“God. Pax. I…” Her words are little pants. Gasps, even. She struggles to force them out, but the reverence in them is plain. I am her god, and she is worshipping me. As it should be. As it will always be. This girl with the caramel-colored eyes, the heavy, amazing teardrop breasts, and the most distracting dimple in her right cheek? She’s quite easily the most stunning creature I’ve ever laid eyes on. I could happily pin her against this tree trunk, and—
“HEY!”
I come to, slamming my knee into the seat in front of me, hissing at the bolt of pain that shoots all the way up my leg.
Ow.
“Hey, wake up! Damn, dude, are you okay? That looked like it hurt.”
Where the fuck am I?
What the fuck is that rushing, sucking, roaring sound?
For a second, I worry that my ears aren’t working properly. And then it all comes together: the phone call from the hospital in New York. The nurse who let it slip that my mother has cancer. The nine hours waiting on a hard-plastic bench, trying to get a flight. The shitty airport food. Boarding the plane. The smell of smoke still clinging to my clothes. The Contessa. Christ. The Contessa. I’m not a coward, but I’m not looking forward to telling Wren Jacobi that I sank his boat with my dick.
If I hadn’t told that French chick that I was twenty-one just so I could get her naked, she wouldn’t have torched the fucking thing. As it now stands, my obituary will be short: PAX DAVIS, 18, former model and general asshole, succumbed to his injuries almost immediately. If only he hadn’t fucked that crazy French bitch.
“Dude, I thought you were having a heart attack.”
To my left, the guy I’m sharing row thirty-six with is wide-eyed, his mouth hanging open. His Bose headphones hang around his neck, aggressive rap music leaking from the speakers. “You were moaning.” He laughs. “I thought that hot flight attendant was gonna shit herself.”
I rub my eyes. “I have nightmares on planes.”
The guy puffs out his cheeks. “Nightmare? Sounded like you were three seconds away from coming.”
I’m about to deny it again, but I shift my hips in my seat and realize that my dick is harder than granite; I’m pitching wood so bad you can probably see my erection from outer space. I actually must have been about to come, which is just…awesome. Wow. Just fucking awesome. I smile tightly, shunting myself upright. I can’t hide my massive boner without touching myself and I do not want to draw attention to it, so I just let it sit there, glaringly obvious and impressively upright.
This far back on the plane—the very last damn row—the chairs don’t recline. I’ve been drifting in and out of consciousness for hours, miserable and in pain, cursing the fact that not only am I stuck in economy but in the most uncomfortable seat in the history of air travel. My body hurts, and now my cock is hard enough that it hurts, too.
“Come on, then. Spill. Who were you getting hot and heavy with in your sleep?” the guy next to me asks. He introduced himself when I sat down next to him during boarding. Told me his name, but I forgot it right after. He’s had this fixed smile on his face since we boarded that’s made me want to slap him; no one has the right to be this happy for no goddamn reason.
“I told you. It was a nightmare. There was no hot and heavy.”
He’s disappointed, it’s clear, but so fucking what? I don’t know this clown. He doesn’t deserve personal information from me. And I don’t remember who I was about to bone in my dream. It certainly wasn’t Crazy Margarite.
The guy swivels around, sitting straight in his seat again. “We’re only an hour from New York. You missed breakfast. They said they’d bring one of the meals back and leave it for you, but I think they forgot.”
“I’ll eat when we land.”
“I’m sure they’d bring you something if you—”
I slip my AirPods into my ears, shutting him out. He stops talking when he sees what I’ve done. His smile finally fades; looks like I’ve hurt his feelings. At least he leaves me alone for the rest of the flight.
The moment the plane’s wheels touch down and the seatbelt light goes off, I’m up out of my seat, grabbing my bag from the overhead storage, and I’m shoving my way down the aisle before the gangway can get clogged up by the other passengers. Thankfully, I manage to tuck my dick—yeah, I’m still sporting the boner that will not quit—up into the waistband of my jeans, neatly out of the way so that it’s less noticeable as I charge off the plane. A hostess with braided blonde hair standing at the plane’s exit pales when she sees me coming toward her.
“Have a nice day,” she mutters.
I bolt past her without a word.
“He’s the one who was growling,” I hear behind me. “He said he was gonna choke someone with his—ahem—”
Cock.
Pretty sure it was my cock, but I could be wrong. The details of the dream have already disintegrated into a haze of vague colors and shapes…
Ahh, shit. It’s fucking hot. Even in the airconditioned walkway that leads from the plane into the main building of JFK, the heat and humidity slaps me in the face. The air is cloying—a cocktail of smells that create an odor so unpleasant and unique to this airport that I immediately know I’m home.
Four days. That’s how long I was in Corsica.
Four.
Fucking.
Days.
So much for mid-semester break.
I could have stayed, of course. Nothing stopping me. With three summers’ modeling work under my belt, I have plenty of money and sweet fuck all to spend it on, trapped up a mountain at a private boarding school in the middle of New Hampshire. I could have put myself up at the most expensive hotel on the island and had a grand old time, but the trip was soured for me once The Contessa disappeared below the surface of the Mediterranean. As the boat listed in the water, her mast damaged the super yacht in the next mooring, and when the super yacht’s owner showed up and started cursing in Italian, I took that as my cue to get the fuck out of dodge. My return to the States has nothing to do with my mother’s cancer diagnoses.
On autopilot, I navigate my way through customs and head to baggage claim. All of my clothes went down with The Contessa, but I bought a stupid amount of stuff to replace what I lost at the airport. I was on autopilot. I wasn’t thinking. I shouldn’t have bothered, but I did. Now, a part of me just wants to walk away from huge suitcase full of designer gear, but I just can’t seem to bring myself to do it.
I’m a million miles away, mental gears spinning, when I realize that I’m being watched. Stared at, in fact. Two girls in their early twenties hover on my left, whispering and giggling to one another as they look me over.
There was a time when I might have been flattered by their attention. Now, it just—oh, Jesus Christ. That’s why they’re looking at me. I’ve inadvertently stood right next to one of those digital advertising screens. It’s ten feet tall, almost as wide, and guess who’s plastered all over the damn thing?
Yeah.
That would be me.
In nothing but a pair of very tight, white boxer briefs, I might add.
The girls both blush hotly when they realize that I’ve noticed them. They’re both pretty. I’m flattered that they’ve turned crimson over the sight of my larger-than-life bare chest. If I play my cards right, they’ll probably come over. They’ll stammer and flush even redder, and I’ll flirt mercilessly, and before I know it all three of us will be checking into a room at one of the airport hotels close by. My dick will thank me. I’m still hard as fuck from that random sex dream on the plane. I have a relentless pulse in my cock, and every time the tip of it rubs against my underwear, I have to fight the urge to go and jerk off in the men’s room.