Jagger angled his body toward mine, his fingers still playing with my tit, and slid his other hand between my thighs.
“Stop it,” I hissed.
“I can’t help it.” he kissed my neck. “You look so fucking hot in that dress, and I’m turned the fuck on by the idea that you’re my fiancée.”
“Just for today.” I was more than a little breathless as his fingers crept into my underwear.
“Maybe.” His tongue darted out to tease the skin behind my ear. “Maybe not.”
I didn’t know if it was his words or his fingers that soaked my cunt.
“I need to concentrate.” I’d meant for it to be a complaint but it sounded weak even to my own ears.
“You don’t need to do anything but be my fiancée,” he murmured against my shoulder. “And I promise if you were my fiancée I’d be getting you off every damn day in every damn place.”
He pushed his fingers inside me. “On second thought, I can just do that now.”
“Here we are!”
Jagger’s fingers disappeared as Martin returned bearing a silver tray holding two champagne glasses fizzing with bubbly.
No champagne for security.
Sorry Vigo and Hawk.
I envied Jagger’s composure as he stood to remove the glasses from the tray. I felt flushed and off-balance as I got to my feet, the memory of his fingers working their magic on my pussy still fresh in my mind.
“I’ll show you around,” Martin said, setting the silver tray aside.
Jagger handed me one of the glasses and I wrapped my free hand around his arm in my best approximation of a rich lady fiancée.
“Let’s start outside,” Martin said. “I can show you the hangar accommodations.” He looked around. “Where are your men?”
Jagger didn’t miss a beat. “Scoping your security. Accommodations are important, but security more so, especially now.”
Martin nodded. “Of course.”
Jagger had set up the story in advance: a big acquisition that would bring us to and from London more frequently, the need for discretion, for an easy — and comfortable — entrance and exit point to the city
Martin was already talking as we headed for the doors that would take us out onto the tarmac. I only caught snippets: ten private hangars, two of which were currently available for full time lease, an around-the-clock crew, the VIP area — including the cigar lounge — also open around the clock.
I remembered Jagger’s instructions and waited until we were halfway across the tarmac to stop walking.
“Everything okay, love bug?” Jagger sounded genuinely concerned.
“I’m bored. I’ll wait in the lounge.” I tried to send imperious, then glanced as dismissively as I could muster at Martin, trying to make my point clear: none of this was a request. “Thank you.”
I saw the hesitation in his eyes, the inner battle playing out between his desire to secure a VIP client and the airport’s security protocols, which probably dictated that random people shouldn’t be wandering around the airport.
I headed back toward the terminal without waiting for him to speak, holding my breath, waiting for him to stop me, to tell me I’d need an escort.
“I don’t suppose you’d have a recommendation on a pilot,” Jagger said behind me. “Mine isn’t working out. Might be good to have a local.”
“Oh… um…” I could almost see Martin looking after me, watching me get closer to the terminal, knowing his opportunity to stop me was dwindling with each passing second. “I can absolutely get you some names. So, as I was saying, the hangars are climate controlled and…”
Their voices disappeared behind me as I reached the building.
Inside, the place was quiet, which made sense if only eight of the private hangars were full. This terminal was for VIP clients only and not all of them would be traveling all the time.