He didn’t look at me again for a while.
Not when he passed out meals, not when he made eye contact with every other man in the cabin who wasn’t already soaked in his attention. I sat still and quiet, shifting just enough to ease the ache between my legs. But it didn’t help.
I could still feel his palm. His words. His heat.
He was everywhere.
I drank the champagne he poured earlier, not because I wanted it, but because my mouth felt too dry and my head was spinning. My eyes flicked up every time he passed, hoping for something. A nod. A signal. Another brush of fingers.
Nothing.
It was worse than the teasing.
---
He came back after the second round of drinks. Leaned down like he was checking my seatbelt.
“You look flushed,” he said under his breath, fingers barely grazing my inner
