Page 91 of My Dark Prince
“More often than not.” Ollie flipped off the autopilot, returning his hands to the yoke. “I try to get ten hours a week, at least. It calms me down. Keeps me fresh.”
I wiggled in the co-pilot seat, trying to get comfortable. “It’s horrible for the environment.”
“Last I checked, Dallas brought you here on a private jet, not a broom.” He glanced at me from the periphery of his shoulder. “Is it safe to say she wasn’t subjected to the same Greta Thunberg monologue?”
“Correct.” I tipped my head back, staring at the lighting controls. “She’s my friend. One day, I hope to appeal to her common sense—”
“Good luck finding it.”
“Butyou’re my actual husband-to-be. We should be making big decisions together.” I flung my hands in the air. “And flying around the globe creating the carbon footprint of three presidents is unheard of.”
“Threepresidents? That’s a stretch.” He puffed out his cheeks. “These fuckers fly from golf course to golf course if the sun sets too fast.”
I fanned my cheeks. We could’ve fried an egg inside the cockpit – a stark contrast to the cabin, which could double as a freezer.
“Don’t be a smart ass.” I hiked my sleeves up my arms, rolling them over my shoulders. “There is no excuse for what we are doing to the environment, Oliver.”
Ollie’s eyes caught the flash of skin on my arms. He tensed, going rigid as he tracked my movements. “Clearly, you forgot all our trips to Martha’s Vineyard and the charcuterie you gobbled by the board. You made Dallas look like she invented hunger strikes.”
“This isn’t funny.”
I hooked my finger around the neck of my tee and pulled, fanning air into the gap.
God, why is it so hot in here?
“Is this broken?” My hands hovered over the AC vents. “We need to start flying commercial.”
I grabbed the hem of my shirt and yanked it up, rolling it just under my chest and tucking it inside my bra. Ollie peeled his gaze from the clouds, glancing at me.
He swallowed hard, his voice taking a sharp edge. “You need to stop doing this.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s hard to keep my eyes forward, and I’d really like to get us home.”
I snorted. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before. You can’t even see my bra.”
His throat rolled with another swallow. “What if I told you every time with you hits just like the first time?”
“Then, I’d tell you I hope to hell it’s not the same for me, because the first time we slept together, it felt like you were that machine that cuts cold meats, only with my internal organs.”
Oh, shit.
I remembered that night, I realized. In Paris. On my birthday. Philomena and Jason had abandoned me, and Oliver saved the day, whisking me away by train. The tattoo. Dancing inthe streets. Drinking my weight in wine. Sloppy orgasms on crisp hotel sheets.
Ollie slapped a hand to his chest. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
I laughed, despite myself. This was supposed to be a serious conversation.
No wonder I became an intimacy coordinator, I thought, my mind still on Paris. If every time we made love sizzled like that night, I bet he couldn’t pry me out of the bedroom. Suddenly, I couldn’t wait to regain my memories for another reason. Getting in my fiancé’s pants.
Clouds blanketed the path beneath us in pillowy tufts. Something struck me as we sliced through the sky.
“Hey.” I scowled. “I’m an environmentalist.”
That had to be the reason for the knot in my gut that refused to unravel.
“Aren’t I fucking lucky,” he muttered, almost too quiet for me to hear. “It just keeps getting better and better.”
