Dominic

"Do I need to repeat the question?" My words, intentionally direct and to the point, would help me see how she dealt with conflict.

Submissive or uncompromising, which will you choose today?

"W-what?"

Those big brown eyes of hers really popped beneath mahogany brown lashes and equally dark hair. And now that I’d seen her up close, the image I had didn’t do her justice.

It’s time to see what makes you tick, little sparrow.

"Mona." I closed the screen of my laptop. "You were saying."

"Oh, yeah, Mona is, uhm . . ."

The name Mina Melchor, etched in clean lines on her name tag, caught my attention—her mother's maiden name.

Sentimental, are you?

It seemed she had kept a small memento of her former name, along with that of her mother’s, from the life she had tried so hard to shed over the past eight to nine years. But she had to know it was only a matter of time before her past caught up with her.

Yasmina Ona Costa, AKA Mina Melchor, caught the edge of her lower lip between her teeth, and her nose twitched twice.

Well, now, that’s an interesting quirk combination. She had my full attention now. Hmm. I wonder if she does that when fucking.

"She’s taking an extended break—g-getting some rest." The uncertainty displayed on her face smoothed out, leaving a well-rehearsed, dead-pan expression of corporate professionalism. "It’s a long flight, Sir."

Back to business now, are we, Mina?

The way she shut off her emotions in a flash only reminded me who had sired her, Mateo "El Matador" Costa—El Jefe, the Mexican cartel boss of the South. Rumor had it. He met the end of his reign at the hands of his brother, Joaquin "Mad Dog" Costa, which forced this little birdie to spread her wings and flee all those years ago.

Living abroad, she’d managed to stay off the radar until recently. But a misguided trip to her parents’ gravesite had set off some red flags. It didn’t take the feds on payroll long to lift her prints, and match them to flight attendant Miss Mina Melchor. And her recent dental visit only provided dental x-rays, that when compared to earlier films, confirmed her identity.

"So, then, you’re her replacement." My gaze trapped her like a doe blinded by high beams.

"Y-yes." Her ears drew my attention this time, or more precisely, the lobes that now wiggled.

Mina, are you telling half-truths, flat out lying, or nervous? Which is it?

"Then all is well, I guess."

The fasten seat belt light flashed, drawing not only my eyes but hers as well, then an audible bell chimed.

"Attention passengers," a male's voice screeched through the intercom, "at this time, the pilot has turned on the fasten seat belt sign. Please set your seats and trays to the upright position and fasten your seat belts . . ."

Reading people had always come easy for me, and in my line of work—under the tutelage of the main Russian mafia mob boss, my Pakhan, Alexei Stepanovich—knowing a person’s mind before he, or in this case, she, knew her own, kept me one step ahead of the curve.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

"So, Miss Melchor, was there a reason for the interruption?"

"Uhm, yes." She smoothed the lapel of her uniform jacket, which only drew my attention to the accentuated curves of her breasts and small waist. "Filipe said you wanted—"

The plane lurched to the side, sending Mina staggering into my legs and onto my lap with a tiny yelp. Hands on her hips, I pulled her close, keeping her from tumbling to the floor on the other side.

"Oh, God. I’m so sorry." Her eyes widened. "I didn’t mean to—"

Another patch of turbulence hit, and she grabbed my shirt, fisting the fabric.

The nose of the plane dipped, and her knee slid, hitting the lever on the chair, reclining it back. Now, in a full straddle on top of me, her body intimately molded to mine.

"You, okay?" I kept one hand on her waist, and the other slid down her hip and over her leg in search of the lever, but instead, I found the soft, lacy edge of a stocking and silky skin.

"Mina Melchor." Her name crackled over the intercom, but the speaker sounded older this time.

My doe-eyed beauty's eyes widened in what appeared to be surprise.

"Mina Melchor to the cockpit." A slight pause followed. "Mina Melchor, you’re needed in the cockpit."

The voice sounded male and strained as if the speaker found it difficult to talk, breathe, or both.

"Someone’s paging you." I tapped the name tag pinned to her jacket.

"Yes," she squeaked out. "My leg’s st-stuck."

Wiggling, she worked to free her pinned right thigh and knee from the gap between the arm of the chair and the seat cushion. But the more she moved, the further friction she caused between her body and mine.

Right on cue, the head of my dick pulsed, and blood rushed to the shaft.

"Stop moving." Hands on her hips, I held her in place.

The heat of her body only added to the growing erection trying to burst free of the fly of my slacks.

A gasp passed her lips, and her eyes widened once more, and that's when I knew that she had finally discovered the stiffy pressed between her legs.

I couldn't stop the grin from splitting my lips, and I held her doe-eyed gaze.

A light blush climbed up her neck, and by the time it hit her face, the ruddy glow highlighted the light dusting of freckles sprinkled across her nose.

Hmm, how low does that glow go, Mina?

A question I wanted an answer to, and a first-hand account at that.

"May I?" Hand hovering over her thigh, I waited for a response this time before touching her.

A slight nod was all she gave me, and with that, I helped her liberate her knee.

She shot off my lap in a flash and put a good three feet between her body and mine.

"Thank you." Her eyes darted around.

"Any time." And I did mean any time because I was more than willing to entertain that position or any other of her choosing.

I had a job to do, no doubt, but no one said I couldn't enjoy the fruits of my labor in the process.

"Mina Melchor to the cockpit." Her name crackled overhead again.

"They must really need you."

She turned, then headed for the cockpit in a light trot to the door no more than eight feet from where I sat.

The plane hit another patch of turbulence, and she stumbled into the door. Hand on the knob, she tried it, but from what I could tell, she found it locked.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

"Open up," she called out, "it's Mina."

After several seconds, the door swung open, and the pilot, as pale as vanilla ice cream, staggered out the door with a bucket in hand. "Call control . . ."

Head bowed, vomit spewed, hitting the bottom of the man's makeshift emesis basin with enough force to create a distinct sound of raining vomit.

"Will's out cold on the floor, and we're flying on auto-pilot." More vomit spewed forth, and he swayed into Mina, nearly knocking her over.

"Who is Will?" I wasn't sure I wanted to know the answer.

"Pilot." The man vomited again, but this time, only bile came up.

"Let me help you, Dan." She shot a glance in my direction, pleading with those eyes of hers. "You need to sit down."

Wonderful, Dan's the copilot, just fuckin' great.

I closed the gap between Mina and me.

"Over there." I motioned to the empty chair across from mine.

Mina shook her head. "No, help me get him inside. There's a bed behind the cockpit.”

Once inside the flight room, I glanced around, taking in the instruments and control panels, and then found Will curled on the floor in the fetal position.

"This way." She motioned for me to follow, then made her way over to a door, opened it, and then stepped inside.

Well, hell, that's convenient, a grin tugged at my lips.

The room, large enough to hold two oversized twin beds, had a sterile feel to it.

Mina pulled a bag off one of the mattresses, then helped me sit the man down.

"You said we're on auto-pilot," I asked Dan, "right?"

"Yeah." The man groaned in pain, holding his stomach. "It'll take us to the landing strip."

"It'll land the plane, right?" My doe-eyed beauty had finally found her voice once again.

"No." The copilot shook his head, leaned back onto the pillow, and then his eyes rolled to the back of his head.