Chapter 6: Mile High Reckoning
The jet’s engine was a low, steady hum, a vibration felt in the bones. Isabelle stared out the window at the endless charcoal blanket of cloud, her reflection a ghost over the void. Five miles above the earth, encased in walnut and calfskin, the silence between them was louder than any engine.
Damon sat across the aisle, his fingers tapping on the screen of a tablet, scrolling through acquisition reports. The casual dismissal was a weapon. She could still feel the ache between her legs, a persistent reminder of his possession, and the sting of his words. Your family’s fate is sealed with my signature.
“How long until we land?” Her voice cut through the cabin.
“Two hours. Unless we hit a pocket.” He didn’t look up.
“A pocket?”
“Turbulence.” His eyes flicked to her, then back to the screen. “Unavoidable. Best to be strapped in.”
She unbuckled her seatbelt with a sharp click. The leather sighed as she stood, her stockinged legs unsteady on the moving floor. She walked to the wet bar, poured two fingers of his Macallan, and didn’t bother with ice. The liquid burned a path down her throat. She turned, leaning against the cool granite.
“We’re not done talking, Damon.”
“We are. The terms are clear. The merger is finalized. The Rossi galleries are now Blackwood properties. You are now my wife. The procreation clause is a logistical footnote.” His tone was that of a man reading a stock inventory.
“A footnote.” She took another swallow. “That’s what you call the purpose of our marriage? A footnote?”
“The purpose of our marriage is corporate synergy. The heir is a byproduct. An asset.” He set the tablet down finally, steepling his fingers. “You’re making it sentimental. Don’t.”
The first jolt hit then, a sudden, violent drop that sent her stumbling forward. Champagne flutes rattled in their holders. The plane shuddered, the hum pitching to a groan. Damon’s hand shot out, grabbing her wrist to steady her as she fell toward him. His grip was iron.
“I said to stay strapped in,” he said, his voice low.
“Fuck you,” she hissed, trying to pull away.
The turbulence intensified, the cabin bucking like a spooked animal. The overhead lights flickered. His other arm wrapped around her waist, and in a single, fluid motion, he yanked her down onto the wide leather couch opposite their seats. She landed half on top of him, her skirt riding up. The scent of him, sandalwood and cold resolve, filled her senses.
“Let me go!”
“No.” He flipped her onto her back, his body a heavy, pinning weight. The plane dropped again, and his hold was the only solid thing in the universe. In the chaos, her fear morphed into a sharp, electric fury. She clawed at his shoulders.
He caught her wrists, slamming them down above her head, held in one of his vast hands. The other hand went to the waistband of her panties. He didn’t bother sliding them down. He hooked a finger in the lace, pulled, and the fragile material tore with a sound like a gasp. He brought the scrap of black silk to his face, his eyes locked on hers, and then he put it between his teeth and ripped it in two.
The raw, cavalier destruction of it—so much more intimate than removal—stole her breath. He spit the torn fabric onto the carpet.
“You want to negotiate?” he growled, his mouth against her jaw. “Negotiate this.”
He fumbled with his own belt, buckle clanging, zipper rasping. The plane pitched, and he used the momentum to shove her thighs apart, settling between them. He was already hard, a thick, brutal pressure against her. There was no preamble, no gentle breach. He positioned the head of his cock at her entrance, still tender from the night before, and drove into her in one deep, claiming stroke.
She cried out, a sound swallowed by the roar of straining engines. He filled her utterly, a stretch that was pain and pleasure fused into one blinding point. He didn’t move, letting her adjust to the sudden, complete invasion, letting her feel every vein, every ridge.
“Still want to talk, Isabelle?” His breath was hot in her ear.
She answered by bucking her hips, taking him even deeper, a act of sheer defiance. A groan ripped from his chest. He began to move, a hard, driving rhythm that matched the violent toss of the aircraft. Each thrust hammered into her, the leather of the couch squeaking in time. Her pinned wrists ached; the sensation fed the fire in her gut.
“You’re a bastard,” she gasped, turning her head to bite his forearm where his sleeve was rolled up.
He fucked her harder, his hips a relentless machine. “And you’re my wife. My tight, furious, soaking wet wife.” He released her wrists, his hand sliding down to grip her throat, not squeezing, just holding, a collar of flesh. “This is the only deal we have right now. This. You coming on my cock while the world falls apart outside.”
His thumb found her clit, circling with a ruthless precision that unraveled her. The dual sensations—the deep, pounding penetration and the sharp, focused friction—coiled a spring in her abdomen. She was panting, her nails scoring his back through his shirt. The plane dropped again, a weightless lurch, and he slammed into her so deeply she saw stars.
“That’s it,” he snarled, his own control fraying. “Take it. All of it.”
Her climax detonated, a seismic wave that shattered her from the inside out. She screamed, her body clamping around him in rhythmic, punishing spasms. The intensity of it, raw and stripped of pretense, tore through her anger and left only a shocking, vulnerable truth in its wake.
It triggered his own release. With a final, brutal drive, he buried himself and let go, his body jerking as he emptied into her, a hot, pulsing flood. He collapsed on top of her, his forehead damp against her shoulder, his breath ragged in her hair.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of their breathing and the steadying hum of the engines. The turbulence had passed. The plane sailed smooth and level through the night.
Slowly, he pushed himself up, pulling out of her. He looked down at where they were joined, at the mess he’d made of her, his expression unreadable. He handed her a linen handkerchief from his pocket, a stark white flag in the dim cabin.
She took it, numb. He stood, tucking himself away, fastening his trousers with that same infuriating efficiency. He walked back to his seat, picked up his tablet, and sat down as if nothing had happened.
Isabelle pulled her skirt down, her body sore, used, humming. She saw it then, under the opposing seat: the folded paper, now spotted with champagne and smeared by a passing heel. Vivienne’s addendum to the contract, the “logistical footnote.” The ink had bled, the clauses blurring into illegible grey rivers.
She looked from the ruined document to Damon, who was once again absorbed in his screen. The cold calculation had returned to his face, but she had seen it break. She had felt it break. And in the breaking, something else had been revealed.
She didn’t clean herself up. Let him see the evidence. Let it seep into the expensive leather. She kept the stained handkerchief clenched in her fist.
“An asset,” she said, her voice hoarse but clear.
He glanced over. “What?”
“You called our child an asset.” She met his gaze, holding the chaos of the last hour in her eyes. “Assets can be leveraged. They can be used. They can fight back.”
A faint, almost imperceptible line appeared between his brows. It wasn’t annoyance. It was assessment. He gave a slow, deliberate nod, acknowledging a move in a game he hadn’t realized they were still playing.
“I’ll remember that,” he said softly, and turned back to his work.
Outside, the first rays of dawn began to bleed into the black, painting the clouds in shades of fire.