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  Take an arachnophobe, for example. I wasn’t a fan of spiders, but I wouldn’t invite one into my bed. Yet, in this analogy, seeing a spider gave him panic attacks. Did that trip him up? No. He said, “Hiya, Spider. Come inside. Let’s get it on.”

  Okay. Strange analogy. But when he saw something—or someone, I guess—that he found ugly, it triggered a physiological response that alerted his fear receptors. Yes, I took the time to read up on phobias. How could I not? The point was, his brain produced all of these mixed and erroneous signals that told his body he was in danger.

  I sorta loved that because it made me feel bad. Me. Lily Snow.

  And his way of handling his “challenge” made me start to seriously question how I’d been dealing with my own. Had I been facing it head-on? Or had I simply been trying to live with it? There was a huge difference between accepting and conquering. Accepting meant one tried to work around an issue, knowing it would never change. Conquering meant one pushed the obstacle out of the way. Total annihilation or domination.

  That was when I realized I could learn more from Mr. Cole than the mere basics about running a company. He had his ugly. I had mine. He owned it. I did not.

  By the time we arrived to the private airport, Mr. Cole was on his phone, speaking in fluent Italian—impressive—to someone about the show. He stayed on that call as the pilots—two nice older gentlemen with silver crewcuts—introduced themselves and got the plane ready for takeoff. Meanwhile, I occupied myself with trying not to gawk at the awesome corporate jet with full bar, five rows of sleeper seats (three in each row), television, workstation, bathroom with shower, and stocked kitchenette, where I found and attacked a bean-sprout sandwich. It was heaven.

  Anyway, the travel accommodations were seriously nice. But of course, if your life was flying back and forth all over God’s green Earth, it probably felt less like an episode from Secret Lives of the Super Rich and more like Man (or woman) Versus Wild.

  Nah, it’s cool no matter what, I thought, settling in toward the back to give Mr. Cole some space while he finished his call. I got out my laptop and started going over numbers from some of the client files. It seemed that Cole Cosmetics’ number one issue was overselling. Ten percent growth, quarter after quarter, and each customer had a double-digit percentage of order cuts. Meaning, C.C. couldn’t keep up with demand even with the new factory they were building in New Jersey.

  I guessed that was a good problem to have. Except that shorting orders probably pissed off the customers, which opened the door for our competitors to come in and make them happy. Not good. And it wasn’t like Mr. Cole was stupid, which meant he had some other plan to boost supply that he hadn’t made public yet.

  I’d have to ask Mr. Cole about it later. For the moment, however, the long day and effects of the emotional roller coaster were catching up. I shut off the overhead light and tilted back my seat.

  ~~~

  I wasn’t sure of the hour, but my subconscious alerted me to a person in my space while I slept, awakening me from a very erotic dream comprised of a merry-go-round that had nude male strippers instead of horses. You fill in the rest.

  When my eyes creeped open, hoping to hell it wasn’t my mother standing over me with a suitcase in hand, I was immediately jarred by a very curious view of Mr. Cole staring at my face, his body inclined in the seat right beside me.

  I blinked a few times to moisten my dry eyes and sharpen my vision. “What are you doing?” I whispered.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” he replied, lying on his side, his face less than a few feet from mine.

  “So you’re staring at me?”

  “Yes.” He kept staring. And then I noticed he wasn’t sweating or cringing, but really looking at me.

  “Therapy,” I said, understanding the situation.

  “You were asleep. Seemed like a good time.”

  I smiled. Somehow, it didn’t bother me despite the absolute weirdness. Something about him just made me feel open to accepting things. “How’s it going?”

  “Good, but it’s easy with you.”

  “Easy how?”

  “There are many things about you to like,” he replied in a low voice.

  It was very sweet.

  “And many things not to like.” He grinned.

  “Ha-ha.”

  He smiled, and it was a warm, genuine, heartwarming smile that made me wonder why he wasn’t like this all the time. And I don’t know what it was—maybe the dimmed lights and the isolating hum of the engines—but I felt like we were inside a safe cocoon, just him and I.

  “What happened to you?” I whispered, wondering what could’ve caused this man to be perfect in almost every way, except for this.

  “I’ll tell you, but then you’ll have to answer one of my questions.”

  “What question?”

  “A simple yes or no is called for.”

  “Control freak.” I smiled. “Fine. Deal.”

  He gazed into my eyes, and I wondered if that too was a safe zone for him.

  “My mother happened,” he replied.

  Oh no. Maybe I didn’t want to hear this. On the other hand, I’d asked. I couldn’t slam the door on this.

  “What did she do to you?” I asked.

  “She used to beat me and my older sister with wire hangers until our rooms were cleaned.”

  I gasped, and then I noticed a spark of amusement in his eyes.

  “Oh, you’re such an ass,” I said. “Mommy Dearest, huh?”

  His smile melted away, his expression shockingly serious. “My mother was too good for wire-hanger punishments, but her obsession with perfection was always taken to the extreme. She couldn’t help herself—a behavior she passed down to me. My sister, on the other hand, just ended up being a very distrusting person.”

  I remembered reading in his online bio—interview research, of course—that he had a sister who was a year older. I wondered if they were close like I was with my brother. I was about to ask when my mind suddenly made sense of what he’d just said.

  “Wait. You inherited your phobia from your mother, didn’t you?” I asked.

  He didn’t reply, but he didn’t have to. And his confession hit me right in the heart. Probably because it made me sad to imagine what it might’ve been like for him. The irony was that my mother was the exact opposite. My imperfections gave her purpose.

  “Why are you smiling?” he asked.

  It wasn’t really a smile, it was more like a smile-frown. “Because I don’t know what my mom would do with herself if I’d been born as perfect as you.”

  “Perfection is an illusion,” he said. “So now it’s your turn. Tell me why you turned down my offer for surgery.”

  I suddenly didn’t want to have this conversation any more. I inhaled a deep breath and looked away from him before setting my chair upright. I was about to say something, but my thoughts and words got all jumbled up inside my head.

  “I have to use the restroom,” I announced like a moron, standing up from my seat.

  Mr. Cole righted his seatback and then looked at me with a frown.

  I knew what he was thinking: he’d told me his truth and now I was denying him mine.

  “I’ll be right back. I promise.”

  He nodded, and his eyes jerked to the side, indicating he wasn’t getting up for me.

  “Fine.” I rolled my eyes and stepped over him. As I passed, he took the time to grip my hips and assist.

  His touch sparked a moment of sexual flutters in my stomach. I liked his hands on me. I shouldn’t, but I did. “Stop that.”

  He dropped his hands and shrugged. “Just making sure you don’t fall.”

  I flashed a quick little glare and made my way back to the bathroom. I really did need to go, but I also needed to gather my thoughts. Call me weak or anything you like, but his opinion suddenly mattered. No, I wasn’t trying to come up with a lie or some BS about the answer to his question; I was trying to rally the bravery to be honest with him.
In the exact same way he’d been honest with me. No apologies. No shame. Just the truth. There was power in the way he didn’t allow his challenges to pull him down, and I wanted to feel the same.

  I splashed a bit of cool water on my face and patted myself dry with a paper towel. You can be more than brave, Lily. You can be you and feel good about it.

  I opened the door and returned to my seat, where Mr. Cole sat with two tumblers in his hands.

  “What’s this?” I asked, taking the glass.

  “A very fine scotch,” he replied.

  I scooted past him and sat down, sniffing the very, very tall glass of strong honey-brown liquid. “Smells like gas.”

  He chuckled. “If gas were this expensive, we’d be flying in a weather balloon to Milan. Try it.”

  I took a sip, trying not to let the unpleasant sting of the alcohol show on my face. It was sweet and had a cinnamon-like burn, but I didn’t like it. “Mmmm…” I tried to smile.

  “You don’t drink very often, do you, Miss Snow?”

  “No, but it’s good to try new things.” I threw back the entire drink and handed him the glass.

  He laughed. “Remind me to stock the cheap stuff for the flight home.”

  Oops. I guessed I wasn’t supposed to chug it.

  Following my lead, he finished his drink and set our glasses down on the seat across the aisle.

  His gaze returned to me with an expectant look in his eyes.

  “What?” I said.

  “You know what.”

  Dammit. I wasn’t going to get out of this, was I?

  I bobbed my head and looked down at my hands. The scotch had an immediate effect—a warmth in my chest and little rush in my heart. I suddenly didn’t feel so awkward sharing any more. Was that why he’d given me the drink?

  “The reason I don’t want to have surgery,” I finally said, “is because I’m afraid it will make me unhappy.”

  He lifted both brows. “Unhappy?”

  “It sounds absurd, but everyone I know has their issues, too, and they aren’t happy. At least, not most of the time. Me, on the other hand,” I shrugged, “I’ve always felt so grateful for everything.”

  “Maybe because you never expected anything. The higher one strives in life, the more pressure and disappointments you’ll come across.”

  “So you’re saying I’ve been happy because I haven’t set the bar high enough?” I asked. Ridiculous.

  “I don’t believe for a moment that you’re pushing yourself to reach your full potential. Case in point, you applied for a position you were overqualified for.”

  I stared at the seatback in front of me for a moment, trying to digest his words, the scotch now running freely through my system. Maybe he was right.

  “But tell me,” I asked, “if you were free from your problem, what would be different about your life? Would you be happier?”

  “Good question. I don’t know. But I will never find out until I conquer it.”

  “And you really, really think I can help you do that?” I asked.

  He looked ahead for a moment, his stubble-covered jaw flexing. “My therapist believes if I successfully associate positive feelings with the things that trigger my disorder, then I will overcome it.”

  I snickered. “And there it is. The truth.” I hit my knee. “You wanted to bang me so you could see if it cures you.” The moment those words left my mouth, I realized how crazy it sounded.

  But then why is he looking at me with a cocky grin?

  “I’m a man. Sex is a powerful thing. And then there’s you.”

  His words hung in the air. I’d been right?

  And me how?

  I didn’t have to ask because his hand extended and cupped my cheek. The gesture took me completely off guard. He was touching me, his chest rising and falling quickly, while he studied me like some dangerous, exotic creature he found fascinating. No one had ever looked at me like that before.

  “Nothing scares you, does it?” he asked. “Which makes you perfect in a way most of us will never experience, especially me. Take pride in that, Miss Snow.”

  “I’m fairly sure you outrank me on the perfect scale.”

  “It’s the other way around, Lily.”

  How could he say that? He didn’t really believe that he was the more flawed person in this comparison. That would be insane.

  But the subtly troubled look in his eyes as they toggled between mine and the window told me he was struggling. He wanted to look at me, but couldn’t. And it pained him. I wondered if anyone else but me would ever pick up on it.

  I realized they probably wouldn’t, and I understood the sadness and frustration of feeling like this thing had been thrust upon you and, as best you tried, you couldn’t escape it. It controlled you when it shouldn’t. It got in your way and held you back. It was that horrible, self-deprecating voice in your head that undermined everything you did. Some days, it was louder than others, but it was always there.

  Fuck. I looked up and drew in some air. I don’t know what came over me in that moment. Call it scotch. Call it the strange and brutally honest conversation we were having, but somewhere inside my mind, what we were doing felt far more intimate than sex. We were showing our insides to one another and the feeling of closeness—something I’d never experienced with a man—left me wanting more. The feeling was powerful and consuming and I think that only someone who’d been deprived of it for as long as I had could understand why I wanted to do what came next.

  I stared down at my hands for a moment, my core tingling with the explicit thoughts.

  “Close your eyes,” I said, knowing this was insane and, once I let it happen, there would be no turning back. But for once in my life, I wanted to feel like a real woman. Unashamed to feel sexual. Unafraid to take what she wanted. Powerful.

  “Why? Are you going to punch me in the face?” he asked.

  I slid my hand over his lap and rested it on his groin. “Not exactly.”

  I half expected him to push it away in disgust, but he didn’t. Instead, he closed his eyes and tipped his seat back.

  Well, twist the man’s arm. I couldn’t believe what I was about to do, but I wanted it more than I wanted to think or rationalize. And he seemed to be offering himself up freely for my personal exploration.

  I slid from my seat, pushed up the armrest between us, and got down on my knees. I could already see him straining against his jeans.

  God, he’s so perfect. I didn’t deserve this fantasy, but I wanted it anyway.

  I maneuvered my way between his legs into the tight space at his feet and then began unbuttoning his jeans. When I glanced up at him, I noticed his sharp breathing and rigid posture. Both excited me. I liked having this effect on him.

  Slowly, I finished unbuttoning his fly and found hard pink flesh awaiting me. No underwear. Did most men go commando? I didn’t know, but it was sexy as hell.

  I placed my hand on him, and he gasped as I pried his hard cock free. I’d never seen a penis up close and personal, but it was more erotic and sensual than I could’ve imagined—the soft velvety head glistening with a drop of moisture, the veins pushing against the soft skin, and the thickness and length so substantial. I wondered how something like that would ever fit inside. Then there was the patch of male hair surrounding the thick base like a wreath of sin.

  I must’ve been staring at it, holding it in my hand for way too long, because he grumbled, “Are we getting on with this or not?”

  I glanced up at him and smiled. His eyes were still closed, and he looked tenser than hell. But something about conquering this man’s fears made me wet. I just hoped the videos I’d seen during my Internet explorations were accurate.

  I lowered my mouth over the tip of his head, and he jerked his body. I assumed from his groan, he liked it. I, on the other hand, didn’t know what to make of the flavor. Salt and male musk. It was different from anything my lips could’ve imagined.

  I slid him further in and enjoyed
the instant power I felt from having his cock inside my mouth. I slid my head down, his hips pushed up, and his breath whooshed out. I drew back, and his hips pulled back. It was strangely delicious and sexy, and with each stroke of my tongue and mouth over his shaft, I felt like I was the one who was going to come.

  He slid his hands to the back of my head, urging me to move faster, his hips pumping his thick cock in time with the movement of my mouth.

  “Oh yeah. Suck it,” he groaned. “Harder.”

  The gravelly, carnal sound of his voice mixed with his dirty words were like warm gasoline on my fire.

  I moved my mouth faster and let the length of him slide back a little further.

  “Fuck yes,” he whispered, cupping the back of my head more firmly with those two strong hands. “Fuck yes.”

  This was the moment that I usually saw women do one of two things in the videos; take it on the face or suck it up. Both options did not seem too pleasing to me, but I’d started this little therapy session, and I had to end it. Him coming on my face was…well, embarrassing for me and probably counterproductive for him.

  Then the thinking part of this first encounter was over.

  He came. Hard.

  He groaned with a deep thrust that hit the back of my throat, pouring himself into my mouth. I swallowed the salty heat of him down and looked up, meeting his eyes as he watched me take him.

  That moment of connection—crude, primal, sensual, and erotic all at the same time—was oddly satisfying. Or maybe triumphant was the right word. I felt powerful knowing I could turn this man on and get him off. Especially given the obstacle.

  He finished with one final little thrust and then threw back his head, panting hard. “Fuck. That was amazing, Lily.”

  He’d called me Lily, and I couldn’t remember if he’d used my first name before, but it made the moment feel even more intimate.

  I stared up at his face. He was so beautiful sitting there with his afterglow, totally free from his thoughts about his phobia or anything else. He was just a guy who’d had his dick sucked and felt fabulous.

  I suddenly felt jealous. Oh, to be on that cloud where nothing else matters. I sighed and wiggled my way from between his legs, leaving his pink cock out for me to look at one last time. It was so damned beautiful. Just like the rest of him.