The Champion (Racing on the Edge) (14 page)

We were sitting there on the plane in a comfortable silence.
Jameson was looking over schedules for the track while I read a book on
parenting. I didn’t even realize that he was paying any attention to me until I
adjusted my funbags so they weren’t popping out of my dress. Then he was
practically sitting on my lap, gazing at them.

“Wanna join the mile high club?” he asked, looking a
little too cocky.

I smacked his hand away shaking my head.

“You forgot—we already have.” I pointed out remembering
the time on his parent’s jet when we went to Savannah.

“It’s not the same,” he whispered against my ear in his
perfected dirty heathen seduction voice. “Come on honey, it’ll be fun. I’ll be
quick
.
In n’ out.”

In my head, I was imagining being arrested and sent to
Guantanamo Bay or some shit like that for even contemplating doing this. How
would I explain that one to Axel?

I was all for a little adventure but really, this had bad
idea written all over it. When he broke out with the dirty engine talking, I
ignored my inner warnings and followed his dirty heathen ass toward the
bathrooms located in the back of the plane, overlooking the glances of other
passengers.

Once inside the tiny bathroom, Jameson grabbed onto my
waist, holding me against him. His lips skimmed across my throat. It didn’t
take long for him to be shirtless and writhing against each other. His lips
teased me as my hands explored his flawless body. We were seldom alone these
last few weeks with the funeral and sex was usually the last thing on our
minds. It’d been at least four weeks since we were actually alone intimately in
any
sort of way.

He managed to get my dress up around my waist and sat me
in the sink before his fingers slid inside my panties. I decided to up the
ante. With a hell of a lot of skill and determination—I was able to not be
totally
distracted by Jameson’s fingers and my hand found its way into his jeans. My
fingers skimmed over his sensitive skin of his camshaft for piston stroking,
causing his movements to falter. I smiled smugly and used my knees and feet to
push his jeans and boxers past his hips.

“Sway,” he moaned.

I knew sex wouldn’t work in here but I knew what would.

A few seconds he had managed to wipe the smugness off my
face and replaced it with something that probably looked like near orgasmic
shock. My eyes rolled back and I nearly bit my bottom lip off as I shook
against him.

The touching and teasing became a battle of wills that
was sporadically interrupted when one of us would become so caught up in the
emotions running through our bodies that we forgot what we were doing.

“You feel so good,” Jameson groaned against my neck,
tightening his grip and then sinking his teeth into my shoulder. “I’ve missed
you.”

I shook my head arching my body up against his as I moved
my hips with his fingers. “Oh
god
...
”
Jameson added another finger and every coherent thought in my mind was gone.
“Jesus Christ!” I yelled entirely too loud for an airplane.

Someone began knocking on the door but we both ignored
it, too caught up in our own personal bliss.

Fortunately, for Jameson, when I was in the middle of
seizing against him, my hand happened to tighten around him. It wasn’t too
tight or hard—apparently, it was just right, because Jameson groaned and thrust
his hips toward me while the knocking turned to pounding and loud voice came
through.

“Dude, I have to go!” More knocking, “Come out already!”

What did my hotheaded dirty heathen do?

He pounded against the door keeping one arm tightly
against my waist. “Fuck off!”

“Let go,” I panted against his shoulder.

He nodded almost frantically as his lips found mine
again. Sucking his bottom lip into my mouth, I tried to enjoy his touches
concentrating on making him feel just as good.

My spastic jerking seemed to work and Jameson was soon
moaning and muttering incoherently against my neck before his weight slumped
against me, pushing my ass inside the sink.

What if I’m stuck?

I smiled when his lips brushed along my neck and
collarbone before he leaned back and reached for the toilet paper. Smirking, he
cleaned off my hand and then pulled his boxers and jeans back up.

“Open the door!” The annoying voice yelled again pounding
his fist against the door.

Jameson practically growled and punched the door leaving
a dent in the plastic. “Get lost asshole!”

Right about then was when I realized I was stuck and that
we really
are
going to Guantanamo Bay.

“I’m stuck.” I announced.

Jameson looked between my legs, smirking.

“Don’t joke.”

“Not joking
...
” I
wiggled frantically, not smirking, not joking. “I’m stuck. Not joking.” I repeated
in just as much of a frantic voice one would use while stuck in an airplane
sink.

Would they flush me out like waste now?

“Seriously?” he ran his left hand through his hair
examining my position in the sink. “You’re really stuck?”

“Yes asshole. I’m stuck!”

“Shit.”

The pounding continued and Jameson spent more time
arguing with the douche on the other side of the door than helping me. I was
not impressed with his lack of concern for me and my ass.

“What am I going to do?” I asked myself because Jameson
was far too engrossed in the shithead on the other side of the door to care
about an evacuation plan for my ass.

I tried to suck it in but really, how does one suck in
their ass?

If anyone knows, I’d really like to know because that
really does seem like a useful trait to have.

Ass sucking did nothing and just when I was mentally
preparing my speech to my son about how mommy and daddy were arrested and
deported to Guantanamo Bay, Jameson reached behind me to turn on the water—that
was up my ass crack—and started threatening to kick the shit out of the guy
outside.

“Wait until I open the door asshole.” Jameson added
hitting the door.

So there I was, stuck in the goddamn airplane sink, my
husband was pounding against the door and simultaneously tugging on my legs.

It felt strange, water filling in around my ass. I
wondered if that’s what an enema would feel like. Not that I ever planned on
having one but I could imagine that’s how it would feel.

After a good ten minutes of flowing water, it greased me
enough that I finally got loose only to realize Jameson was standing in about
an inch of water.

How do we always end up in these situations?

I stood up—well I tried to, my ass was sore.
Straightening my wet dress, I attempted to right my panties but realized very
quickly they were destroyed.

“You need to cut this shit out. It’s getting old
...
”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He snapped at
me pounding on the door.

“Asshole,” I kicked his shin. “Now I have to spend the
remainder of the fucking plane ride with no underwear on.”

He waggled his eyebrows.

“Lucky me,” he leaned forward and kissed along my neck
again. “Husband two, wife
...
still zero.”

“I’m not playing that game with you.” Despite my bitter
tone, I was amused and laughed. “You know
...
it’s
not the mile high club unless we have sex.” I pointed out with a waggle of my
own.

“Pft
...
I’m not
risking my manhood. If we hit turbulence
...
”
he cringed zipping his jeans, “I’m not risking it.”

Whoever was on the other side of the door apparently
didn’t realize my husband has some extreme anger issues and was more than
likely going to kick his ass when he opened the door.

“I’m getting security!” he told us.

I wasn’t sure if he was a man or child at that point. For
all we knew he could be a three foot tall little person.

Emma would be sad if that were the case. She loves little
people. I think it’s because she feels so comfortable around them seeing how
they are around the same height to each other.

“This is why Wes flies me everywhere.” Jameson grumbled and
opened the door.

I felt like saying, “Why because you are insane and can’t
play nice with society?” but I didn’t.

Security was standing there when we opened the door and I
wasn’t at all surprised by that.

“Can you two please take your seats?” The officer asked.

“No.” Jameson objected crossing his arms over his chest.
“I won’t take my seat.”

A flirty flight attendant made her way over to us.

Completely dismissing me, she looked at Jameson. “Can I
help with anything?”

“No,” we both glared at her.

“I’m going to have to ask you to calm down.” The security
guard motioned toward our seats. “Now please, take your seats,”

“I’ll take my seat when I fucking feel like it and I
won’t calm down.” Jameson snapped back at him before turning to me and pulling
me out of the bathroom beside him. His fingertips gripped my waist securely.

“Where did all this water come from?” The attendant asked
me like I’ve done something wrong, which
we
have, but that’s beside the
point.

I responded with a rude, “How the fuck should I know!”

Jameson’s attitude was wearing off on me.

The security guard started threatening Jameson with
arresting him if he didn’t comply and take a seat at which point I started
pushing him to our seats and issuing my own threats in his ear.

He went as far as to kick the seventeen-year old kid that
was bothering us on our way to our seat.

Real fucking mature.

Again, he was like a two-year old trapped in a twenty-
three year old body. Lane is more mature than him.

Apparently, I wasn’t doing any better though.

When the flight attendant came by to check on Jameson, I
gave her a piece of my mind.

“Listen, he’s fine.” I snapped. “And if he does
need
anything
...
I
...
as
his wife
...
will provide it for him.” And for good
measure, I add a snarky, “Just like I did in the bathroom.”

This just proved my previous theory that combined in age
we are barely sixteen. We probably shouldn’t even be allowed on an airplane
without parental guidance.

Jameson started laughing when she walked away.

“That was hot.”

“Oh you shut up. You’re going to get us kicked off the
plane with your shitty attitude.” I told him handing him skittles.

“No, I’m not. That jerk had it
coming
.” He
insinuated the word
coming
to specify something lewd and then winked
slowly. Leaning back in his seat, he slouched to one side and then turned to
look at me in a very cocky way. “This
coming
from someone who just went
off on a flight attendant,”

“You really need anger management classes and stop saying
coming
!”

“No I don’t.” he almost sounded appalled that I said he
needed anger management.

“Really?” I challenged quirking an eyebrow in his
direction and then looked at the fuming kid across from us nursing his sore
shin that Jameson had kicked. “You don’t think so?”

He smirked again. “Nope,” He popped a few skittles in his
mouth and chewed slowly. “I don’t think so.”

When we landed, nothing got better.
In fact
, it
got worse.

“You didn’t think to check the weather?”

“Well
...
I was
distracted.”

“Apparently,” I muttered pushing my waterlogged hair from
my eyes.

This was a disaster. This whole thing had been a complete
disaster from the start and it honestly didn’t look like it was going to get
any better.

Jameson’s plan, for our delayed honeymoon, was for us to
go away for a few days to Rio de Janeiro before he needed to be in Las Vegas on
Wednesday. This left us seven days of pure alone blessedness.

In theory, it was a great plan but now that we were
there, it was not good.

Did I mention we were also in the middle of a hurricane
trying to find an island that was supposedly located somewhere in the middle of
the South Atlantic Ocean?

First we missed our plane and had to sit at the airport
for two hours waiting for the next flight. Then we got stuck next to this
obsessed fan who talked to Jameson the entire flight about how he got started
in NASCAR and everything from his favorite color to the brand of underwear he
preferred. Then we had the mile high fiasco, which was another disaster.

When we finally landed, Jameson was not in a good mood.

In fact, he was livid and extremely cranky, crabby,
grouchy, ornery and just being downright mean to everyone.

“I hardly see this as my fault.” He added squinting into
the darkness.

“It is your fault.” I told him.

His head turned toward me, his eyes hard, hair falling
against his damp forehead. We looked like two wet rats.

“How so?” he challenged, water dripping from his nose.

“I don’t know,” I shrugged indifferently. “just is.”

The wind blew, rocking the boat. We sat next to each
other on the floor now, swaying with the waves, our shoulders bumping against
each other with each rock of the boat.

I shifted beside him, reaching for my water bottle. It
was dark and you couldn’t see, so when my hands began searching Jameson tensed.

“Wait a second
...
you
don’t have a fork, do you?”

“No.” I said with a giggle. “I was looking for my water.”

He sighed dramatically. “This sucks.”

“Maybe you should have listened to the guy at the dock
that said we should get someone to help us navigate.” I suggested.