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  They'd been together for almost five years now, but had only recorded their debut commercial album a year ago. They got lucky and it launched into the stratosphere on the first try. The major record label that signed them was rumored to be making bank off their deal, but I suspected that while Kent had a nice car and nice clothes, the rest of the band was like most bands—barely getting by. The most distressing things I found were the revelations of Carter's exploits. Carter, it seemed, could not stay out of trouble. It was an innocuous sort of trouble, nothing like drunk driving or getting into fights, but he did every drug known to man and the band had been forced to cancel more than one show because no one could wake him up from his drug and alcohol induced comas.

  After the plane had taken off, I popped my phone open and read the biography on Carter again. This was the person Kent wanted to find a babysitter for? He sounded like a menace. I hadn't had a chance to check them all, but there were about a hundred and one links to celeb gossip sites in my search results, and most of them started with some variation on, Carter Hudson, guitarist and songwriter for the hot new band The Lonely Kings, was seen on the red carpet last night holding a hedgehog and drunkenly pissing himself as his hapless date, Interchangeable Starlet, attempted to support his weight on her Jimmy Choo stilettos. Who wore Carter Hudson's drunk ass the best? Let's compare and find out!

  I was more certain than ever that I didn't really want this job. I didn't care how much it paid. Putting up with Kent's bullying and babysitting a drunk and a drug addict was not worth it for any amount of money. On the other hand, I had been putting up with it for the last four years for free. I should totally demand a doubled salary for experience.

  I shook my head. No, no, no. Don't need that headache any more...

  “Ma'am? You don't want anything to drink?”

  What? Drink? What?

  I looked up to see the stewardess already moving on from me. I wanted to speak up and let her know that yes, I did, in fact, want something to drink, but then I remembered that I had almost no money and any drink worth having today was going to have to be a stiff one. I watched her from the corner of my eye as she strolled on by with the cart and waited for the fasten seatbelt sign to go off. The flight from LA to Vegas was only about an hour—not nearly enough time to drink my troubles away—but if I could just get a little buzz going the rest of the day was going to be a lot easier to deal with.

  After about ten minutes the seat belt sign dinged off, and I leaped out of my seat and scrambled across my seatmates. The person in the middle was an older woman with terrible flatulence and the passenger in the aisle was a businessman who gave me a dirty look as I forced him to move whatever world-changing work he was doing on his laptop so I could get past him.

  I felt the familiar blush begin to creep up my face again. I was sick of blushing. Where had my confidence gone? Had I ever had any?

  "Pardon me," I told the man, "I just have to go take a shit. I could do it in your bag if you don't want me to interrupt you."

  Okay, I didn't say that. But I wanted to. Someday, I was going to actually say the things I thought in my head out loud. Someday I was going to own a house with a trampoline room, too.

  Fuck everything, I thought. I need a drink. I strode to the back of the cabin, my eyes trained on the restroom. If I knew my cheap value flights, the drinks cart was going to be right next to the bathroom, and I was going to sticky-finger my way to happiness.

  I didn't meet anyone's eyes, so intent I was on my goal, and when I reached the restroom I found that my hunch had indeed been right—and just my luck, the stewardesses were off tending to cranky passengers. Slipping past the restroom door, I pretended to inspect it and find it occupied. It wasn't, but it was important to maintain the illusion. I lingered outside the door for a moment, then heaved a huge sigh and moved around the corner so I could rest against the wall. And what was this? The drinks cart conveniently located just by my wandering hands? Excellent.

  I shook my hand out of my coat pocket and coughed into it, and when I lowered it again I let it slip past the little rows of tiny liquor bottles. Extending my fingers, I snagged two and slipped them into my pocket, looking around to make sure no one had noticed me.

  No one had. I could probably sneak a few more.

  This time I yawned, covering my mouth and making a huge display of how dreadfully tired I was. I snagged three small vodkas on my way down. I turned to peer down the aisle again, just to make sure no one was watching me.

  Unfortunately, I turned straight into Kent Hudson's chest.

  Well, shit, I thought.

  Kent raised an eyebrow and stared down at me. “Why Rebecca, are you waiting for the restroom?”

  Mutely, I nodded. Had he seen me take the alcohol? Was he going to rat me out? Was this the end of my illustrious career as a babysitter for a grown man? For some reason, I felt a flash of disappointment at the thought. No matter what kind of fresh hell Carter Hudson would have put me through, at least it would be something different. Being a personal assistant to a rock star would have changed my life. And since my life was pretty crappy at the moment, there was nowhere for me to go but up.

  He took a step forward, backing me up into the drinks cart.

  I felt the heat rolling from his body, and his blue-green eyes burned as he stared down at me. "Mr. Hudson..." I said. I hated the reedy, thin sound of my voice, as though I were pleading with him. I should be demanding. I should be ordering him to back off. Instead I just hoped he would take one more step, and press that body up against mine. He may have been an asshole, but he oozed sex from every pore. I could hardly breathe.

  "Please," he said, "call me Kent. And I will call you Rebecca."

  I licked my lips. "Kent," I said. I forced myself to stand up straighter, even though it brought me even closer to him. My breasts, thrust out as I threw my head back and looked him straight in the eye, grazed over his chest. I felt the contact bolt all the way from my nipples down to my clit.

  "That's better," he said. "So, Rebecca, were you going to share your ill-gotten gains with the rest of the class?"

  Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit. "They never mix drinks right on a plane," I said. "I wanted to do it myself."

  "And does it taste better if you don't pay for it?"

  Shit.

  On the outside I tried to project an air of calm and confidence, but on the inside I was shrieking at the top of my lungs. He'd seen me. The jig was up. I was doomed. I would be arrested, held for theft of approximately three point three ounces of alcohol, not even enough to get properly toasted from. You always hear about the people who get busted for less than half a joint in their car and you wonder why they just didn't throw it out the window when they were finished with it. Well, that was me. I was the idiot.

  "It tastes the same either way," I told him. "But I don't have any money and you are stressing me out."

  He tilted his head. His dark locks fell across his forehead, brushing against his strong, dark brows, bringing his blue-green eyes into further focus. "And you drink when you are stressed out?" he asked.

  This was a trap. I could feel it. I set my jaw. "Actually no," I told him. "I clean when I get stressed. But since there's nothing for me to clean on an airplane, I thought I'd try to calm my nerves instead."

  His eyes widened slightly at this. "You... clean?" he asked me incredulously.

  "Yes, I clean. You know, scrub floors, dust, tidy up. I'm very good at it. That's why I was applying for a housekeeping position. I'm stressed, I might as well get paid for what I'm going to be doing anyway."

  "What a strange way to get your stress out," he said. He lowered his voice, so that only I could hear it through the buzzing of the engines. "Me, I like to fuck." And his eyes narrowed as he leaned in. His hips butted against mine and I felt, through his trousers, the hot bulge of an erection.

  Oh my god. Oh my god. What was going on here? I scrabbled for sanity.

  "You said I wouldn't be a whore," I said bre
athlessly.

  "And I'm not paying you, am I?" he replied. Casually he stepped back and made a huge show of inspecting the bathroom door. "It says it's unoccupied. You should go in and take care of business. Are you feeling well?" His voice suddenly turned to one of concern.

  "What?" I said.

  He turned and spoke to someone. "My friend is feeling ill," he said. "I'm going to help her out."

  "Sir, I'm afraid that's not allowed..."

  A stewardess. He was talking to a stewardess.

  I don't know what possessed me to do it, but I suddenly doubled over and began to cough. "Kent!" I managed to say between gags. "Kent, help..."

  "I have to," Kent said. "Write me up, get the marshall to come over and make sure we're not terrorists, but she is about to yak everywhere.”

  Strong hands landed on my coat and hauled me upright. Then he opened the restroom door, dragged me inside, and closed the door behind us.

  The bathroom was crowded, and the opposite of sexy, but now his rock hard body was pressed completely against mine and arousal raced through me. "Jesus," I said.

  "I ain't Jesus. I'm way better in bed," he said, and pulled me toward him, his lips crashing down to meet mine.

  My god, the man knew how to kiss. Soft, pouted lips worked against mine, his hot, rough tongue flickering over my mouth, and I opened before him with a moan. His hands ran over my body, in out and everywhere, hot and demanding. His thigh pressed between mine, straight into my pussy and I rocked my hips over it, rubbing myself against him.

  What are you doing? I screamed at myself from the darkness of my head. This is your potential boss. Stop thinking with your metaphorical penis!

  But I couldn't. His touch woke something in me, something primal and needy that I couldn't remember ever feeling before, something that meant I couldn't stop, no matter how smart it would have been to pull away. He pulled out of the kiss and pressed his lips to my ear. The roar of the engines in the tiny bathroom were so loud I could hardly hear him, but the gust of hot, wet breath over the shell of my ear made every nerve on my body stand up and pay attention.

  "No time for a good fuck," he whispered hoarsely. "But always time to get off." And he lowered his hands to my jeans and unbuttoned them.

  "Oh, god," I said, or I think I said it. His fingers were calloused and rough, and after he'd yanked the zipper down he turned me around without tenderness and shoved his hand down my pants, insinuating his fingers between my panties and the mound of my sex.

  I was panting, riding high. He smelled rich and dark, like cigarettes and rum. His other hand grabbed my breasts and squeezed, kneading and tweaking in time with the thrust of his hips. His enormous cock, burning through his trousers and my jeans, nestled in the crack of my ass, and he ground it against my curves as his fingers slipped between my pussy lips and began to move.

  I put my hands out and braced myself on the vibrating walls, crying out as one calloused finger dragged over my sensitive clit. His mouth was on my ear, moving quickly, flicking the complex folds with his tongue as though he were imagining going down on me, lapping at my clit with the tip of his tongue. His finger was almost too much, dipping further inside me.

  "You're so fucking wet for me," he whispered. His voice, deep and resonant, echoed inside my head. I swallowed and closed my eyes as he ground his cock against my ass, his dipping and diving fingers sending me straight into the stratosphere.

  I wanted to fuck him, badly. I panted and mewled against him as he thrust his cock against me over and over. His free hand wandered over my breasts, down my rib cage, up to my throat. Long fingers closed over my windpipe and he pulled me into him, restricting my movements. I should have panicked, but I didn't. The feeling of being constrained, of being subjected to his carnal desires whether I wanted them or not, thrilled me darkly.

  He held me fast, slipping another finger between the slick folds of my pussy. I felt every rough, harsh ridge of the callouses on his fingers—the testament to his calling in life as a bassist—and when he lifted me with his leg, I let him tip my hips forward as he worked his way inside my core.

  "Kent," I moaned.

  "You'd be a great lay," he said. "I wish we had more time. I'm going to make you come, though. Are you ready?"

  His dirty words sent shockwaves of heat through me, and I nodded as best I could from my pinned position.

  "Good."

  Withdrawing his hand from my pussy, he released my throat before hooking his thumbs into the waistband of my pants. With a swift, strong yank he pulled down my underwear and my jeans.

  "Stand," he said. "Brace against the back wall."

  Swallowing, I did as I was told. My hands splayed out over cold, vibrating plastic, and the din of the engines drowned out all ambient noise—including the sound of a zipper. When I felt the hot, petal-soft flesh of his cock come to rest between my ass cheeks, I started and tried to twist away.

  A hand fisted in my hair. "You only have to say no, and I'll stop," Kent said.

  I shook my head as best I could with him holding me immobile. Each strand pulling from my scalp stung, but it was the good sort of pain, the kind that heightens pleasure. "Don't stop," I gasped.

  I'm not sure he heard me, but the shake of my head was enough. Carefully he reached down and put his fingers against my slick pussy again, delving into the dark space between my thighs, parting the lips and revealing the inner core with his index finger and ring finger. His middle finger curled and he placed the calloused pad of it against my clit.

  I squirmed at the contact. And empty space was opening inside me. It needed to be filled. If he didn't put his cock in me, I was going to perish.

  He didn't put his cock in me, and I somehow lived. What he did instead was slide his hot, thick shaft between my legs. With soft, gentle thrusts, he gathered moisture from my core, lubing up my thighs and pussy, until he glided easily over my skin. Then, with quick, small strokes, he began to fuck my closed thighs. My eyes rolled and my legs shook. Waves of pleasure washed over me, delectable sensations that only intensified with each thrust, and every flick of his finger over my clit made my entire body jump.

  He picked up speed, his hips slapping against my ass. I could hear the meeting of our bodies over the roar of the plane. I moaned, writhing around his finger on my clit, my hands scrabbling for purchase inside the tiny cabin, and a climax began to coil deep in my stomach, tight and heavy.

  Somewhere far away, my common sense was despairing. What are you doing? it asked me, but I didn't have an answer. All I knew was the attraction was chemical, something in the water, something in the air. I'd spent enough time fucking a terrible bully and a loser over the past four years—at least this time I was actually getting something out of it. I'd never been fucked like this, and I wasn't even getting fucked, technically. My toes curled in my shoes, sending me up on my tiptoes as my calves knotted with the tension of striving to reach my release.

  Then my back was covered in warmth as Kent curled over me. The smell of him blotted out everything, the cloying scent of tobacco and rum wrapping around me. "Fuck, Rebecca, your ass is so sweet," he moaned into my ear, yanking my head to the side. His lips found my pulse, and he sucked and bit, his hips hammering against me faster and faster, the finger circling my clit harder and more insistently.

  My orgasm built without mercy, something I couldn't escape, even if I wanted to. He felt it in my tensing muscles, in the fluttering of my pussy lips over his slippery cock.

  "Fuck, come for me, Rebecca. Come for me, now!"

  I sobbed, reaching for that release, and when the dam finally burst I shrieked and thrashed against him, my hands finding his hair, tangling and closing in it, holding him tightly against me as shudder after shudder ripped into my body.

  My knees buckled and I nearly fell, but his arm around me held me up by my clit. The rough caresses of his calloused musician's fingers strummed over my sensitive flesh, playing my body like an instrument, and the climax he wrung from it was the mo
st intense thing I'd ever known. Everything was his hand in my pussy, his hand in my pussy was my world. The grungy, cramped airplane lavatory melted away, the horrible things he'd said to me and others were wiped from my mind, the desperation of my situation, the power he held over me, my past, his rock star lifestyle—whatever it was—all of it crumpled and imploded beneath the weight of our mutual need.

  I still thrashed in the grip of my release when his hips stuttered and his rhythm, until now impeccable, became erratic, falling apart. The heavy sac of his testicles, slapping against my closed thighs, hitched high and tight as cum pumped up and through his shaft, and when he thrust hard against me, his enormous cock poked out from between my pussy lips and squirted stream after stream of hot cum against the back of the toilet seat. White cream splattered over the black lid, the physical proof of our transgression.

  "Fuck," he growled into my ear, his hands rough and restless on my body, gripping and pulling as if he could somehow crawl inside me. "Fuck, you feel so goddamn good..."

  For a moment we stood, barely supporting each other, panting as we came down from the high. Then, abruptly, Kent withdrew. I felt him shifting behind me, but by the time I turned around, he had already stuffed his cock back into his pants. Not wanting to be outdone, I pulled up my own jeans.

  I was thoroughly confused by now. Did this guy like me or hate me?

  The smell of him was still overwhelming me, filling my head with thoughts of rough sex and long nights full of champagne and roses and whips and chains...

  Oh dear. Where had those thoughts come from? It couldn't just be his scent... could it?

  Stupid smell, I griped, get out of my head! I ducked my face and zipped up my jeans with shaking hands, struggling to hide my confusion.

  To his credit—or rather, to his credit since I didn't peg Kent Hudson to be the sort of person who would bother—Kent grabbed some toilet paper, wiped away the cum from the back of the toilet seat, and flushed it away. Then he straightened and looked down at me.