Born To Be More

Losing it

Raine

I can’t believe I just threw up. In business class. In front of him.

I want the plane to turn around and drop me off somewhere—preferably into a volcano.

Who cares how comfortable this seat is? I’d trade it in a heartbeat to go back to economy, away from Mr s*x-on-Legs who just watched me puke into a brown paper bag like a toddler with motion sickness. He probably thinks I’m a complete i***t. Great start to my New York modelling adventure—hurling my guts up before we even hit cruising altitude.

Maybe I could just... live in the bathroom? It’s not that bad. A little cramped, sure, but it doesn’t come with hot, judging strangers or unsolicited vomit memories.

I sigh, pull myself together, and gather what dignity I have left. No one ever died from embarrassment—right?

As I make my way back to my seat, I see him stand. And oh god, why does he smell so damn good? Like cedarwood and sin. I feel a fresh wave of shame crash over me. I slide back into my seat, trying not to make eye contact.

“How are you feeling?” he asks gently.

Oh, kill me now.

“Embarrassed…” I admit, voice small. “I’m so sorry—and thank you for... well, you know.”

I force myself to look at him. He’s ridiculously gorgeous, which somehow makes it all worse. My eyes are burning and my cheeks feel like they’re on fire. If I start crying, I swear I’m jumping out the emergency exit.

“Hey, no worries at all,” he says, smiling that cocky, devastating smile. “I’ve seen worse—and honestly, I’m impressed you made it to the bag in time.”

He laughs, and it’s this deep, warm sound that makes my stomach flutter—if it hadn’t already turned inside out earlier, that is.

He’s laughing at me. Not in a mean way—but in that amused by my sheer mortification kind of way.

“Oh God, that is so embarrassing,” I mumble, hiding behind the ice water like it might save me. “You must think I’m such a baby.”

“I definitely think things about you,” he says, his voice low and smooth, “but a baby’s not one of them.”

Okay. What?

I blink at him, completely floored. What the hell do you even say to that?

Apparently, nothing. Because I can’t even speak. I just smile. It’s shy, probably a bit awkward, but it’s real.

And then he says it—that.

“You have a beautiful smile.”

Kill me now.

“Drinks, sir?” a flight attendant interrupts, stepping between us.

“Yes, thank you.” His tone shifts into polite and professional, and he reaches out to adjust my tray table, placing an iced water and a can of ginger beer down gently in front of me. He does the same for himself, choosing some amber-looking liquor I could really use right now.

“Drink up, Angel. The ginger beer will help settle your stomach.”

Angel.

Did he just… call me Angel?

I swear he said it earlier, too.

Normally I hate pet names. Baby, honey, muffin, lover, babe? Vomit.

But from him? I don’t hate it. At all.

My kootchie perks up like she just got handed backstage passes. She’s full-on stretching, purring, and mentally throwing panties at him.

Down, girl.

My vibrator works just fine back home—thank you very much—and there was no way I was risking bringing it in my luggage. Can you imagine a random bag search? Nope. Hard pass.

I’ll buy a new one in New York. Hell, I’ll buy five if all the men look like this.

I sip the ginger beer and crunch some ice, grateful that the nausea has finally passed, thanks to Mr s*x-on-a-Stick.

Turning my attention to the seat-back screen, I scroll through the movie menu, trying to act normal. Chill. Unbothered. Not like I’m internally combusting beside a man who could ruin me with a look.

Then his voice cuts in again. “Tell me about yourself, Raine.”

I glance sideways. “You want to know about me?”

He chuckles. “Well, yeah. It’s a long flight. We might as well talk, right?”

“Yeah. I guess so.”

“So,” he prompts gently, “why are you travelling to New York?”

“Well,” I say, fiddling with the ginger beer can, “I was offered a modelling contract. So, here I am. On a plane. Leaving the country for the first time.”

His expression shifts instantly—brows furrowing, jaw tightening.

Uh-oh. What did I say?

“Your first time—and you’re on your own?” he says sharply. “Do you even have someone picking you up at the airport? A place to stay? Who’s your agent? Who are you working for?”

His voice isn’t just questioning—it’s bordering on angry.

I blink at him, startled.

Why the hell does he sound like an overprotective boyfriend I’ve had for five minutes?

"That’s quite a lot of questions, Max," I say, tilting my head at him with a smirk. He looks like he’s about to interrogate me under a spotlight.

“Yes, I have someone from the modelling agency picking me up. I fired my agent for trying to scam me—so I’m currently free. And thanks to Chic, the client I’m working for now, accommodation’s included in the contract.”

His brow arches slightly, like he wasn’t expecting that kind of answer.

“You’re working for Chic, huh?”

I narrow my eyes, curious. “You know who they are?”

“Everyone in business knows who they are,” he says smoothly. “They’re solid. The owner’s well-respected—he really looks after his people. But if that doesn’t happen…” His gaze darkens, meaningful. “You can let me know.”

Let him know?

Oh wow. He actually thinks I’m going to keep in touch after the flight. That’s cute.

And presumptuous.

I bite my bottom lip to hide the smirk twitching there. Someone’s confident.

“Is that so?” I reply sweetly. “And how exactly would I let you know, Max?”

He meets my gaze, dead serious. “I’ll give you my number.”

Of course he will.

“So, why did you fire your agent?” Max asks, his voice low, eyes fixed on me like I’m a riddle he’s determined to solve.

That intense gaze makes my n*****s harden beneath my dress. Seriously? Get it together, Raine.

I lean forward to grab my drink, casually adjusting my bra under the guise of reaching for the glass. “I haven’t been modeling long,” I say. “I was discovered while running a charity event. Started doing it part-time to pay the bills and save up while finishing my degree.”

I take a sip, letting the cool ginger beer ground me before continuing.

“My agent—well, my ex-agent—invited me to a meeting with Chic without even telling me. Then he gave me a contract to sign that wasn’t the same one they’d prepared. Chic found out and dropped him faster than a hot coal in a dry forest. They offered me a new contract the next day… and here I am.”

Max’s jaw tightens. He looks downright furious now.

“Who was your agent, Raine?” he asks, the words clipped.

“Shine,” I answer simply.

He frowns, eyes narrowing—and then those eyes roam over me slowly, like he’s reassessing everything. “I’m glad you’re here, Raine,” he says quietly.

His words land harder than they should. I feel it—low in my belly and curling up into my chest. I smile up at him without even thinking.

What is happening to me?

I do not do men. Or relationships. Not right now. And I’m never this giddy over anyone.

But Max?

Max is not just anyone.

We chatted a bit more before the dinner service arrived. I feel like I did most of the talking, which isn’t unusual when I’m nervous. Still, I managed to learn that Max has two younger brothers and that his entire family is based in New York State.

Dinner was lemon cream chicken with asparagus, served way too nicely for airplane food. It honestly felt like we were having dinner together. I mean, technically we were, but I hadn’t exactly signed up for an inflight date with a walking wet dream.

Not that I’m complaining.

Lacy will absolutely s**t a brick when I tell her.

“Rainey, do you want a drink? Something stronger?” Max asks, catching me off guard.

My breath catches. “Rainey?” I ask with a smile.

He looks sheepish for the first time since we met. “Sorry—I just felt like I could call you that. It seems to fit.”

“No, it’s okay,” I say softly. “My parents used to call me Rainey. They were the only ones who really did.” A small smile tugs at my lips. “It was nice. Made me think of them.”

His expression warms, like I just handed him a piece of my heart. Which I kinda did.

We order drinks—something light for me, something darker for him—and decide to watch a movie together to pass the time. The Tomorrow War flickers to life on our screens, but I can’t shake the feeling that this is… something more.

Why does it feel like I’m on a date?

The cabin lights dim, and the plane hums steadily as the warm, stuffy air starts doing its job. I feel myself sinking into the soft seat. I grab my neck pillow and settle in, preparing myself for sleep.

Please don’t let me fart. Or dribble. Or talk to myself.

Apparently, I talk in my sleep. Past lovers have mentioned it—never with any amusement, though. I have no idea what I say, but it’s never good. Then again, there haven’t been many lovers. A couple of short-term boyfriends, mostly. The last one was a cheating dickwad, and the rest? Nothing I wanted to keep around long-term.

I never really settle. I don’t have time, and honestly, I’ve never met anyone who made me want to.

Until now?

Shut up, brain.

I'm stirred awake by a gentle shake and blink my eyes open just enough to remember where I am—on the plane, still tucked into business class. A soft blanket is draped over me, and though my brain registers it, I’m too tired to dwell on the kindness. I drift back off, lulled by the steady hum of the cabin and the warmth cocooning me.

In the haze of half-sleep, I feel something—soft, deliberate strokes against my cheek. Warm fingers trail gently, like a whisper across skin. A sigh escapes me before I can stop it. My mind spins with the feeling—his thumb brushing over my lips, sliding slowly down my neck. I shiver.

The other hand—oh god, he has another hand—moves beneath the blanket. My breath catches.

“Relax, Angel,” I hear him whisper in that velvet, dangerous voice. “Let me take care of you.”

The lights are still dim. The world around us is silent, sleeping. His fingers inch higher along my thigh, sending sparks through every nerve in my body. My heart pounds, and every cell in me screams yes.

“Max,” I whisper, breathless.

“It’s okay, Angel,” he murmurs. “I know what you need.”

His words wrap around me like a spell. My imagination runs wild—his hand under my dress, his touch coaxing pleasure from me in secret shadows, his voice thick with need. My whole body tightens with the ache, the unbearable tease of sensation just out of reach.

“Do you want to come, Angel?” he breathes against my ear.

“Yes,” I gasp. “Max, please…”

Suddenly I feel his mouth—hot and possessive—on mine, and I melt into it, wanting to give him everything.

“Rainey…”

His voice sounds different now. Distant. Light. Amused?

“Rainey.”

Again. Sharper. Closer. There’s a chuckle.

“Rainey.”

I jolt awake with a start.

Max is grinning down at me, clearly trying not to laugh. His hand is on my cheek.

And my hand—oh sweet merciful god—is resting on his thigh. Right on his thigh.

I yank it back like I’ve been electrocuted and slap my hands over my face.

Oh. My. God.

It was a dream.

A really vivid, NSFW dream.

Max is laughing now, not even trying to hide it. I peek between my fingers and groan. He looks flustered, cheeks slightly flushed, and absolutely amused.

“Hey,” he says, smirking. “Sleep well?”

I bury my face deeper in my hands. “I hate you,” I mumble, mortified.

He chuckles. “If that’s what you were dreaming about, Angel… I’m flattered.”

I peek out again. “Did I… say anything?”

He leans back, that smug look all over his face. “Oh, just my name. A few moans. Some heavy breathing. I was honestly expecting applause.”

I grab my pillow and whack him in the shoulder. “You’re such an arsehole!”

He laughs louder, and I hate how much I love the sound of it.

Kill me now. Or at least bring me more ginger beer.

“Oh, Angel, you should know I enjoyed your dream very much.”

He leans in closer, and I swear I can feel the heat of his breath on my lips. Then he whispers into my ear, low and wicked, “The real thing will be much better. I promise.”

I close my eyes as he retreats to his seat like nothing just happened. I have no words—none. I can only turn back to the movie still playing on the screen, pretending I’m not melting into the seat.

I cannot believe I dreamt about Max—and then felt him up under the damn blanket like some horny teenager. I glance at the time.

An hour.

I only slept for one hour?! Damn it.

I shift in my seat, trying to ignore the wet warmth between my legs. My panties are soaked. If not for my dress, I’d be slipping right off this seat like a slug leaving a trail of lust behind.

I really, really need the bathroom.

“Max?” I murmur, shifting toward him. “I need to use the bathroom.”

A slow, sinful smile spreads across his face. “Do you want me to move… or join you, Angel?”

Kootchie: Join. Join. JOIN.

Oh my actual f**k. Can this man get any hotter?

If he doesn’t move in the next five seconds, there are only two outcomes:

I pee on the floor.

I take him up on that offer and give business class one hell of a show.

“Oh, ha-ha,” I mutter, trying not to combust. “You’ve made fun of me enough, Max. Please let me out so I can pee.”

He finally stands, and I make the grave mistake of looking up. His hard length is at eye level. Like... right there. And holy s**t, he’s massive. My tongue nearly betrays me by reaching for his zipper.

Well, f**k me—he looks like he could ruin lives.

I bite my lip, slip past him as gracefully as I can, and head straight for the bathroom—desperate to cool down, breathe, and maybe give my vibrator a posthumous apology.