Free His Passion by Ava Claire

Chapter Thirteen
    “A re you gonna glare at me like you want to kill me the entire flight to Paris?”
    My brother's question was a valid one. We'd only been in the air for half an hour, with an hour to go before we'd land at Paris Charles de Gaulle Airport.
    I refused to say a word to him.
    I had spared nothing as he strode into the belly of my jet, dropping into the leather seat like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. I held back the urge to tell him I was the one that felt heavy. Suffocating while I shared the same oxygen as him, knowing that I was the one to blame. I’d agreed to take him to Paris in the first place.
    On the inside, my lips were far from the angry line I cemented on my face.They were an open roar, with all the things I wished I could say shooting from me like daggers.
    What I wanted to say was, Who the hell do you think you are?
    First, he traipsed into our hotel room, all bug eyed and innocent, like he ‘accidentally’ stumbled on my wife and I having sex.
    I knew the sounds Lay made; every hot moan and whimper she uttered was far from a whisper. There was nothing that made me melt, that freed the groans I couldn't tame, than looking deep into her eyes while I felt her desire. Her liquids licking my flesh. Her muscles squeezing every hardened inch of me.
    It was impossible to interpret our sounds as anything other than a couple having sex.
    A flash of the ‘a‘ word that made me cringe, alpha, blinded me. The fact that a man had seen my wife in the throes of passion, in the moments that were ours alone, was unacceptable. That the man who’d done the peeping was my brother, was even more offensive.
    And as if my brother 'stumbling' upon us wasn't bad enough, he came armed with some story about his sister being in trouble. He even added tears for an extra dash of guilt. He played our emotions like a pro.
    And here we all were, a dysfunctional family, headed to another foreign country. This nightmare seemed to have no end.
    I was hoping that if I challenged him with my death glare he'd shy away or reveal some twitch or smirk; some tangible evidence that this was all some ruse. But he just stared back at me, both hands out like he was saying 'this is me, Jacob. No bullshit.' There was a vulnerability in it, a capitulation that didn't make me want to beat my chest, or beat him, if I was being honest. It made me feel worse for suspecting he had ulterior motives in the first place.
    I conceded, turning away first in disgust. I pulled my glass of Scotch to my lips and found it empty. Adding insult to injury, Leila pointedly cleared her throat when I pressed the call button for the attendant.
    The attendant appeared instantly. She was substituting for my usual flight attendant, a bubbly redhead that connected with my wife and knew me well enough to cut me off or wisely offer to bring a water as well. The substitute must have been used to a clientele that appreciated the fact that she smiled for several beats longer than necessary.
    “Another scotch, Mr. Whitmore.” She purred my last name and lowered the napkin and fresh glass. She bent at an angle that would have given me a perfect view of her breasts, but my eyes were on Leila's. Leila’s eyes were on the ceiling. I couldn't help but smirk when my wife cleared her throat again, an unhealthy and irritated sound that made the attendant snap to attention and whirl to face her.
    “I’m sorry, can I get you something, Mrs. Whitmore?”
    “A hot tea.” Leila’s voice was tinged with agitation. “Please bring my husband a water too, please.”
    The attendant’s professionalism was dialed up to 1000. “Yes ma'am.” Her heels tapped on the hardwood floor as she skittered off to grab our beverages.
    Leila crossed her legs, flashing me a scolding look. I ignored it, my fingers brushing the glass before I pretended to tighten my tie.
    “Hey, I'll take Scotch too!” Cole hollered, setting my nerves on edge. “Don't bother with the glass.