Mated to My Intended's Enemy novel Chapter 112

Chapter 112: Chapter 112 Passion at Thirty Thousand Feet

The jet sliced through the clouds, a silver predator in an endless blue. The city was a forgotten smudge below, and for the first time in weeks, true silence descended.

Except it was a lie. Silence was impossible with the way Leo was watching me.

His gaze was a physical weight, golden and intense, tracking the nervous flutter of my fingers as I reached for the champagne flute. I could feel it like a brand on my skin, hot and possessive.

"Relaxation," I reminded him, my voice unnaturally high. "You promised. Two weeks of nothing but peace."

A dark, sinful smile curved his mouth. "And this," he murmured, his voice rough with sleep and want, "is my definition of peace."

The click of his seatbelt echoed in the cabin. In one fluid, predatory motion, he was up, closing the distance between us in three strides. The air crackled, thickening with his intent. My heart hammered against my ribs.

"Leo—"

His hand cupped my chin, tilting my face up to his. There was no escape. "My Luna. My wife. My entire world."

His kiss was a conquest—savage and reverent all at once, a storm veiled in silk. The taste of champagne exploded on my tongue, sharp and sweet, as he plundered my mouth until I saw stars. My feeble resistance evaporated. My hands, acting on their own volition, fisted in his dark hair and yanked him closer, a silent surrender.

Then I was in the air, cradled against his chest as if I weighed nothing. He carried me to the wide, supple leather seat, laying me down like a treasure. The material was cool against my back for only a second before his heat followed, his body a delicious prison over mine. His eyes glowed, molten with hunger.

"Do you have any idea how long I’ve ached for this?" His words were a hot brand against the sensitive skin of my throat, his lips tracing a blazing path downward. "Since the second you marked me. Since the moment I knew your soul was fused to mine."

"The windows—someone could—"

"Let them see," he commanded, his voice a low growl. One hand shot out, hitting a button. The privacy partition slid shut with a definitive hiss, sealing us in our own carnal world. His smirk was pure, unadulterated sin. "I don’t share, Victoria. But I want the whole damn world to know you are mine."

A bolt of pure, undiluted heat shot through me. My fingers scrambled for the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel the hard planes of his chest. He groaned, a deep, visceral sound that vibrated through me and made my wolf, Ava, writhe with primal delight.

"You’re impossible," I gasped as his mouth found the frantic pulse at the base of my neck.

"You created this monster," he rasped, his voice scraped raw with need.

His hands slid under the silk of my blouse, calloused palms skimming up my ribs. I arched into his touch, a broken sound escaping me as his thumbs brushed the undersides of my breasts. Every nerve ending was on fire, screaming for more.

"Say my name," he demanded, his breath hot against my collarbone.

"Leo."

"Again."

"Leo..."

My whisper was his undoing. With a ruthless efficiency that stole my breath, he stripped the silk from my body, baring me to the cool cabin air and his searing gaze.

"Everyone will see those!"

"Good," he said, his voice a smooth, satisfied rumble as he wrapped his arms around my waist from behind, meeting my eyes in the mirror. "Let them see how thoroughly their Luna is adored. How completely she is loved."

Back in our seats, a fresh tray of champagne and pastries appeared. He fed me a plump raspberry, his fingers brushing my lips, his eyes dark with renewed promise. Every glance smoldered, every casual touch lingered with deliberate, erotic intent.

"This is utterly indecent," I muttered, accepting a bite of buttery croissant from his fingers.

"No," he corrected, leaning in to capture a stray crumb from the corner of my mouth with a kiss. "This is worship."

I choked on a laugh. "Worship doesn’t typically involve mile-high club activities on a private jet."

"With us," he said, his voice dropping to that low, intimate timbre that made my toes curl, "it’s the only kind of worship there is."

The remainder of the flight passed in a haze of stolen kisses, whispered filth, and hands wandering under cashmere blankets. Every time I tried to murmur about the bakery or Howlthorne, he silenced me—not with words, but with the devastating skill of his mouth.

"Two weeks, Victoria," he breathed against my lips, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Two weeks where your only thought is me."

And when his hand slid up my thigh beneath the blanket, I gladly, oh so gladly, obeyed.