No Pants Required Read online

Nervous laughter spouts out of me and even though I’d never eat out of a stranger’s hand, I find myself considering trying his nuts.

  Yes, I thought that.

  The rakish tilt of his lips mesmerizes me as he continues to hold out his palm. “Come on, you know you want to try my nuts.”

  Aha! He is so trying to be dirty.

  Still, it makes me laugh enough that my wineglass starts shaking in my hand. “Oh, no, that’s where you’re wrong. My mother taught me never to take food from a guy I don’t know.”

  Emptying all the peanuts into his palm, he crumples the empty bag and shoves that into the pouch, too.

  I hate when people put their trash there, but it doesn’t seem to bother me right now because I’m a little preoccupied watching him.

  As if he has a secret, his lips tip up a little more. He has the best smile. Unexpectedly, he pinches one of the peanuts and lifts it. “It’s ‘don’t take candy from strangers.’”

  There’s a hush in the air. It takes me a moment to find my breath. “Right. That’s the saying.”

  His hand moves closer to my lips. “First of all, this isn’t candy, it’s protein, and I doubt your mother ever told you not to eat protein.”

  My breath hitches. “No, she didn’t.”

  “And secondly, we’re not strangers. We’re seatmates. I don’t know who you think I am, but I wouldn’t offer my nuts to just anyone.”

  Laughter roars out of me.

  Somehow he manages to stop himself from completely losing it. With his smirk in place, he’s determined to get me to eat this peanut and moves his fingers even closer. “Come on, try it. You know you want to.”

  As shocking as it seems, I find myself opening for him, and he drops the capsule of protein right on my tongue. For one brief second I imagine taking his hand and holding it to my mouth so I can lick the salt off his fingers. Oh, geez, what is wrong with me? Last night must have gotten me more worked up than I realized.

  “Good, right?” he breathes.

  Feeling flushed from head to toe, I give him a nod while chewing, then I swallow.

  When I do, I start to choke. The peanut is stuck. Oh, this can’t be happening. Coughing profusely, I try to unlodge it and force it up.

  Concern flashes in his eyes. “Are you okay?”

  I nod and manage to say, “I’m fine. Just went down the wrong pipe.”

  No longer concerned for my safety, he asks, “Trouble swallowing my nuts?”

  Still chocking, I have no choice but to spit the peanut into my cocktail napkin.

  Real lady-like.

  His eyes are on me. I can feel them.

  When I look up, there’s a coyness about him.

  That grin turns devilish. “I’m sorry you choked on my nuts, but you might want to work on your gag reflex.”

  Dirty, dirty, boy.

  “What would I do without your wit?”

  He quirks a brow and sits back. “You know you prefer me sitting next to you than sitting alone.”

  “You think so, do you?”

  “I know so. I mean, come on, you’ve already eaten my nuts and we’re still on the ground. Who knows what will happen when we’re in the air. With me by your side, you won’t have any time to think about being nervous.”

  There is a dip in my belly, and we haven’t even taken off yet.

  “Here you go,” the bubbly blonde says, handing him his bottle and a bag of M&M’s. Her name tag reads Jodie, but to me she’ll remain Tiffany.

  The beach bum turns to me. “Would you like some? I can get a glass,” he says, offering his bottle.

  I shake my head. “I don’t care for the taste of beer.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Anything carbonated messes with my stomach.”

  With a shrug, he shoves all of the nuts in his mouth and then takes the items from her with a thank you. I want so badly to mention something about him eating his own nuts, but can’t find the right thing to say.

  I’m so unfunny.

  Once he’s downed his drink, he sets the candy on his lap and whips those sunglasses off. In the pouch they go, too.

  Tiffany is beside him instantaneously. “I’ll take that,” she says. “Would you care for another?”

  He hands her his bottle. “After takeoff would be great. And another for my seatmate then, too.” He points to my partially filled glass and then that insanely sexy stare lands on me.

  Clearly he knows what he is doing to me, because he looks me over from head to toe with languid gray eyes that look like two storm clouds.

  When his gaze lands on my own, our eyes lock, and the air practically crackles around us. What is going on here? Maggie has me all worked up over this list and now I have sex on the brain.

  His gaze lingers on mine, and I swear I see his own breathing pick up.

  Inwardly, I am proud of myself for having taken the time to do my hair and for not wearing sweats. Unfortunately, I have no game and shiver under the intensity of that penetrating stare.

  As his eyes land on my feet, he points to my book, which for the first time I notice landed in a way to display the cover and title perfectly. “Let me get that for you,” he says.

  No.

  No.

  No.

  This isn’t happening.

  This can’t be happening.

  The picture of two men and a woman in an embrace is in plain sight, and the title, Summer’s Ménage, and author’s name, Sandy Cox, are clearly visible. “No, no, I got it,” I say anxiously, diving for it like it’s my last meal.

  It’s too late. Our heads collide, and the small amount of wine I have left in my glass spills all over his hair. Making things worse, when he sits up, he has my book in his hand, cover facing him.

  No. No. No.

  Maggie, I’m going to kill you. Kill you!

  This time, when he looks at me, I feel like he’s assessing me. Sizing me up. Wondering just how kinky I am. “Sandy Cox,” he quips with a raised brow.

  I am dying.

  Dying.

  Obviously a pen name with a play on the location of the book. Odd, I hadn’t noticed that before now.

  A million deaths pass before I can glance at him.

  Bemused, he shrugs and with the most adorable teasing grin says, “I haven’t read this one yet. How is it?”

  There are no words for the mortification I’m feeling right now.

  Trying to stop what happens next is completely useless. Rubbing his wine-dampened head, he smirks at me, and then opens the book.

  I want to grab it from him, but that will only make things worse, so I try to deflect. “I’m sorry about spilling my wine on you.”

  There’s a glint in his eyes. “Don’t worry about it, but I have to tell you I don’t think I’ve ever gotten my head wet this early into the game.”

  Trembling from his suggestive tone, I say to myself, “Game?” Then it sinks in and I think, Okay, yes, this is a game. And believe it or not, I want to play. Game on.

  “Cabin crew, prepare for takeoff,” the pilot’s voice booms overhead.

  Tiffany is at our row and taking my glass, a little too late.

  Perhaps thinking he’s won round one, my seatmate starts to read the first line—out loud. “‘Gabe was salty. Owen was sweet.’”

  I feel an odd shiver.

  His voice is low, deep, thick, and oozes with more and more sex appeal as he continues to read. “‘The beginning of the summer heat meant the windows were open. Summer VanVoreen let the cool breeze waft over her as she sat on the bed and examined her choices. She had come to Montauk alone, as she did each summer. And like each summer before, she knew she wouldn’t spend it alone. That time, though, she had gone into town and brought two men to her isolated beach home, not one. Her gaze shifted between the two of them. It first went to Gabe, who had a warrior-like body, and then to Owen, whom she thought looked more like a king. They were both incredibly good-looking in their own way and very fit. She had a choice to make, bu
t she couldn’t pick just one, so she decided to spend the summer with both. Should they both agree to her proposition, of course.’”

  Heat and tingles of arousal shoot through my core. How can this be happening? I’m a thousand shades of red and a million degrees at the same time. I can’t let him go on. I know what is coming next.

  Sex.

  Lots of it.

  One woman.

  Two men.

  Keeping it together, while internally dying, I place my hand over the page. “Story time is over, big boy.”

  His hand covers mine and I swear electricity courses through me. “Oh, I’m only getting started. This book is going to make for one interesting flight.”

  Nabbing it, I quickly tuck it in my seat pouch. “You can’t read this book out loud. People are listening, and this flight is PG.”

  He leans toward me and his hot breath trails across my neck. “Then I’ll whisper.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to direct your attention to the television monitors. We will be showing our safety demonstration and would like the next few minutes of your complete attention.”

  Saved by Tiffany.

  Taking a deep breath, I blow it out and direct my attention to the screen. “When the seat belt sign illuminates, you must fasten your seat belt. Insert the metal . . .” My mind wanders to my seatmate and his voice. There’s something so familiar about him.

  He nudges me. “Pay attention.”

  How’d he know I’m not? I refocus.

  “There are several emergency exits on this aircraft . . .”

  The minutes pass slowly. “Oxygen and the air pressure are always being monitored. In the event of a decompression, an oxygen mask will automatically . . .”

  Nervous, I draw in a deep breath. If that ever happens to me, I’m not sure how I’ll react.

  My seatmate shifts. His body heat radiates as he leans closer to me. He smells like lavender and sea air. An odd scent. Still, I find myself taking another deep breath.

  By the time the safety movie finishes, the plane is moving down the runway.

  “Fuck, that was boring. Give me that book back.”

  I laugh. I shouldn’t like the way the word fuck sounds coming out of his mouth, but I do. “No way.”

  His gaze swivels to mine. “But I want to know what happens.”

  I bite my lip in contemplation. Story time could be fun. Then reason sets in and I whisper, “You’ll have to buy the book to find out.”

  The plane gains speed.

  I grab for the armrest.

  His gaze lands on my hand and he says nothing else as the plane moves faster and faster down the runway.

  The color in my cheeks feels like it is finally waning. I think I’m good now, other than the fact that I’m terrified.

  Glad for the silence, I press my head into the seat and close my eyes. Soon enough the plane is climbing and I feel like the air inside my brain is expanding.

  Too much wine.

  When my head starts to spin a little, I squeeze the armrest even tighter.

  My worries about the plane crashing seem amplified in my somber state, the what ifs firing like missiles through my brain.

  What if the pilot has to perform an emergency landing in a field and it’s not long enough? What if the plane starts to go down over water and we are all sealed inside? What if we crash into a building and ignite into a million flames?

  What if . . .

  What if . . .

  What if . . .

  His arm touches mine. “Hey.”

  Through one eye, I look over at him.

  “Squeeze my arm if you have to,” he whispers.

  We smile at each other, drawn together by our mutual understanding over my fear of flying.

  “I don’t want to leave scratch marks,” I tease.

  He leans even closer. “Go ahead and make your mark. I can take it.”

  Unless I am totally off base, he’s talking about more than my fear of flying.

  Closing my eyes tighter, all I can think is . . . I plan to.

  MAKAYLA

  FALLING ASLEEP HAS ALWAYS BEEN a challenge for me. I lie awake thinking about things that don’t always make sense.

  Pondering.

  Worrying.

  Wondering, what if.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the captain has turned off the ‘fasten seat belt’ sign, and you may now move around the cabin.”

  Confused, I open my eyes.

  No way. I fell asleep . . . and on a plane.

  That has never happened.

  Yet, as I look around, it’s obvious that time has passed. The cabin lights are dimmed, seats are reclining, and the flight attendant is just approaching my row with a tray of drinks.

  Surprised by the quiet, I look toward my seatmate. His eyes are closed and his hand is gripping the armrest just below mine.

  Hmmm . . . either he’s really tired or he doesn’t like flying either.

  Against my better judgment, I take this time to study him more clearly. His dark, thick eyelashes are beautiful. The scruff on his face looks as intentional as his messy hair, and just as mouth-watering. I might have been wearing my wine goggles earlier, but right now I know he is fine.

  “Here you go.” The bubbly Tiffany hands me another glass of wine.

  “Thank you,” I answer, trying to be quiet while I pull down my own tray table.

  My seatmate’s eyes open.

  Tiffany looks at him with a huge smile. “Here’s your beer, sir.”

  “Thank you,” he says in a super-sexy, gravelly voice.

  I consider whether I should close my eyes again and avoid any further conversation, or talk to him and see where this goes, if anywhere.

  Just then, perhaps still a little groggy, he sets his bottle on my tray table and stretches. God, the power he seems to command in the small space has me tingling from head to toe. And again, I find myself staring at that body of his.

  When his arms return to his sides, his hips surge forward. I can’t help it. My eyes go straight to his crotch. Oh my God, what is he doing?

  Kegels?

  How bad is it that I join in?

  One.

  Two.

  Three.

  The moan that escapes my mouth snaps me back to reality.

  Enough is enough. I need to unplug from this situation before anything else embarrassing happens. Yet, I can’t. All I can think about is scratch number ten of the list—here is my chance to go back and check off number four instead.

  And he has to be all for it.

  Right?

  After all, he’s doing pelvic exercises to improve his stamina in this game. They say you can do them anywhere. And he seems to subscribe to that philosophy. He obviously doesn’t realize I’m watching him.

  That voice is smooth like molasses and startles me from my sex thoughts. “I think this belongs to you.”

  My gaze darts from his hips to his hands.

  He’s holding my iPod, which had been under his butt.

  Okay, so he wasn’t doing Kegels.

  I forgot all about that little thing.

  My mind is still replaying the way his hips moved, and my delayed reaction gives him enough time to turn it on. My earphones must still be on his seat because as soon as he swipes across the screen, “Like a Virgin” blares through the cabin.

  Seriously, could this flight get any worse?

  My seatmate is grinning like the cat that just ate the canary. “Eighties? Wow, I didn’t think anyone listened to that anymore.”

  To that I have no defense, and the truth sounds better than any concocted lie. “It’s on my Songs About Me playlist,” I admit.

  He grins even harder as the lyrics continue to play.

  Without hesitation, I pluck my iPod from his grip and turn it off. “What can I say—I love Madonna. Hair pulled back in a bow, black tank tops, necklaces, and bracelets are my thing.”

  Accessories are my thing.

  A brow rises, sl
ightly, but I catch it and those little butterfly wings start batting against my belly again. “Your thing, huh?” He seems to ponder that for a moment; either that or he is picturing me singing the song.

  My whole body tightens at the thought of doing just that—for him.

  And we already know my singing skills need improvement.

  Leaning toward me, he tries to snatch my iPod back. “Can I see what else is on your Songs About Me playlist?” He stresses the words songs about me, but not in a way meant to make fun of it, more in an I’m really interested in this tone.

  I shake my head no.

  “Come on, hand it over. Otherwise, how am I going to learn what else is your thing?”

  With a slight shrug meant to be sexy, I answer, “That’s top-secret information. If I tell you, I might have to kill you.” And then I tuck my iPod, along with my book, in the seat pocket in front of me.

  The flirty, sassy side of me is back.

  I like it.

  “That’s a chance I’ll have to take.” My seatmate is determined, and he swoops his hand right over my tray table but instead of snatching my iPod, he takes my book.

  The cabin is dark, really dark, so I don’t bother to try to retrieve it. He won’t be able to read. But like I said, he seems determined and solves that problem rather quickly.

  Turning the overhead light on, he grabs the bag of M&M’s, opens them, pours them on my table, then leans closer to me.

  I sip my wine and watch him as he separates the M&M’s in two piles. I like the way he moves with determination. It’s a turn-on.

  When he’s done, he picks up his bottle.

  I look down and see he’s given me all the dark M&M’s and taken the colored ones for himself.

  “Do I want to know?” I ask in amusement, pointing to the two piles.

  Taking a sip of his beer, he grins. “Just making sure you don’t end up with any of the green ones. You know what they say about those.”

  My eyes fixate on the way the liquid goes down his throat, the way his Adam’s apple moves as he swallows, the way his chest rises and falls. Picking up one of his green M&M’s, I look at him and pop it into my mouth. “I do know what they say.”

  That intake of breath is unmistakable.

  Settling beside me, he tosses a few in his mouth from my pile and starts reading. “‘By not telling one of the men to leave her beach house that night, she knew she was inviting both to stay. Summer closed her eyes at the realization. She was fine with it. She was going to do it. Within mere seconds, four hands covered her. She couldn’t tell which belonged to whom. She didn’t care. Together the three of them worked to remove her clothes, and finally she let the men whisk away her panties. Completely bare, Summer willingly spread her legs and allowed the men to devour her.’”