Free Kinked by Thea Harrison

Her whole body clenched tight.
    Goddammit.
    But her mind didn’t stop there. Oh no. She had to put herself in the scene too.
    Standing right behind him, unzipping his jeans. Reaching in the opening to pull out his cock. His skin would be hot silk over that hard, engorged muscle, the broad tip damp.
    There was no denying that he was a beautiful, beautiful man.
    Where would his hands be while she was doing all this to him? What was he doing?
    She thought of the handcuffs on the brunette, and the leather strip he had given the woman to bite. He would want to take control. He was that kind of guy. Huh-uh, this was her fantasy. She took control. So his hands were pulled overhead, and he was handcuffed to a railing.
    He was furious with her, because he was always furious with her, and she couldn’t really imagine him any other way. And his penis was stiff as a board.
    She could do anything she wanted to him.
    She massaged that heavy, thick work of art in her hands, watching him in the mirror over his shoulder as his long, rippling abdominal muscles tightened. If he tasted anywhere near as good as he looked, she could feast on him for days.
    Her breath shortened, and her hands fisted. Part of her was horrified at what she was imagining.
    Oh, not the sex fantasy part. The
Quentin
part.
    She jerked her thoughts away from the image and cast about to focus on something else, anything else. Something excruciatingly boring. She thought of the paperwork piled up on her desk. She was already behind, and spending two weeks to a month away was only going to make it worse. Nobody was going to write those reports for her. It would all be waiting for her when she got back.
    She wondered if there was anyone she could coax, coerceor blackmail into doing them while she was gone. Off the top of her head, she couldn’t think of anyone. With her and Quentin out of the picture, none of the sentinels back in New York would have the time, nor, after this morning’s little stunt, would any of them have the inclination to help her out. Those reports were her karma.
    Her sharp hearing picked up muted laughter from the nearby galley. A couple of the people laughing were feminine, and one was unmistakably Quentin. He wasn’t doing anything interesting in the lavatory. He was flirting with the flight attendants.
    The last of her lingering arousal soured into irritation. She twitched a shoulder, more annoyed with herself than with anything else. The longer he flirted with them, the longer he stayed away. They could have him.
    Eventually Quentin came back and eased into his seat. Aryal kept her eyes closed. She sensed that he was looking at her. The touch of his gaze was almost physical, and the skin along her cheek tingled.
    He shifted, a slight creak of leather boots and the brush of denim. She
knew
without looking that he was bending closer. She could feel the heat of his body, and her muscles tightened, twitching with the desire to smash her fist into his face.
    Back off.
Back off.
    He whispered, “I know you’re not sleeping.”
    The warm, moist breath from his words licked along her cheek in an invisible caress. It was intimate and sensual. It felt good.
    Her body was a gun, and the desire for violence vibrated like a finger on the trigger. Just one good punch. One well-placed punch with the full weight of her body behind it would do a lot of damage to that sexy, treacherous face of his.
    But it wouldn’t be just one good punch. It would be a match to dry kindling, and there were too many innocent, vulnerable people surrounding them in quarters that were much too tight. She was going to have to wait.
    She held still, not breathing. He hesitated then eased back into his seat. Then the hours scrolled by slowly, flowing overthe plane’s wings into the past, and they didn’t speak again for the rest of the interminable flight.
    Eight o’clock in the morning in Prague was as bleak as New York had been, the temperatures hovering just above freezing.