Chapter 30
Two glasses of champagne later, the teasing stopped being teasing.
Brett was no longer perched primly on Lance's lap in his navy stewardess dress. He was straddling him, knees on either side of Lance's hips on the wide cream leather sofa, his tight skirt rucked up high around his thighs, the lace tops of his black stockings on full display, his six-inch stilettos dug into the cushions behind Lance's back for balance.
His high ponytail had come loose. His perfect pink lipstick was gone, kissed off. His big blue eyes were blown dark and wet, his cheeks flushed pink under his flawless makeup.
Lance's big hands were spanning Brett's tiny twenty-three inch waist, holding him steady as Brett rocked forward, as their bodies met and fit and pressed together through layers of expensive fabric.
"Still contemplating?" Lance growled against Brett's mouth, his voice wrecked, his blue eyes black with want, his cashmere sweater rumpled from Brett's clutching hands.
Brett answered by kissing him again, desperate and deep and messy, the way he'd been dreaming about for eleven weeks. He took Lance's lower lip between his perfect white veneers, his slightly sharpened canines catching just enough to make Lance groan low in his throat, and then soothed it with his tongue.
Lance's hands slid from Brett's waist down to his hips, gripping tight through the navy dress, pulling him down harder, and Brett gasped into his mouth as he felt it — the hard, unmistakable press of Lance against him, straining against his jeans, hot and insistent even through their clothes.
And Lance felt Brett too, felt the answering hardness trapped and aching under the tight stewardess dress, pressing back against him through the thin fabric and the delicate lace panties underneath.
They broke apart panting, foreheads touching, both shaking.
"Oh my god," Brett whimpered, his soft alto breaking, his D cup breasts heaving against Lance's chest with every breath, the sweetheart neckline of his dress slipping lower. "Lance..."
"I feel you," Lance whispered, his voice thick with awe and lust, his hands sliding up and down Brett's stockinged thighs, his thumbs brushing the bare skin where the stockings ended. "God help me, Brielle, I feel everything."
Brett rolled his hips forward without thinking, a slow, instinctive grind, his body moving on pure hormone and want, and the friction made them both cry out. The navy dress was too tight, the fabric pulling deliciously, the evidence of his arousal impossible to hide, pressing bold and obvious against Lance's stomach.
Lance's head fell back against the sofa, his eyes closing, his jaw tight. "You're killing me in this dress."
"Good," Brett purred, finding his confidence again through the haze of want, his dangerous smile flashing despite his swollen lips. He ground down again, deliberately this time, watching Lance come undone beneath him. "You said fourteen hours, handsome. You said flirt."
"This isn't flirting," Lance gasped, his hands flying up to cup Brett's face, to tangle in his loosened blonde hair, pulling him down for another desperate kiss. "This is torture."
Brett laughed breathlessly into his mouth, his diamond hand sliding down Lance's chest, over his heart hammering like a drum, lower, stopping just above the hard ridge straining against Lance's jeans. He didn't touch, just hovered, teasing.
"Tell me again," Brett whispered against Lance's lips, his big blue eyes locked on his, tears of overwhelm pricking at the corners from the sheer intensity of the hormones, of being wanted like this. "Tell me you want to join the mile high club with me."
Lance stared up at him, at his beautiful, impossible fiancée in a stewardess dress and stockings, straddling him at 41,000 feet, shaking with want, his three-carat diamond flashing every time he moved.
"I've wanted you since the first time you texted me at nine pm," Lance said hoarsely, his voice breaking with emotion, not just lust. "I've wanted you through eleven weeks of video calls and voice notes and pictures. I want you in Singapore, I want you in Montana, I want you in this plane, in that bed in the back, everywhere."
He rolled his hips up, meeting Brett's grind with his own, and Brett sobbed out a soft, high sound, his head dropping to Lance's shoulder, his body melting.
"But," Lance continued, his big hands gentle now, stroking up Brett's back, soothing, holding, "not like this. Not desperate and aching and halfway dressed on a sofa."
Brett lifted his head, confused and bereft and still grinding softly against him, his hormones screaming. "What?"
Lance cupped his face with both hands, his blue eyes so full of love it made Brett's chest hurt. "When we join the mile high club, baby," Lance whispered, brushing his thumb over Brett's swollen lower lip, "I want you spread out on that big white bed in the back. I want that dress off. I want those stockings on. I want that diamond catching the light. I want to take my time."
Brett stared at him, his lips parted, his entire one-hundred-and-twenty-nine-pound body trembling in Lance's lap, his arousal still pressed hard and obvious against Lance's, both of them breathing like they'd run a marathon.
"You," Brett breathed, his voice full of wonder and want and love, "are going to ruin me."
"I'm going to marry you," Lance corrected softly, and kissed him again, slow and deep and promising, his hands holding Brett's hips still, stopping the desperate grinding, turning it into something sweeter, something patient.
When they finally broke apart, Brett slid off Lance's lap and curled into his side on the sofa, tucking his stockinged legs up under him, his head on Lance's chest, his diamond hand resting over Lance's heart.
Lance wrapped his arm tight around Brett's tiny waist, pressing a kiss to his mussed blonde hair.
"Two more hours to Japan," Lance murmured, his voice still rough. "Then we go to bed."
Brett smiled against his cashmere sweater, his eyes fluttering closed, his body still humming, still aching, still pressed close enough to feel Lance hard against his hip.
"Teasing," Brett whispered sleepily, his soft girl voice full of mischief.
"Flirting," Lance whispered back, holding him tighter.
And over the dark Pacific, at 41,000 feet, with a king-size bed waiting in the back and a three-carat diamond on his finger, Brett fell asleep in his fiancé's arms, both of them still wanting, both of them still waiting, both of them completely, desperately in love.…