"So sorry," I said, even though I was nothing of the sort. I wondered if he, too, had felt a little charge of sexual tension pass between us. I yawned and stretched, showing off my waist to its best advantage and leaned forward so he could see the curve of my breasts. And it started to work. He wasn't concentrating on his newspaper anymore, and he was starting to look a little bit uncomfortable, as though there was a lot going on beneath that starched Savile Row suit.
The thought of his body, flesh and blood, coming to life underneath that cool, suave exterior, really excited me. Once we took off, the combination of the jet engine's rumbling, the sheer sensual luxury of the leather seat, and the fact that I'd been writhing and purring like a cat in heat, was a huge turn-on. This man was pumping out sexual energy like a power station-and I was absorbing all of it.
I glanced up and met his eyes, piercing blue and staring right at me, before he looked down to my breast. I realized that my hand had been caressing my collarbone and idly tracing the contours of my bosom-I do that sometimes when I'm thinking about sex-but I certainly didn't know I'd started to do it in public. Blushing, I lowered my gaze to his lap, and there it was-a hard-on with my name on it. His erection, which looked as big and powerful as the rest of him, was straining at his trousers, making a little tent of the pinstriped wool. As I watched, it grew even bigger, and the color rose in his cheeks as we both silently acknowledged the effect we were having on each other.