.
I watched as Fenway’s eyes got just a tiny bit bigger, surprised, before they smoldered as he turned, leaning forward like he was going to share a secret with me.
“In case you were wondering,” he started, lips curving up devilishly, “I like to eat pussy.”
It was my turn to have my eyes widen, to feel the smolder.
Because I hadn’t expected him to repeat it.
I don’t know why.
His fine breeding, his likely prep school education, the fact that he was so boyish that it was a little hard to imagine very grown man words coming out of his mouth.
Whatever it was, I didn’t expect it.
Nor did I expect the impact of the words.
Namely, the tightening between my legs, the deep longing, the way my heartbeat tripped into overdrive.
It wasn’t just the word.
Nope.
It was the smooth, confident, sexy way he said it.
I knew right that moment that not only did he like doing it, that he was probably amazing at it too.
Damnit.
“Joy,” Fenway called, addressing the flight attendant. “I think our guest could use a stiff drink,” he called, lips quirked up, making it clear his emphasis was purposeful.
He knew I did want something stiff.
But it damn sure wasn’t a drink.
“It’s fine,” I called. “I’m not thirsty,” I added through my cottonmouth.
“Oh,” Fenway said, eyes bright, voice low, sexier than it had any right to be, “I think you are thirsty. Should I tell Joy exactly what it is you are thirsty for?” he asked, eyes daring me.
Oh, damn him.