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You weren’t used to business trips ending with a hand up your skirt. But what was an adventure with Sylus if not an unpredictable storm?
Yes, you should have been more diligent about securing a flight back to Linkon City. Yet Sylus wasn’t the savior you were expecting, especially if his good deed came with a catch. He’d get you home in time, he said, but not before stealing the gun strapped to your thigh, shooting up a building full of mobsters, and claiming it was all an act of affection. Now you’re hitching a private jet ride with one of the Association’s most wanted figures. Wherever he roamed, peril followed, but he had kept you safe along the way. Maybe chivalry wasn’t dead after all.
The plane’s cabin is an extension of Onychinus’s base: jet-black seating and overhead bins, splashes of red on the carpet and sofa pillows. The wide TV stand holds a bouquet of black roses accented with baby’s breath. You make a sour face at the extravagance, heading towards the rear seats for some privacy.
Your hopes are crushed as Luke and Kieran occupy the seats across from you. If they still feel the need to babysit you, then they’re sorely mistaken. Maybe it’d be rude to move across the plane, though you could say that you deserve to take a nap in a comfortable spot after today’s chaos. But Sylus has already claimed the spacious sofa, jacket still tossed over his crimson-streaked shirt like a blanket.
You meant to keep your distance from him, vowing that you’d only reach out in an emergency. No such thing arose over the past three weeks, a relief you didn’t take for granted. Blocking him on Moments seemed harsh at first, but it was just a preemptive measure; whether you crossed paths in person or online, trouble was guaranteed to brew either way. Unfortunately, you set a trap for yourself when you tagged and posted a view of the Goldwood City skyline at sunset to commemorate your last night in town. As Sylus cleverly reminded you this morning, you hadn’t blocked the twins. He may as well have been a snake trailing behind you, yet somehow always two steps ahead of his prey.
You stay in your seat, trying to relax against the soft leather. After takeoff, the window shades automatically close, undoubtedly for a certain someone’s sensitive eyes. The twins are interested in the other equipment you handed over for safekeeping—“You sure had the boss-man smiling with those handcuffs,” Luke chortles—but lose interest as they learn the Association’s gear is no match for the caliber of Sylus’s arsenals. They each pop in a pair of earbuds under their hoods, even mirroring how they bow their heads and cross their arms to doze off. You pass the time scrolling Moments, careful not to like or comment on anything that would once again draw your escorts’ attention.
With that realization, you can’t help but glare at Sylus again, mildly amused at the situation now. He looks too relaxed for a man who just had a dozen guns aimed at his head: long legs crossed, head resting on one fist as he taps at his phone. The dim light in the jet enhances his already sharp features. You can’t ignore how something fierce and dangerous pools in your gut.
“Staring won’t solve your problems.” He lifts his head, sending languid blinks your way. “If you have something to say, then come closer.”
Your stomach lurches. Always two steps ahead, right?
You move to the sofa, propping a pillow against your spine. Since you had joked about treating the twins to a buffet, you decide to show him a giveaway Moments post for a half-price dinner at a barbecue restaurant. All you had to do was like the post and tag someone in the comments as many times as you wanted to increase your chances of winning.
“My followers are probably sick of seeing me comment every day,” you chuckle.
“I wouldn’t have noticed. I’m blocked, remember?”
You suppress your budding smile, stretching your arms out behind you. Your fingers graze what feels like a rope between the sofa cushions. You strengthen your grip, pulling up a small strap to the surface. The cushion on your right springs open, revealing a compartment loaded with glossy pistols and devices connected to intricate, multicolored wires.
“Afraid of the pilot double-crossing you?” you quip to Sylus.
“It’s called maximizing space.” Your breath hitches as he reaches across your lap to close the cushion. You think you’d be used to him invading your personal space by now, showering you with his full attention. Aether Core aside, his piercing eyes possess enough power to draw out your innermost thoughts.
“How did you know where my gun was?”
He releases that laugh infused with mockery, though no trace of it shows on his face. “You wound me, sweetie. We’ve worked together enough times for me to know your style by now.”
Maybe the question isn’t about ‘how’ he did it, but you also know the answer to ‘why.’ He flirted with disaster because he was guaranteed to make it out alive, and he was always keen to drag you along for the ride. What you won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing is that thanks to him, standing on the precipice of doom is precisely what makes you crumble now.
“At this point, you’re predictable,” Sylus adds, arched brows twitching as he looks you over. “Unless you’d care to reveal your other hiding spots?”
You sneer and roll your eyes. But the memory of his hand brushing against your thigh, disarming you in one smooth, delicate motion, still sits at the forefront of your mind. There was no heat in his grasp, yet the balm of his touch lingered long after on your skin, an indelible mark to remember him by.
“Thanks again for the ride,” you murmur.
He rests his head on his fist again as if you’ve bored him, closing his tired eyes. “I told you you can pay me back whenever.”
To the rest of society, being indebted to Onychinus’s leader was a death sentence. But in some twisted way, you can’t shake the thrill of being hooked to a forbidden force—and damn it, there was no use resisting anymore.
You gauge the distance between your bodies, ready to act. You slide further back on the sofa to sit on your shins, and your heart does somersaults as Sylus steadily opens one eye. He doesn’t budge as you crawl to his side, stopping when your knees touch his thigh.
Words aren’t necessary, not when actions paint a clearer picture. It’s your turn to invade his space, restless from months of waiting for this bubble to burst. You anticipate him pulling back, ruminating on the consequences. But those vigilant eyes search your face, shimmering like garnet stars. The hardest man to read suddenly possesses a look of clarity.
A look that says your move.
You take the leap, pressing your lips against his. He’s much softer than you expected, a stark contrast to his steely exterior. He returns the kiss slowly, cautiously, the way you’d imagine a flower blooming towards the sky. Your blood stirs at the wet sounds of your mouths crashing and separating on a loop. Hearing his low hum of pleasure boosts your confidence, and you grip his jaw to deepen the kiss. But a firm bite to your bottom lip makes you release a puny whine.
“Showing your gratitude wasn’t so difficult after all,” he drawls into your parted mouth.
A shockwave hits you as his hands dance over your waist; in return, you push the jacket off his broad shoulders. “And what are you showing me in return?” you whisper, toying with the chain linking his shirt collar.
“Guess.”
Before you can form another thought, his next kiss forces you flat on your back. His massive hands cup your face, spreading down your neck and clavicles. He opens two buttons on your hunter’s shirt, revealing a window of cleavage for him to kiss. More fly open as he tastes the skin down your abdomen, laying his claim from your ribcage to your hips. Though you croon with delight, it takes a minute for you to comprehend what you’re really looking at. Someone you loathed for months is now treating you like a treasure. If you knew your scathing scowls and his not-so-innocent smiles would eventually lead to this moment, you would’ve been more eager to play the long game.
But your heavy eyes flutter from panic as you remember this isn’t a flight for two. The twins are softly snoring just a few feet away. The pilot might be locked behind the cockpit, but you’re positive at least one camera is somewhere above you.
“Eyes down here, kitten,” Sylus demands.
His rough tone riles you up even more. Obeying, you watch him bunch your skirt up to your belly, dropping one hand to the front of your black lace panties. He presses his hand against the burgeoning damp spot, clicking his tongue in a chastising manner. “What a mess you’ve made.”
Yet he peppers your inner thighs with kisses, which seems like a reward over a punishment. “I thought cleaning up was one of your specialities,” you purr, weaving a hand through his silver locks.
He shoots a rigid look at you. “Are you doubting my talents?”
“Not if you hurry up and finish the job.”
That earns you a rough lick to your core, sending you shivering. To think a thin piece of fabric could create so much friction, so much chaos. It’s the surrender you’ve needed after months of refusing to bend. And damn him for knowing it, too, grinning through every suck of your slickness with his intent gaze fixed on you. You’re already in a daze by the time he yanks the flimsy lace off, gasping and mewling at the full force of his tongue.
You’re no stranger to having a mouth between your legs, but it wouldn’t be truthful to say he’s merely tasting you. No, this… this is completely different. Your begrudged partner in crime devours you with a beast’s vile hunger. He swipes his tongue around the full shape of your essence, echoing your groans while causing earth-shattering vibrations. He has the nerve to save the tiny, torturous licks for your clit, and as you growl your disapproval, he circles one finger at your entrance. The deliberate pace feels like a proposition mixed with a warning: Are you sure you want more?
Perhaps your unrestrained moan is the answer he’s looking for. You squeeze your eyes shut at the stretch of wet heat, lifting your hips to welcome him in. He feels as thick as his hasty tongue on your clit, working you open at the same brisk pace. Another finger curls in, and it isn’t long before he’s nestled in knuckle deep, making you arch off the sofa. You buck against his smug face, refrain from calling him an asshole as he chuckles against your clit. He may be a vexing tease, but the past few months have shown you how creative he can be with your time together. You hate to admit it, but something useful always came out of sitting through gangster meetings and escaping near-death experiences unscathed. The constant recklessness, you realize, is how he leaves deep impressions on your heart, how he shows his breadth of adoration for you. And you’re long overdue for expressing how much you adore him, too.
So you let go, your thready breaths crescendoing to rich moans. You glance behind him at the sleeping twins, feeling fear mingle with electricity. The adrenaline skyrockets like you two are in battle, locked in agile harmony. Remaining in sync on or off a Protofield is why it’s impossible to keep him at bay. Like he shares the sentiment, his hand slinks up your right thigh, stroking the spot where your holster was. Fleeting caresses contradict the madness he’s sowing with his tongue.
“Sylus—” Your fragile body is heaving, making sweat gather at your temples. “Fuck, please—”
In some bizarrely cruel move, he withdraws his fingers, pulling back as if he’s been burnt. You almost shout as you grab a fistful of his hair, but he snatches your wrist, silencing you with a grim look.
“Easy,” he warns, hoisting your sticky legs over his shoulders like you’re weightless. He coaxes another whine out of you when he scoffs against your tender clit, flashing a fiendish smirk. “You must really think I’m heartless, sweetie.”
Just a bit, you briefly think—except a man without a conscience wouldn’t slip his tongue into your depths, pumping and prodding to mark his territory. He presses a thumb against your clit, back to the rhythm that sent you spiraling. You should be embarrassed at how pathetically weak you’ve become for him. Despite your incessant whimpering, you indulge in the triumph of seeing him caged between your trembling legs, prying you open. Every moan he milks out of you makes him pull you deeper into his orbit, burrowing inside of you with the desperation to become one.
You’re seized by that familiar tingle, the strike of lightning before the downpour. You dig your nails into Sylus’s scalp, and his own grip on your thigh constricts you. The first syllable of his name escapes you before you disintegrate, all wits lost as you writhe against his face. He doesn’t slow down one bit, hard-pressed to ride the wave of bliss together—perpetually in sync.
You quiet down after a moment, weighed down by your pounding heart. No sounds emerge from the plane’s rear, either, an inexplicable miracle you’ll gladly rejoice in. A minor bump of turbulence shakes the jet and your already jumbled mind. But you’re lucid enough to know no one has ever wrecked like you this—and not a single soul could ever dare to come close.
Sylus comes up, panting like he just ran a marathon. The lower half of his face glistens from your slickness, making pleasure twist in your gut. It softens to a spark as he hovers over you, admiration and arrogance blending across his features.
“I’m grateful for you, too, kitten.”
He sweeps a doting thumb over your burning cheek. You force your bashful self to look away, spotting the tent in his slacks. Possessed by another rush of greed, you align his hips with yours, moving quickly enough to trap him between your legs. Prey acquired.
But he plants his hand above you, slyly dipping his head toward yours. The last thing you see is the damnable smirk you’ve come to cherish, just as he tickles your ear with that sultry laugh.
“Unblock me first.”