Kevin Forces Emily to Stop

Kevin's hand clamped down on Emily's wrist, his fingers digging into her skin with sudden urgency. "Enough," he growled, his voice low and ragged. The command sent a jolt through Emily—not fear, but something darker, more electric. She froze, her fingers still wrapped around him, his cock pulsing hot against her palm. The plane hit another pocket of turbulence, jostling them together, and Kevin used the momentum to wrench her hand away, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts.

Emily opened her mouth to protest, but Kevin cut her off with a look that made her throat go dry. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide with want, but his jaw was set in a hard line. "Not here," he muttered, glancing pointedly at the overhead seatbelt sign flickering to life. His grip on her wrist softened slightly, his thumb brushing over her racing pulse—a silent apology for the roughness.

She swallowed hard, her fingers tingling where they'd been pressed against him. The air between them crackled with unspent tension, thick enough to **** on. Kevin adjusted himself discreetly, his slacks still damp from the spilled drink, the fabric clinging to him in ways that made Emily's stomach flip. He exhaled sharply through his nose, dragging a hand down his face. "Christ, Emily," he muttered, more to himself than to her.

The flight attendant's cart rattled past again, the cheerful clink of ice cubes a stark contrast to the charged silence between them. Emily flexed her fingers in her lap, the ghost of his heat still lingering on her skin. She chanced a glance at Kevin—his profile was all sharp angles in the dim cabin light, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard.

He turned to her suddenly, his voice a rough whisper. "You're gonna be the **** of me." The words landed somewhere between a threat and a plea, and Emily's breath hitched. Before she could reply, the captain announced their descent, the intercom crackling with static. Kevin's fingers brushed against hers—just once, fleeting—before he turned to stare resolutely out the window, his knee pressing against hers in silent acknowledgment.

The plane touched down with a jolt that sent Emily's shoulder knocking into Kevin's again—this time hard enough to make him hiss through his teeth. She glanced over, catching the way his fingers dug into the armrests, the tendons in his forearms standing out in sharp relief beneath his rolled-up sleeves. His jaw was clenched so tightly she could see the muscle ticking, but when he turned to meet her gaze, his eyes were dark with something hotter than irritation. Emily swallowed, her throat suddenly dry.

The seatbelt sign dinged off, and passengers surged to their feet in the usual impatient scramble. Kevin stayed seated, letting the crowd thin before he unbuckled with deliberate slowness. Emily watched the way his fingers moved—the same efficient motions he used when adjusting his tie before a client meeting, but now charged with a tension that hadn't been there before. He stood abruptly, his damp slacks pulling taut across his thighs, and Emily had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from staring.

"Car's waiting," Kevin muttered, fishing his phone from his pocket. His thumb swiped across the screen with unnecessary ****. "Twenty minutes to the hotel. Enough time to..." He trailed off, his gaze flickering down to the stain on his slacks before darting away. Emily pretended not to notice the flush creeping up his neck.

They shuffled into the aisle, the press of bodies forcing Emily close enough to catch the scent of bourbon and disinfectant still clinging to Kevin's clothes. His hand hovered near the small of her back again—not touching, but close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his palm as they disembarked.

The Atlanta air hit them like a damp towel as they stepped onto the jet bridge. Emily fanned herself with her boarding pass, watching Kevin's profile as he squinted at his phone. A bead of sweat traced the line of his throat, disappearing beneath his collar. "Black SUV, curbside," he said, tucking the phone away. His fingers flexed at his sides, like he was resisting the urge to reach for something—or someone.