Secretly Married To My Neighbour {02}

I hold my luggage, swallowing deeply as my mother chats about something that I don't pay attention to. We're heading for my sister's Vegas wedding,I suddenly regret having her invite Paul few days ago.

The next one week was going to be tougher than I thought, he hasn't been responding to my messages since our last encounter three days ago.

He's been genuinely busy, the book finally launched and he was away for a premier of one of his books that got a movie adaptation. He took an actress as his date. I should be next to him, not her but I know better.

I roll my eyes at the irony just as Zayne pats my back gently and leads me through the front desk to get my boarding pass and check in. My heart drops when the woman at the table says the words that throws my family in panic.

"I'm sorry but Ms. Samson, you can't get on the plane," She starts citing issues with the system verifying me, my guts twist as my dad comes to desk.

"What do you mean? We all got our tickets online?"

"Yes, I did and —”

"Is there a problem here, Mr. Samson?" It's Paul's voice, cutting through me like a blade. I recognize it. I know it's him. It just had to be him. He shakes hands with my dad with his eyes on mine, he says it, "Penny can fly with me on my jet,"

My parents are thanking him, their eyes bright while Zayne turns me to look at him, cupping my face, "Would you be okay?"

I nod, my legs feeling like jelly when Paul holds my hand and nudges me, "Let's go, Penny. You don't want want to be late,"

I wave goodbye to my family and soon, I'm at the back seat of his Tesla, driving to his jet. I don't talk to him and he doesn't talk to me either, still keeping his eyes on his phone. 

I've been on his jet many times, he's picked me up on random days and took me out on random dates and sight seeing, got me luxury items, lots of food and made love to me before I left. Our dynamic was currently on jeopardy, the bittersweet memory of it leaves my mouth bitter.

I get on the jet before he does while he speaks to the crew. I head to the inner cabin immediately, sitting on the edge of the bed and taking off my sneakers. He walks in, still looking handsome with the grey t-shirt he's wearing hugging his muscles perfectly just like the loose fitting sweat pants he's wearing.

"You really don't have to make it so obvious that you sabotaged my flight,"

"Well, you're the only one that noticed," He walks to me and sits next to me just as the jet is set for takeoff. The impact shakes me for a second but soon, we're off the ground and he's speaking again. "I'm sorry,"

"For?" I raise my brow.

"Everything. I just....I feel like what I did was messed up that night at your room, you didn't deserve that. I just got so angry,"

I bite my lower lip hard, avoiding his gaze.

The jet’s steady hum becomes a backdrop, a private soundtrack to the space between us. The cabin feels smaller, charged with an electricity that has nothing to do with the altitude. His admission hangs in the air, and my own resentment is a knot in my chest, tight and stubborn.

I bite my lower lip hard, a futile attempt to anchor myself, to avoid the pull in his dark eyes. They’re sincere, which is almost worse.

"You're my wife, Penelope," he says, the word still sending a strange thrill through me, laced with guilt. "Sometimes I find it hard to believe. It’s all so rushed. You'll graduate next year… hopefully, maybe it'd be better to come clean with your parents then."

"Why not now, Paul?" The question is a whisper.

He doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he takes my hand, his fingers lacing through mine. He brings my knuckles to his mouth, and the soft press of his lips against my skin is an apology, a promise, and a distraction all at once. "I don't want anything to ruin your education. Just give me more time, okay?"

I give a small, reluctant nod. The anger is still there, but it’s softening at the edges, melting under the warmth of his touch. "I'm still mad, though," I say, rolling my eyes for emphasis, needing him to know he hasn’t won me over completely. "You didn't even let me finish that night."

A low, gentle laugh rumbles in his chest. "I'm sorry."

It’s an invitation. I let myself lean into him, closing the small distance. My lips meet his, and it starts slow, a tentative exploration. But the spark is instantaneous, a familiar fire catching dry tinder. My hand finds the back of his neck, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss. He tastes like mint and something uniquely him, something dark and addictive.

He responds instantly, his hands coming to my waist. In one smooth, practiced motion, he changes our positions. The plush soft bed  cradles my back as his weight settles over me, solid and real. I arch into him, a small sound escaping me as I nibble on his lower lip, teasing. My fingers slide through the soft strands of his hair, tugging gently. He groans against my mouth, the vibration shooting straight to my core.

I pull back, just enough to break the kiss. We’re both breathing heavily, our lips mere inches apart. The air is thick with want.

"Three times," I breathe out, the words a challenge and a plea. "Give me three orgasms, and I'll forgive you."

A slow, predatory smile spreads across his lips. His eyes darken, the warmth in them shifting into something hotter, more possessive. "That isn't up for debate, baby," he murmurs, his voice a gravelly promise. "That’s a given."

His mouth descends on mine again, but this kiss is different. It’s not an apology anymore. It’s a claiming. His hands move from my waist, sliding up my sides, leaving a trail of heat through the thin fabric of my shirt. His fingers find the hem and tug it upward. I lift my arms, letting him pull it over my head and toss it aside. The cool cabin air whispers over my skin, raising goosebumps, but his gaze is like a physical flame.

He takes his time. His eyes drink me in as his thumbs hook into the lace of my bra, sliding the straps down my arms. He leans down, and instead of taking the bra off, he presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the swell of my breast above the cup. My breath hitches. 

His mouth is a brand, hot and wet through the lace. He moves to the other side, repeating the agonizingly slow caress, his tongue tracing the pattern of the fabric. The delicate foreplay is its own kind of torture, a slow build that has me squirming beneath him before he’s even truly touched me.

“So perfect for me,” he coos, his voice a low rumble against my skin. His fingers finally find the clasp at my back. It gives way, and he pulls the lace away, baring me completely to his gaze and the cool air. His expression is one of pure reverence, mixed with a hunger that makes my stomach flip.

He doesn’t hesitate. He lowers his head and takes one pebbled peak into his mouth. The sensation is sharp, direct, flooding my system with pure, undiluted pleasure. I gasp, my back arching off the bed, my fingers clenching in his hair. He suckles deeply, his tongue swirling, while his hand comes up to knead and tease the other breast. He lavishes attention on each in turn, switching back and forth until I’m a writhing, breathless mess beneath him, little whimpers escaping my throat with every pull of his mouth.

“Paul… please…” It’s less a word and more a ragged breath.

“Please what, sweetheart?” he asks, lifting his head. His lips are glistening, his eyes hazy with desire. “Tell me.”

I can’t form the sentence. Instead, my hands go to the button of his slacks, fumbling in my desperation. He lets me struggle for a moment, watching me with a dark amusement, before he helps me, swiftly dealing with his own clothes. He sheds his pants and briefs, and then his hands are back on me, pushing my skirt up and my underwear down my thighs. They join the growing pile of clothes on the cabin floor.

Now there’s nothing between us. His body, all hard planes and heated skin, presses down onto mine. The feel of him, the sheer intimacy of it, steals the air from my lungs. But he’s not ready to take me yet.

He kisses a searing path down my stomach, his hands spreading my thighs apart. I’m completely exposed, vulnerable, and burning for him. He settles between my legs, and his breath ghosts over my core, making me jerk.

“Look at you,” he praises, his voice thick. “All wet and ready for me. Just for me.”

Then his mouth is on me.

The first touch of his tongue is a lightning strike. It’s not tentative; it’s sure, knowing exactly where to press, to circle, to flutter. He works me with a devoted focus, one hand splayed on my lower belly to hold me still, the other tangling with mine, our fingers lacing together tightly. The pleasure is immediate and overwhelming, a tight coil winding deep inside me with every stroke of his tongue.

I’m reeling. My hips lift off the bed, seeking more pressure, more friction, but he controls the pace completely. He alternates between broad, flat strokes and pinpoint flicks, reading my body’s reactions in the way my thighs tremble and my breaths turn into sobs. He loves this. I can feel it in the way he groans against me, the way his own body is taut with tension.

“That’s it, Love,” he murmurs, the vibrations from his words sending fresh shockwaves through me. “Let go for me. I’ve got you.”

I’m panting, my head thrashing side to side. The coil is wound impossibly tight, a screaming point of need. “Don’t stop… Gosh, please, don’t stop…”

He doesn’t. He doubles his efforts, his tongue driving into me before focusing again on that swollen, sensitive peak. His fingers join the fray, sliding into me, curling and stroking a spot that makes my vision whiten at the edges. The dual sensation is too much. It’s everywhere, consuming me.

The orgasm doesn’t crest; it detonates.

It crashes over me in a brutal, breathtaking wave. My entire body seizes, a silent scream locked in my throat as pleasure rips through every nerve ending. It’s so intense it borders on pain, a total loss of control. My back bows off the plush bed, and as the convulsions rack me, a hot gush releases, soaking his chin and hand.

He doesn’t pull away. He rides it out with me, gentling his mouth, soothing me through the shudders until the last tremor subsides. I collapse back onto the bed, boneless and gasping, my body humming with spent energy.

He lifts his head, his face glistening. He brings his wet fingers to his lips, his eyes holding mine as he slowly licks them clean. The act is so blatantly possessive, so carnal, it sends a fresh jolt through my oversensitive system.

A slow, deeply satisfied smile curves his mouth. “One,” he says, his voice rough with promise.