Chapter 31
It happened over Japan.
The captain's voice came soft over the cabin speakers — beginning our descent, please return to your seats — but Lance didn't move from the sofa, and Brett didn't move from his lap.
They'd been like that for an hour, curled together under a cashmere throw, Brett's navy stewardess dress wrinkled, his stockings still on, his stilettos kicked off on the floor, his high ponytail completely fallen out now, his long honey blonde hair a mess around his shoulders. His pink lipstick was long gone. His three-carat diamond kept catching the low cabin light every time he shifted.
Lance's hand was under the throw, warm and big, spanning Brett's tiny twenty-three inch waist, his thumb stroking slow circles over the silk lining of Brett's dress, right over the soft skin of his belly.
"Japan," Lance murmured against Brett's hair, his voice low and rough from hours of kissing, from hours of not kissing, from hours of teasing.
Brett lifted his head from Lance's chest, his big blue eyes dark and heavy-lidded, his perfect lips swollen, his D cup breasts rising and falling fast under the sweetheart neckline. The maximum hormones made his whole body feel like a live wire, made his skin hypersensitive, made his heart hammer so hard he was sure Lance could feel it.
"Are we going to talk about it the whole way to Singapore?" Brett whispered in his soft alto, his sharp canines flashing as he tried for his dangerous smile and failed completely. His voice shook. "Or are you actually going to take me to that bed?"
Lance stared at him for a long beat, his blue eyes searching Brett's face, seeing the nerves underneath the bravado, seeing the twenty-one-year-old boy from Whitefish underneath the goddess in the stewardess dress.
Then, without a word, Lance stood up with Brett in his arms again, the cashmere throw falling away, and carried him toward the back of the plane, past the galley where the flight attendant discreetly disappeared, toward the closed door of the master suite.
Brett clutched at his shoulders, his long legs dangling, his stockinged feet bare, his heart in his throat.
Lance kicked the bedroom door shut behind them and set Brett gently on his feet beside the huge white bed.
The room was dim and quiet, the engines a distant hum, the world 41,000 feet below them completely gone.
Lance reached up with shaking hands and slowly pulled the zipper down the back of Brett's navy dress, the metal teeth parting inch by inch, revealing the long line of Brett's spine, the black lace bra strap, the golden skin he'd worked eleven weeks to perfect.
Brett shivered as the dress fell, as Lance pushed it off his shoulders, as it pooled at his feet around his ankles. He stood there trembling in just his black lace bra and panties and garter belt and sheer stockings, his tiny waist cinched, his hips flared, his breasts high and full.
And his diamond.
Lance sank to his knees in front of him, right there on the carpet of a private jet over Japan, and pressed his face gently against Brett's stomach, his arms wrapping tight around Brett's hips, holding him like something precious.
"Brielle," Lance whispered, his voice breaking completely. "Look at you."
Brett's hands came down to cradle Lance's dark head, his pink nails disappearing into his hair, tears spilling hot and fast down his cheeks, ruining the last of his makeup. The hormones made him weep at everything, at the reverence in Lance's voice, at the way Lance was looking up at him like he was a miracle.
"I kept it for you," Brett choked out, the old fear suddenly surfacing, his soft girl voice small and scared. "I'm not all the way... I'm not..."
"I know," Lance said fiercely, standing in one smooth motion and cupping Brett's face with both his big hands, forcing Brett to look at him. "I know exactly who you are. You're the woman I fell in love with at nine pm over text. You're the woman I'm going to marry. You're perfect."
He kissed him then, deep and slow and claiming, backing Brett up until the backs of his knees hit the big white bed, until Brett fell back onto the soft Frette sheets in his lingerie and stockings, his blonde hair fanned out around him like a halo.
Lance followed him down, bracing himself over Brett's tiny body, careful not to crush him, his blue eyes never leaving Brett's face.
"Tell me to stop," Lance whispered against Brett's lips, his whole body trembling with restraint, with love, with eleven weeks of wanting. "Tell me to stop and I will… his throbbing erect cock was pressed in between Brett’s perfect ass cheeks ….. We'll just sleep."
Brett stared up at him, at the man who'd known him since they were sixteen, at the man who'd given him a million dollars and a new life and a three-carat diamond, at the man who was looking at him like he was the only thing in the world.
He reached up with his diamond hand and pulled Lance down by the back of his neck, his legs wrapping around Lance's waist, his stockinged thighs locking tight.
"Don't you dare stop," Brett breathed, his dangerous smile finally back, watery and perfect and real, his sharp canines flashing. "Make me yours, Lance he mooned as he pressed his ass against Lance’s rock hard throbbing cock. At forty-one thousand feet."
Lance groaned, a low, broken sound deep in his chest, and kissed him again as he lowered his full weight onto Brett's soft, welcoming body, the big white bed enveloping them both….
Outside the small oval window, the clouds glowed pink with sunrise over Japan. Inside, wrapped in white sheets and each other, Brett finally, completely, let go.
Hours later, when the captain announced their initial descent into Singapore, Brett was asleep in Lance's arms in the big bed, wearing nothing but his black stockings and his diamond, his long blonde hair tangled, his perfect lips swollen, his D cup breasts rising and falling softly against Lance's chest.
Lance lay awake, holding his one-hundred-and-twenty-nine-pound fiancée, his hand resting protectively low on Brett's flat belly, and pressed a reverent kiss to Brett's temple.
The mile high club had nothing on this.
This was love….