"Because you're interesting," he says. "You were right: I am successful. And I know I'm attractive."

"Humble, too."

"I don't need to be. And neither do you." He drags his fingers across my knuckles, and I clench my legs together. "I'm surrounded by people who know exactly how to act and always say the right thing. It's boring. I much prefer a little... spontaneity."

"Spontaneity?"

Not sure I'm his girl in that regard. Sure, I "spontaneously" stole my younger sister from our psycho mother and had her move in with me. But I doubt that "let a fourteen-year-old move into your crappy apartment" is the kind of spontaneity he's talking about.

He nods. "I like to keep things exciting."

His words feel like an invitation. One I feel powerless to turn down. I mean, fate got me bumped to first class and then plopped down in this seat next to him. Who am I to refuse destiny, right?

Just as I'm about to fumble my way through something resembling flirting, the plane lurches sideways yet again.

"Shit!" I yelp and clamp my hand down on the armrest.

Correction: arm, not armrest. Russian Guy's arm, to be specific. There are fingernail indents in his skin by the time I peel my hand off, but I'm too far gone to even apologize. The fear is choking me out and I can't stop it.

The pilot comes over the speakers to tell everyone to stay calm. But I barely hear him. We're dying. I'm sure of it. This is the end.

"Hey," Russian Man says in his unreasonably sexy voice. "Are you okay?"

I should nod or blink or say something. It doesn't even have to be cute or funny or charming. I should just say a single word, any single word, to let him know I'm not out of my mind.

But I can't make my body do anything. I'm in fight or flight... while on a flight.

That would be a great thing to say right now! A little quip to impress him. But instead, I shake my head as the plane shakes and rattles again.

Then I stand up and crawl over him. "I'm going to be sick. For sure this time."

The flight attendant doesn't even look surprised when she sees me hop up again. She just glares at me and shakes her head.

Once I get close enough, she wags a finger at me. "No, ma'am. You need to sit down right now. If you're feeling ill, grab the bag between the seats and-"

"I'm going to be sick," I gasp. It feels like my lungs are going to explode. "I need to-"

Get off this plane, I think. Though that isn't really an option.

"You need to sit down," she says again.

She glances down the aisle, and I'm sure she's looking at an air marshal coming to tie me up in duct tape. I wouldn't even blame them. I'm being a menace.

But my heart is racing, and-

"Why does this damn plane keep shaking?" I blurt a bit too loud.

The attendant stiffens. "You're causing a scene. You need to-"

"Let her by," a deep voice behind me says. I don't need to turn around to know who it is.

Mortification ripples through me at the knowledge that Handsome Stranger-formerly known as Russian Guy-is witnessing this epic breakdown. But the plane lurches again and I stumble back.

Instantly, one of his strong arms wraps around my middle, holding me steady. I sink into his warmth and sigh without even realizing I'm doing it.

"Open the bathroom," he orders. "Now."

The attendant narrows her eyes on me, but even she isn't immune to Handsome Stranger's charms and/or implied threats. Her face softens and she spins on her heel, bathroom key in her hand.

She unlocks the door and holds it open. "I don't want any more trouble. Get her relaxed and find your seats."

He nods, pushes me into the small space, and pulls the door shut behind us.

I was consumed by fear and anxiety and panic out there, but the moment we're in the small bathroom together, there is only him. He smells like peppermint and citrus, a bright scent that cuts through the antiseptic haze of the bathroom.

"Are you going to be sick?" he asks.

I blink up at him, shocked by how close he is to my face.

His hands smooth down my arms. "If you're going to throw up, I'd like to know."

"No," I rasp, swallowing audibly. "I'm okay. I'm-"

"You're having a panic attack," he says. "You're not fine."

I sag in his grasp. "I hate flying."

"Then why are you here?"

"Because I need the money," I say. "I'm headed to see a big client of my company. My boss abandoned me to handle this trip on my own, and the client is apparently a huge asshole, so I'm stressed and then this goddamn plane keeps hitting goddamn turbulence, and I just need for my goddamn brain to be goddamn quiet. I need to figure out how to turn my thoughts off so I can-"

Suddenly, Handsome Stranger lifts me onto the sink, steps between my legs, and presses his lips to mine.

And my entire brain goes dead silent.

His mouth is soft and his body is hard, and I can't think about anything except the fact that he is touching me. Kissing me.

Holy. Shit.

His tongue slides along my bottom lip, and I slowly open my mouth. His hands curve up my back, pulling me closer to him as his tongue probes into my mouth. I moan like-shit, what did that one boyfriend of Mom's used to call it? Oh, yeah-like a bitch in heat.

The self-aware embarrassment cuts through everything and I jerk away from him. I clap my hand over my mouth and stare at him, eyes wide.

His eyes aren't wide, though. They're perfectly normal. Perfectly gray.

"What was that?" I gasp.

"Spontaneity," he says. "Did it work?"

I don't need to glance down to know my nipples are very much visible through my thin cotton shirt. And there's moisture between my legs.

Did it work? he asked. Duh, it worked. It worked so well that I'm not sure any other man will ever get me to "work" ever again.

I swallow and nod. "Yeah... Um, thanks for that. I guess. I needed that. And a kiss is better than a slap, so-"

"Why would I slap you?" He tilts his head to the side. I wish I had run my hands through his hair while I had the chance. It's golden brown and falls over his forehead like silk.

"I don't know. Like in movies? To break me out of my panic?"

"Is that the only reason you think I kissed you?"

God, I hope not. But I can't say that. Can't admit to wanting this stranger. I barely even know him, for crying out loud.

My face is hot and flushed. He reaches out and swipes his thumb over my cheek. "Am I making you nervous again?"

"You can't just talk to people like that!"

"Like what?"

"Being so... honest." I realize how ridiculous it sounds as soon as the words are out of my mouth. "I mean, like, asking people these kinds of questions. I don't even know your name."

"Nikolai."

I shift in the sink, desperately aware that he is still standing between my thighs. "Oh. Um. Hi, Nikolai."

The mysterious Handsome Stranger has a mysterious, handsome name. I probably shouldn't be surprised.

He lowers his hand from my cheek and drops it on my thigh. His fingers burn my flesh through my jeans. "And yours?"

"Belle."

His eyebrows dance with a subtle smirk. "Then you should be used to people calling you beautiful. It's your name."

My heart is thundering again, panic rising up in me. I press my palms to my eyes.

"You don't have to stay with me. I'll be fine on my own," I mumble. "I know you only came in here because you feel responsible for me. Since I accidentally fell on your lap. But I absolve you of your chivalrous responsibilities." I wave him away without opening my eyes. "You can go on. I won't bother you anymore."

He doesn't say anything.

I crack an eye open. "Well?"

"I told you you were a bad judge of character," he drawls.

I frown, but before I can ask what he means, Nikolai slides his hand between our bodies, cupping my heat.

"I'm not fucking nice. And I'm definitely not fucking chivalrous," he growls.

Unable to stop myself, I roll my hips against the heel of his palm. I chase the pleasure that has been building low in my belly since the moment I looked into his eyes.

He slides his hand up and starts unbuttoning my jeans.

"Tell me to stop," he says. "Tell me you don't want this."

I do the exact opposite: I lift my hips and help him peel my jeans down my legs, my body moving like it's in a trance.

"Why?" I squeak.

Why on earth would I do that? Why would anyone feel this man's hands on their skin and tell him to stop? I can't imagine a straight woman alive who's foolish enough to turn this down.

He grips my panties and yanks them down, leaving me naked from the waist down on the small counter. But I'm so fixated watching him unzip his pants and pull out his gloriously thick cock that I can't find the energy to be embarrassed.

"Because if you don't," he says, gripping his length and pressing himself against my entrance, "I'm going to fuck you until you scream so loud that everyone on this plane can hear you."

I can't help gasping and sputtering like a fish on dry land. "I... I... I..."

Distantly, I can feel the plane still trembling. I know that all my problems will still exist when we're back on the ground.

But right now, I'm flying high.

And I want to make the most of it before I land.

I wrap my arms around his neck. "I want this."

In one thrust, Nikolai pushes inside of me. I tip my head back against the mirror and moan.

"I knew you'd be tight," Nikolai grits out.

"I knew you'd be big."

Nikolai pulls back and smiles down at me. "Maybe you do know all the right things to say, after all."

I smile, but then he slides out and thrusts back into me, and just like that, I can't smile anymore. Or talk. Or think.

His massive hands palm my thighs, hooking my legs around his waist as he fills me with one savage thrust after another. Then he slides his hand between us again, his thumb circling over my clit, and a jolt of electricity courses through me.

"Oh my God," I moan.

"You like that?" he asks, his voice rough.

I don't say anything. I'm too busy falling to pieces in his hand. So he asks again.

"Do you like that, Belle?"

The way he says my name, his tongue languishing over the double L... It's the sexiest thing I've ever heard.

"Tell me," he commands. "Tell me what you like. What you want."

"Yes," I gasp. "I like... all of it. You. I like it."

His thumb is moving over me faster now, flicking and massaging until I'm seeing stars.

"That's not good enough. You need to tell me exactly what you want."

The pressure is ratcheting up higher and higher, and all I want is... is...

"I want to come," I gasp.

He thrusts into me to the hilt. "Then do it. Come for me like a good girl."

Oh, for the love of God.

I break.

My orgasm is like the sun coming through the clouds after a rainstorm. It happens suddenly and there's no stopping it, no dimming it.

I moan, my muscles contracting and releasing. Cries of pleasure climb up my throat.

Nikolai clamps his hand over my mouth, swallowing my shouts until I'm limp against him. My body is spent, but when I look down, he's still hard.

I frown. "It... it didn't happen for you?"

"Don't worry." He brushes his thumb-the same thumb that sent me over the edge-across my lower lip. "It will."

Then he tears me off the counter and spins me around so I'm facing the mirror, Nikolai floating like a golden angel over my shoulder. He grips my hips and slides into me again.

The angle is different and my mouth falls open. I lean forward, taking him deeper, wanting more and more and all of him.

Distantly, I'm aware of the plane's vibrations, of the fact that dozens of passengers are sitting mere feet away with just a rickety plastic door between us. But the world has narrowed to encompass only this. Only this room. Only us.

My anxiety and fear are gone, pounded out of me by the man with the silver eyes.

"They'll hear us," I whimper.

"Let them." Nikolai drives into me harder. "I want this whole plane to hear you come again."

"It's never happened for me twice." I'm almost embarrassed to admit it. Then again, I'm bent over a sink in front of a stranger. Maybe nothing is embarrassing anymore.

Nikolai smirks in the mirror. "First time for everything."

He wraps his hand around my leg and lifts my knee up to the corner of the sink. I'm still trying to get situated when he slides all the way out of me and then slams into the hilt.

"Oh my God," I moan. "It's so-"

"Deep," he breathes.

With every thrust, he's touching places inside of me that have never been touched. My thighs start to quiver and before I can properly prepare myself, another orgasm is rocketing through me.

This one is even more powerful than the last. My muscles contract, my body clamping down around Nikolai's length.

And then I feel the handsome stranger pulsing into me.

He grunts as he drives all the way in. His sounds and his thrusts fade little by little until there's just the white noise of the roaring engines and my own panting breath.

When we're done, I hurry to put my leg down and stand up. Warning bells are going off in my head.

What have I done? Who have I done?

He could be married. Or a murderer. He could be a married murderer. Nikolai might not even be his real name!

The same panic that was just sexed out of me starts to creep back in, but I swallow it down.

I feel warmth flowing down the inside of my legs, the evidence of what we've done painted between my thighs.

Nikolai zips his pants and reaches for the door handle. "Get dressed and we'll leave together."

He stares at me while I wipe off my legs and tug on my jeans. Whatever boldness had briefly possessed me, it's gone now. I'm a walking, talking blush.

"Okay," I say softly once I've fixed my lipstick in the mirror and smoothed down my hair. "I'm ready."

Nikolai opens the door without looking at me. The flight attendants are moving about the cabin now. At some point while we were in there, the seatbelt light turned off. An older woman with curly gray hair is waiting outside the bathroom door. If she overheard anything that happened inside, she doesn't make it known.

I follow Nikolai down the center aisle. When he reaches his seat, I nearly follow him, before I remember where I'm supposed to sit.

I hesitate for a second, waiting to see if he'll look up at me and offer a smile or a wave. Some kind of recognition for what we just did together in the bathroom.

But he doesn't look up.

And as pathetic as I may be sometimes, I'm not desperate enough to embarrass myself by begging for his attention.

So I keep walking to my seat.

Before I sit, I glance at the row behind me where Elise is sitting. She has her legs curled up underneath her and her head resting on her folded-up sweatshirt. She's fast asleep. Looks like she has been for a while.

"Figures," I mumble. I shake my head and drop down into my chair.

I can still see Nikolai's squared jaw from back here, but he looks farther away than ever. If it wasn't for the ache between my legs, I could believe it was all a dream.

Maybe it would be better that way. For the Handsome Stranger to fade away like a dream you can barely remember after waking.

Maybe then everything that happened next wouldn't have hurt so bad.

BELLE

If the plane ride was a dream, the hotel is a nightmare.

"You can't expect me to sleep here." Elise draws away from the bed like she's afraid it'll swallow her whole.

I don't entirely blame her. The comforter is threadbare, the pattern faded. The thin carpet looks clean enough, but it feels sticky against my feet. And the porcelain in the bathroom is tinged yellow in a way that makes my skin crawl.

"It's not that bad."

Her eyes bug out. "Belle!"

"What?" I snap. "What do you want me to do about it? This is the place my company booked for us to stay."

"You mean Roger."

"Yes, Roger. My boss. He booked the rooms and this is where we're staying."

Elise crosses her arms. "I don't know why I'm being punished, too. I'm not the one who turned him down."

"I'm not being punished."

That's a lie. It is entirely like Roger to make my life at work hell because I won't sleep with him. Elise is right-I should report him to HR or something.

But fuck, I need this job. I needed it before Elise lived with me, but now, I definitely can't be toeing the poverty line while I'm responsible for a teenager.

Elise deserves something resembling stability for once in her life. I have to be that something.

Which means I have to put up with handsy assholes in order to secure a paycheck. There are worse things in the world. I'm tough; I can survive. I've survived for a long time just to make it here.

Elise spins around and throws open the curtains to the only window. Immediately, we're greeted with a stunning view of... the graffitied, soot-stained brick building next door.

"You're right. This doesn't look like a prison cell at all," she drawls. "This place is great. Ten stars."

I groan and rummage through my suitcase. "I'd love it if you could at least pretend to have a good time while we're here."

Elise studies the bed for a moment before changing her mind and perching on the edge of the armchair in the corner. A puff of dust rises out of the cushions, swirling around in the dingy light coming through the window.

"But I'm not having a good time," she pouts.

"You've made that abundantly clear. That's why I said 'pretend.' I have to be here for work, so let's just get through this and then we can go home, okay?"

"To your apartment, you mean?"

I close my eyes and take a deep breath.

Teenagers are people, too. My sister has been through a hard time. It's not her fault. I need to cut her some slack.

Did I really expect her to be excited about having her own room and thank me every day for giving her a warm bed to sleep in? Well, maybe. But I'm wiser and less idealistic now.

I release the breath in a whistle between pursed lips. "Yes. To my apartment. Where you now live. We won't be here long. Maybe a week."

"A week?" Elise exclaims. "I thought it was only three days!"

"Oh, you don't listen when I ask you how your day was, but you listen when I explain our travel itinerary?"

I slip out of my jeans-the jeans that still smell like Handsome Stranger-and pull on a pair of black, high-waisted slacks. If the clock above the television is right, I have twenty minutes to get across town to the offices of Zhukova Incorporated.

"Belle!" Elise cries out. "Answer me!"

I shrug on a pale pink blouse and button it. "Anyway-yes, a week. That original three-day plan was from before Roger bailed on me. Now, I'm doing this on my own. It's for a big company, and things might take longer."

"Call someone to come help," she practically begs. "Like... like Georgia. She's your friend."

"She's my coworker." The admission feels embarrassing. I really need more friends. "And no. I'm doing this alone. Can I trust you to stay here while I'm gone?"

Elise huffs, pouting her lower lip out. She looks so much like our mom when she pouts, but with her dad's reddish blonde hair and green eyes. It makes me shiver every time.

"What am I supposed to do for food?"

I pull a twenty out of my purse and leave it on the TV stand. "You can walk to the bodega on the corner and then back again. No further."

She snatches the money off the table and shoves it in her back pocket.

"Understood?" I ask.

She tosses me a mock salute. "Sir, yes, sir."

I hate leaving things like this. I hate that I have to play the role of her parent. That we can't be normal sisters who fight over clothes and watch movies together.

But there isn't time to sort through any of that. I'm already running late as it is.

"Good. I have to go."

I grab my purse and toss my phone, a water bottle, and my laptop inside. Then I hurry out the door.

Just before I close it, I pop my head back into the room. "I love you, E."

Elise sighs. "Love you, too, B."

For now, that will have to do.

I'm finally standing in front of the building that houses Zhukova Incorporated. Sweaty and panting, but here. No thanks to the New York City Transit Authority or the millions of yellow cabs that drove right past my waving arms.

My phone rings. I answer it in an exhausted daze.

"I can't talk right now, Georgia," I mutter, shoving the phone between my ear and shoulder as I dig through my purse for a napkin or scrap of paper to dab the sweat from my forehead.

"Then why did you answer?"

"Because I... shit, I don't know."

"Is it because you're having a heart attack?" she asks. "Are you delirious?"

I decide a panty liner is as good as anything and mop up my face. "I don't know how subways work. Or how to wave down a taxi."

"Roger has been to New York a million times. Why didn't you ask him for help?"

"Because I don't see how he'd be any help from Aruba." The words come out exactly as bitterly as I feel.

The line goes silent, and I wait. Finally, Georgia hisses into the phone. "That asshat is in Aruba? What the fuck? He's supposed to be on this trip with you!"

"I know. He called this morning and bailed right before I got on the plane."

"Shit," Georgia says. "So you're handling this project alone?"

"Unless you want to hop on a plane and come help me?" I'm joking, but just barely. I'd love Georgia's help.

I was being honest when I told Elise that Georgia is just a coworker. But she's still the closest thing to a friend I have. I've only been in Oklahoma City for eight months, two of which revolved around getting Elise settled in my apartment. My social circle is less of a circle and more of a dot.

Georgia cackles. "I've done my time at Zhukova Inc., thank you very much. That's probably why Roger bailed for an island vacation. The owner is a hardass."

"I wish everyone would stop saying that."

"It's true. Most of these places want to butter up to the accountants, you know? They cater in lunch and stop by to chat, show you pictures of their kids or whatever. But Zhukova is run like a military base."

I look up at the silver building. It gleams like a bullet, disappearing into the bright blue sky above. "Have you met the owner?"

"No. When I was there two years ago, I spoke with the VP. The owner wouldn't deign to see me. He just issues written memos from his office. Like he's a villain in a Bond film or something, lurking in the shadows."

"What kind of memos?"

"Mostly telling me to hurry up," Georgia snorted. "Apparently, I wasn't moving fast enough. He ended up sending down some of the in-house accountants to help out and rush me along."

I frown. "That kind of ruins the integrity of the audit, doesn't it?"

"When you get in there, you'll understand. Whatever it takes to get done fast, do it. Then come back and tell me all about it. When you get home, we'll go out for drinks, okay? You'll need 'em."

"Yeah, definitely." I smile and then hear the church a few blocks down chime the hour. "Shit. It's three o'clock already. I'm so late. I have to go."

"Good luck and godspeed," Georgia says.