The Promotion

Part 2: Chapter Forty

The steady hum of the engine and the gentle sway of being suspended miles above the ground was a sensation I never tired of. With my eyes closed, I let myself sink into it—the white noise of flight, the soft pressure in my ears, the comforting illusion of being removed from the world below.

For two weeks, I'd been counting down to this journey.

While we were in Australia, I should have been focused on the present—the warmth, the sea air, the way time seemed to slow there—but my mind kept drifting forward, back to this flight, back to home. I smiled to myself at the memory of the promise we'd made, half-laughing, half-serious, about spending Christmas in Australia together.

Never in my wildest dreams had I imagined that confessing my love to Alexander would lead to this—returning from Australia together, wrapped in something that felt steady and real.

I leaned my head back against the sofa, muscles loosening as the tension finally drained from my body. I could have fallen asleep right there if it weren't for the soft, deliberate brush along my leg.

I opened my eyes.

Alexander sat beside me, one hand holding a magazine he clearly wasn't reading, the other absentmindedly tracing slow patterns along my calf with his middle finger. My legs were stretched comfortably across his lap—his idea, not mine. I'd offered to sit properly in the seats across the aisle, but he'd refused, insisting this was "far superior."

And now I knew exactly why.

The touch was light. Teasing. Intentional.

He continued, sliding his finger upward before retreating again, never lingering long enough to satisfy. Heat bloomed beneath my skin, my body responding far too eagerly. I shifted slightly, irritation and anticipation twisting together.

Alexander's lips curved—just barely.

"You're doing this on purpose," I murmured.

He didn't look up from the magazine. "Doing what?"

I scoffed softly. He knew exactly what he was doing.

That was it.

In one smooth movement, I lifted my legs from his lap, reached over, plucked the magazine from his hands, and tossed it aside. Before he could react, I straddled him, settling onto his lap with my knees on either side of his thighs.

His breath hitched.

I gazed down at him, drinking him in—the familiar brown eyes, warm and wicked all at once, the relaxed confidence that still managed to undo me every time.

His hands came up immediately, firm on my hips, grounding me there. He squeezed gently, pulling me closer.

"The things we did in Australia," he murmured, voice low, eyes darkening, "were those not enough for you? Or are you suggesting we join the mile-high club?"

I laughed quietly, shaking my head. "You're impossible."

"Yet here you are."

I leaned closer, fingers threading through the soft curls at the back of his neck. "You started it."

"I don't recall that."

I brushed my lips lightly against his ear, just enough to feel him tense beneath me. His grip tightened instinctively.

"So," I whispered, teasing now, "what do you think? Should we make aviation history?"

A low sound escaped him before he could stop it. His hand slid upward, resting at the nape of my neck, thumb warm against my skin.