Free Tight by Alessandra Torre

convincer, not me.”
    “Which is why I wanted you here. Is this crazy?”
    “You running off to a foreign country with a man you barely know? Yes.” Jena cracked open her Coke and held it to her forehead. “It’s hot in here. Did you already turn off the air?”
    “Turn on the fan. I’m trying to lower the utility bill. So ... I shouldn’t go?”
    She plopped down at my round table, picking through my mail until she found a postcard with enough strength to act as a fan. “It’s crazy, but I didn’t say you shouldn’t go. Go. Live. Hell, one person in this town should do something exciting. I’m saddled with two kids and a husband who hasn’t gone down on me since prom night. I’d kill for two nights in Aruba with a sexy stranger. Just be smart. What’s your dad think?”
    I looked away. “Haven’t told him. But I’m sure word’ll reach him by the time I return. If he calls you, let him know you have my hotel info and Brett’s number in case of emergency.”
    She groaned. “Great. Put me in the line of fire.”
    “You’re the only one who’ll stand up to him. The other girls will hand over the information as soon as he starts yelling.”
    She stood. “You know I love you, right?”
    I smiled. “I know. Thanks for feeding Miller.”
    “Gives me an excuse to escape the kids. Sleep in your bed. Watch your porn.”
    I laughed. “You find any, please leave it out for me. Showtime’s the only excitement these walls have seen lately.”
    She held out her arms. “Gimme a hug, then get out of here.”
    I gripped her tightly. “Wish me luck.”
    “You don’t need it.”
    ***
    I climbed onto the plane, a miniature version of Chelsea’s, with propellers instead of jets, with four seats behind the cockpit’s two. Brett crawled in behind me, a cell to his ear, the moment before takeoff stolen as he wrapped up a conversation. I was grateful, unsure what to say, feelings of awkwardness at an all-time high. I’d have to sleep with him, right? The man flew here, picked me up, and was taking me to Aruba? It’d be assumed, especially since our prior encounter had revolved around ripped panties and orgasms and ohmygodIthinkIsuckedhisdick. I looked around for a vomit bag and didn’t see one. Clenched my hands around the handle of my purse and felt the leather bend.
    “You okay?” He was off the phone, his hand settling on my shoulder, and I jumped a little at the contact, my gaze tripping to him, his eyes concerned, brows furrowed. God, he was even more beautiful than I remembered. I was a great girl ... but ... I was small-town pretty. Didn’t even own a thong till the bachelorette party. I wore a retainer to bed. Snored. Had the coordination of a giraffe. Barely owned two pairs of socks that matched. Shopped for clothes at Walmart. I didn’t belong on a private plane with this man, whose five o’clock shadow could dominate a magazine cover.
    “I’m sorry, Riley. I didn’t realize you were afraid of flying.” He fished under his seat, produced a paper bag. “It seems cliché, but breathe into this. It’ll help.”
    Thank God. A flimsy vessel for my throw-up. I grabbed the bag and opened it with shaky hands. Held it over my mouth, breathed deeply, and checked my stomach for queasiness. Yep, still there.
    “Do you want to wait? We don’t need to take off. I can run inside, see if there’s a bigger plane I can charter.”
    I shook my head. “I’ll be fine,” I managed to say, the words muffled a little by the bag. “It’s just nerves.”
    When he reached across me, his hands gently searching for, and pulling out, the seatbelt, I inhaled. Got a whiff of his cologne that took me back to last weekend.
    I feel the rough prickle of his cheek, wet suction as my right nipple makes its way into his mouth, his soft play of tongue against delicate skin, probing and teasing, a low moan coming out of me when he gently bites the tip of it.
    Okay, I could do this. I was a big girl. The edge of his hands