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Rip Wheeler had been thrown off bulls, shot at, stomped into the dirt, and nearly killed more times than he cared to count. None of it had ever put the fear of God in him like being off the damn ground.
The airplane hit another pocket of rough air, and his hand clamped the armrest hard enough to make the plastic groan. The other stayed planted on his thigh, fingers sunk deep in worn denim, as if he could white-knuckle the whole thing level. He didn’t trust it. Why would he? A hundred tons of pressurized steel had no business hanging in the sky, no matter how calm the pilot sounded over the intercom or how easily the flight attendant moved through the aisle with her tray of tiny bottles.
There was no exit, nothing to spur or brace against. Just thin air beneath his boots and a long drop. His cowboy hat sat forgotten in his lap, familiar as his own hands and no more useful. So he kept his eyes straight ahead. If he didn’t look out that tiny-ass window, maybe he could pretend he wasn’t trapped in a metal coffin miles above the earth.
Rip should’ve stayed right where he belonged, back in the high country, where the mountains cut a hard blue line past the far fence and the wind scoured the pasture clean. What kind of sense did it fucking make, looking down on mountains? They were meant to spear the clouds, not be reduced to folds of dark ground with snow caught in the seams. Up here, even the air was wrong, stale and pumped through a plastic vent.
But Beth wanted this.
A real honeymoon, three years too late, because life had a way of beating them bloody and barreling forward before they ever caught their breath. And if Beth wanted it, hell, Rip would walk through fire to give it to her.
His wife had made it sound easy. Couple hours, baby. You sit there, sip some whiskey, and next thing you know, I’m riding you someplace with a view.
Yeah. Bullshit.
He wasn’t sipping whiskey. He was strangling the armrest like a bronc rein, every nerve braced for that old, sick drop of being thrown.
“You’re sweating,” she said.
Rip didn’t look at her. “No, I ain’t.”
“You sure?”
“Pretty damn sure.”
“Baby, tell that to your shirt.”
No comeback came to him after that. No curse worth saying out loud, either. It was hard to argue with a shirt sticking to your back. So he kept his jaw locked tight and his eyes fixed forward, holding on to the last scrap of pride she hadn’t already peeled off him.
Hell of it was, she looked perfectly in her element.
Beth was built for this polished, expensive bullshit. Airports, airplanes, first-class seats, all of it. Getting sealed in a flying tube and fed crap for hours was just another errand on the way to whatever corner of the world she meant to bend to her will. Security had been proof enough. Beth had walked through it without so much as a pause, all sharp heels and sharper spine, while Rip stood there with his jeans worn thin at the knees and his belt buckle setting off alarms before he even touched the damn conveyor belt. Some TSA prick looked him up and down like he was one bad decision away from getting tackled.
But it didn’t matter where she was. Perched on a barstool in some smoky dive, drawing blood in a boardroom, drinking top-shelf vodka in the overpriced airport lounge, or—his favorite—sprawled out in a ranch pickup, Beth never looked out of place. Everybody else did.
That was the part that used to scare the shit out of him.
What could he possibly offer against a life like hers? The same goddamn view every morning? A man with his boots nailed to one piece of ground? Why would she choose him when she could have anyone she pointed a finger at?
For years, Rip figured Beth would never stop running. That one day, she’d step on a plane and not come back. That he’d hear the crunch of gravel fade down the Yellowstone road one last time, and spend the rest of his life listening for her voice in rooms she’d made too damn quiet by leaving.
Only she always came back.
Even when he braced for the day she wouldn’t.
And right now, his wife was all up in his space, smirking like a devil with a front-row seat to his suffering.
The plane gave another rough shudder and fell a few sickening feet, his stomach going with it.
“Breathe, cowboy,” she said. “You pass out, I’m giving you mouth-to-mouth right here in front of these people.”
Rip exhaled sharply through his nose. “I ain’t fond of dying strapped to a chair, sweetheart.”
“You’re not dying.”
“I might.”
“All the hell you’ve been through, and a little turbulence is what’s got you rattled?”
Overhead, the seatbelt sign chimed, sharp and cheerful as a dinner bell.
“Too bad Carter isn’t here to see this. Kid’d never believe it.”
“Ain’t nothin’ to see.”
“I don’t know, maybe I oughta tell him you damn near crawled in my lap and needed me to rock you through it like a scared little calf.”
Rip shot her a look, the kind that usually shut people up. But not Beth. Never Beth.
“There he is,” she teased. “I was starting to think your neck locked up from staring straight ahead like a damn statue.”
Smart-ass.
She always had been. Fifteen years old with a mouth like a loaded gun, and time hadn’t done a thing but give her better aim.
Her eyes dropped to his grip on the armrest. “Hate to break it to you, baby, but you ain’t got reins on this thing.”
The corner of his mouth almost moved, but Rip’s hand only locked down harder.
“You know that thing’s bolted down, right? Won’t take kindly to you trying to break it off. Pretty sure they charge extra for that.”
Beth clicked her tongue, shaking her head, already half-turning toward the flight attendant. “Should I ask the pilot to turn us around? Get you back on solid ground before you start doing real damage.”
She waited, as if she actually expected him to take the easy way out.
“No? Good. Honeymoon’s still on, then.”
He loved this woman. God help him, he did. Loved her for giving him no space to run, for refusing to let him sit in silence and suffer alone. She hadn’t let him do it when he was a boy with nothing but rage in his chest and blood on his hands, or later, when life beat him down over and over until staying down started looking easier than getting back up. Even now, she was the thing keeping him from disappearing too far into his own fucking head.
Her mouth brushed his ear. “God, I love this.”
Fire licked up his spine and settled hot at the back of his neck. Of course she did.
One of her hands landed on his thigh, light at first, close to his knee like she could still claim innocence, then began a slow climb that dragged every bit of his attention with it. The muscle jumped beneath her palm, but Rip didn’t move.
“You, big, bad, fearless cowboy,” she murmured, her fingers trailing slow, teasing circles up the seam of his jeans.
“Beth.”
“What?”
“Don’t start.”
“Oh, honey,” she said. “You think this is me starting?”
The plane smoothed out, enough for the seatbelt sign to blink off, but not enough to loosen the knot in Rip’s chest. And Beth? She was too damn pleased with herself.
“You know.” Her voice was softer now, almost thoughtful—like she wasn’t just teasing, but sizing up a plan, turning it over like a poker chip between her fingers. “I’ve got a way to help you relax.”
“Not on this plane, you don’t.”
“I bet I could make you forget we’re even up here.”
Doubtful. Real damn doubtful.
Beth pressed closer. “Let me distract you from this little dying-in-a-chair problem.”
“What, you gonna start talkin’ about horses or somethin’?” he asked.
“Nah. I’m more of a hands-on woman.”
Christ. That tone. That look. Whatever she was up to, it wasn’t gonna be good for his sanity.
Rip let the bait sit there, holding himself still while she drummed her fingers against his inner thigh. It didn’t matter which way he played it—with Beth, the house always won. Thing was, that didn’t necessarily mean he was going to lose.
“Nothing? No wild guess? Not even a side-bet on how much trouble you’re in?”
“Darling, just say it.”
“The Mile High Club, baby.”
“What?” Rip squinted. “What kinda club is that?”
“It’s a club you and I are about to join.”
“You’re messin’ with me.”
Beth cocked her head. “Am I?”
Before he could answer, she was on her feet, his seatbelt already undone, her hand already wrapped around his and pulling. Rip had half a second to decide whether he was going to fight her on it.
He didn’t.
“If this is some rich people bullshit, I swear...”
“Oh, it’s bullshit, alright.” Her fingers tightened around his. “But you’ll like it.”
“Doubt it,” he muttered.
Across the aisle, a woman turned a page in her paperback. Two rows down, a man slept with his mouth open while the woman beside him beat the hell out of a laptop keyboard. Farther back, a couple shared a single set of wired earbuds, heads leaned together. Nobody looked up. Nobody cared. Like the whole damn plane wasn’t seconds from falling out of the sky.
Beth tugged him down the aisle. His feet moved before his brain caught up.
Then came that look over her shoulder, lips curved in that way that always got him into trouble. “I promise you won’t be thinking about crashing once I’m done with you.”
Tilting her head, she added, “You’ll be lucky if you can think at all.”
By the time she had him backed against the bathroom door, fingers hooked in his belt and mouth working wet and hot along his neck, Rip couldn’t even remember stepping inside. She yanked his shirt loose with one sharp tug, palm sliding over his stomach as her teeth found the place beneath his jaw that always made his grip turn useless.
“Jesus Christ, Beth.”
She grinned. “Still scared, cowboy?”
The lavatory bucked around them, all thin walls and cheap plastic, the mirror buzzing in its frame, the lock chattering like it might give up on them altogether.
Fucking hell.
Rip caught the sink ledge on instinct.
Shit. Maybe dying strapped to a chair had something going for it after all.
Before he could get too far down that road, Beth’s fingers circled his wrist and tugged his hand free. Put it on her hip. Then she took the other, the one flattened against the door, and set that one there too.
“Better,” she murmured.
And just like that, the plane didn’t feel so fucking high anymore.
Not even close.
So Rip spun her, trading places until her back met the door, and his mouth was on hers before she’d finished the turn—rough, a little reckless, tasting airport vodka on her tongue and the waxy bite of her lipstick until everything outside this four-by-four box of recycled air dropped clean out of his head. One hand slid to her jaw, tipping her head back so he could take the kiss deeper, and when her teeth caught his lower lip, the sound that broke out of her went straight to his cock.
She pulled back just enough to put an inch of air between them, and he felt the shape of her smile against his mouth before he heard the laugh. Low and triumphant. A woman collecting on a very long-running bet.
It didn’t matter.
He kissed her harder instead, pressing himself to the whole length of her, her thigh hooking against his. The space was barely big enough to move in. Hell, he’d been in horse stalls with more square footage. Did that matter? Not remotely. All that mattered was her. Soft and wild, fierce and his.
“That all you got?” she said, fingers already finding his belt like she hadn’t just had the breath kissed out of her.
It came loose in her hands like she’d done it a thousand times—because she had—and Rip growled low in his throat. Damn woman never let him keep the upper hand for long.
“Give me a damn second.”
She didn’t. His jeans were halfway down his hips before he’d finished saying it, and she didn’t stop there.
In retaliation, he got his hands in her dress, yanking the hem up in one hard pull. The flowery fabric was expensive, probably. Right now it was just in his way. His palms dragged up the outside of her thighs, reverent and greedy, taking his time because why rush when he could drag it out until she was soaked and shaking?
There. That was more like it.
For half a second, anyway.
Because her fingers slipped past the waistband of his boxers and closed around him, and every last scrap of control he’d managed to claw back damn near left him on a hard exhale.
“Knew you’d come around.”
Always so smug.
Rip shook his head. Always so damn right, too. “You talk too much.”
He lifted her without asking, hands firm under her thighs, and set her on the narrow lip of the sink. The metal bit cold into his palms, but Beth was all heat, already locking her legs around him and dragging him in before he’d found his balance. Her fingers dug into his back, hard enough to make him feel every nail through his shirt, and the last inch between them closed.
“Fuck.” He wasn’t sure which one of them said it. Maybe both.
Rip pressed his forehead to hers, one hand braced on the wall, thrusting slow at first because he wanted to feel her come undone by degrees.
The plane jumped. Hard this time.
Neither of them stopped.
The fear went missing somewhere between the slick roll of her hips and the way she pulled him back in every time he tried to make her wait.
Her breath hit his ear, her voice wrecked and still somehow full of herself. “Told you I’d make you forget.”
Rip’s next thrust drove the words right out of her. “Shut up, Beth.”
For once in her life, she did.
Her head tipped back, lips parted, that sharp mouth finally good for nothing but the throaty sounds he kept coaxing loose. He could have lived on that. On the way her legs locked around him, the way her hands twisted in his shirt while her body milked the last bit of sense right out of him.
Then she came apart around him, hard, and that was it—his hips drove deep one final time, forehead dropping to her shoulder as everything in him gave way at once.
The two of them finally, finally still.
It didn’t last.
A knock hit the door. Brisk, professional, deeply unimpressed. “Sir. Ma’am. We need you both seated now. Turbulence ahead.”
Christ.
Rip lifted his head from her shoulder, blinking hard, trying to pull himself back into the real world. Beth was wrecked in front of him, lipstick smeared, hair wild, cheeks flushed high, mouth curved with filthy satisfaction. For a moment, he let himself pretend they had more time. That the world outside this tiny, sweat-slicked excuse for a bathroom didn’t exist.
But reality settled in.
“I knew this was some rich people bullshit.”
Beth grabbed his jaw and kissed him. Hard, wet, messy, all teeth and tongue. “You still love me, though.”
“Yeah, I do.”
She patted his chest. “Then help me look innocent.”
Rip snorted. “Beth, you ain’t looked innocent a damn day in your life.”
“True.” She winked, combing a hand through her tangled hair and fixing absolutely nothing. “But let’s pretend.”
One last steadying breath, and his hand found the handle. He waited until they looked as put-together as they were gonna get, bracing for what would easily be the longest walk of his goddamn life.
As soon as the cabin lights hit him, he knew exactly who was waiting.
The flight attendant.
Rip didn’t look at her. Kept his head down, shoulders square, and might have made it all the way back to his seat with some shred of dignity intact—the ghost of a smile already tugging at his lips against his better judgment—if Beth hadn't brushed past him with her hand dragging slow down the center of his chest, holding the woman’s stare like she had absolutely nothing to answer for.
Like she wasn’t the least bit sorry. Like she knew damn well he’d be right behind her.
And she was right.
Because Rip Wheeler? He’d follow her anywhere.
Even at 30,000 feet in the air.