Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 75119 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75119 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 376(@200wpm)___ 300(@250wpm)___ 250(@300wpm)
“That’s us,” Mike said, pointing at a long, sleek plane with a swoosh of silver on the tail. The kind of jet I’d only ever seen in TikToks about billionaires, or in movies where people did cocaine off glass tables. The name ‘Gallagher Partners’ was stenciled in a minimalist font near the door.
I wasn’t prepared for the inside. I expected leather seats, but not the hush of deep carpet or the way the air felt different—cooler, perfumed, with a perfection that made me think of the inside of a jewelry box. There was a living room, an actual living room, with couches and a long table set for two. A woman in a pencil skirt and white blouse stood waiting, smiling in a way that made me feel instantly transparent.
“Welcome, Mr. Gallagher. Miss Martindale,” she said. “May I offer you a beverage?”
Mike looked at me, as if waiting to see whether I would order. I felt my face go hot.
“Um… water?” I managed.
He smiled, almost indulgent. “Champagne for both of us,” he told the attendant, then to me: “You should celebrate your first private flight.”
The attendant reappeared almost instantly with an actual silver tray and two flutes of champagne. There was a tiny strawberry in each glass. I took mine with a hand so shaky the glass clinked against my teeth.
Mike waited until the attendant withdrew to the front of the cabin, then raised his glass. “To new beginnings,” he said, watching me over the rim.
I tried to echo, but my voice didn’t work—I just nodded, and took a sip. The champagne was icy and sweet, bubbles rushing up my nose, making me cough. Mike laughed and reached over to squeeze my hand.
“You’ll get used to it,” he said, happiness so evident in his eyes that my heart skipped a beat.
The engines started with a rumble that vibrated through the soles of my feet, and I felt the weird, lightheaded thrill of the jet taxiing straight from the little waiting area onto the runway. No lines, no boarding groups, just a seamless flow from the car to the sky. The attendant came back, checked that we were buckled in, and then the plane started to move—not the slow, lumbering crawl of commercial flights, but a lurching, greedy surge. I found myself gripping the armrest and Mike’s hand at the same time.
“Scared?” he asked, voice low.
“Excited,” I admitted, and was surprised to find it was mostly true. The whole thing felt impossible, like a dream where you could fly.
“We’ll be over the Pacific in a few minutes,” Mike said, and his hand slid from mine to rest on my knee.
I nodded, but couldn’t look at him. The view was a strip of runway flashing past, then a quick, stomach-dropping tilt as we left the earth behind. The city shrank so fast it was like time-lapse. The bay was a piece of wrinkled blue fabric, the bridges like matchsticks.
I sipped my champagne, letting the bubbles numb the inside of my mouth. I was aware of Mike’s hand, inching up my thigh, fingers kneading gently. The plug in my bottom seemed to throb in time with the engines of the plane.
The attendant came back with a tray of food. Sliced fruit, little crackers, a dome of cheese.
“Thanks, Elena,” Mike told her, “but we’ll have that a little later.”
Elena glided away with a smile so perfectly neutral I wondered if she’d been bred in a vat for the express purpose of working on billionaires’ jets. She gave Mike a quick nod, and vanished behind the galley door.
Mike waited just long enough for the faint click of the latch before turning to me. “Come here,” he said, voice pitched low.
I blinked at him. “What?”
He patted the space next to him on the couch. “You heard me.”
Part of me hoped he was joking, but the look in his eyes told me he absolutely was not. I unbuckled my seatbelt and slid across the couch toward him. The closer I got, the more I could feel the tension radiating off him—some kind of tightly leashed energy. I perched on the edge of the seat, my hands folded primly in my lap.
Mike took my chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting my face up to his. “You’re going to kneel down and worship my cock now,” he said, as if he were informing me of the weather. “Go ahead.”
My face went instantly, mortifyingly hot. “But… what about Elena?”
He shrugged, the ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “She knows what kind of man I am. She knows what kind of girl you are.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but his hand was already guiding me down, a gentle but unyielding pressure. The carpet was thick and soft under my knees, but not enough to make me forget where I was or what I was about to do.