DOM: Alliance Series Book Three (11)

Dom feigns a hurt expression, but I know he said it that way to be funny, so I stop myself from saying sorry.

“Anything else?” I grin.

He lifts his free hand, ticking off fingers. “Hilarious. Handsome. Great head of hair.”

I make a show of looking up at his close-cropped hair.

Dom taps his temple. “This is by choice, not necessity.”

I flex my fingers in his. “Can I touch it?”

Dom drops his eyes to his lap, and I squeak. “The hair!” Then I make another sound and add, “The hair on your head. Obviously. Oh my god.”

The deep laugh Dom lets out loosens his grip on my fingers, so I take the opportunity to slip free and slap my hands over my face.

“Angel.” He’s still chuckling.

I shake my head. “Nope. I’m not here anymore. Go talk to someone else.”

He laughs some more, even as he gently grips my wrist.

I resist him pulling my hand away from my face until I feel the puff of breath across my bare forearm.

Peeking between my fingers, I find him with his head dipped down, leaning into the space between us.

“Give me a feel, Shorty.”

“I’m not that short,” I grumble.

“Sure you aren’t.” He tips his head closer. “Go on.”

Give me a feel.

I exhale and gently place my fingertips at the base of his skull, right where his hairline starts on the back of his neck.

Dominic stills beneath my touch—turns to stone. But I don’t stop. I lean in.

As I slide my fingers up, the short bristles tickle the sensitive underside of my fingers.

His hair is surprisingly soft. And I don’t stop. I don’t stop when his hair brushes against my palm. I don’t stop at the back of his head. I let my hand slide up toward the top.

Once there, I let my hand settle a little more, flattening the short hairs between my hand and his scalp as I slide my hand back down, then back up. And I definitely don’t stop when he tips his head farther toward me.

“Jesus,” he groans. “That feels good.”

I catch myself before I agree, even though it does. It does feel good.

And then, because I like the way it feels when I do it to myself, I curl my fingers until the nails are just touching his scalp and drag my hand back down to the base of his skull, giving him a light scratch the whole way.

When I reach his neck, his shoulders hunch before he lowers them with a shudder.

And because I’m feeling bold, I drag my nails down the length of his neck, letting my fingers pass over the swirling design there until they reach his shirt collar.

Wanting to do more but not sure if I should, my boldness fades, and I drop my hand back into my lap.

Still bent over, Dom turns his head to face me. “I’m gonna need you to do that a hundred more times.”

“I can agree to that,” I whisper.

Why am I whispering?

Those eyes that look like they see too much roam across my face. From one eye to the other, down the slope of my nose, settling on my lips. The tip of his tongue wets his lips.

My chest rises and falls.

By the way one look from him affects me, I don’t know if I want to experience more. Because more might kill me.

Without warning, Dominic leans down, putting his face nearly in my lap, and reaches under the seat in front of me to drag my backpack out.

My mouth opens to ask what he’s doing, but he’s already pulling open the front zipper and taking my phone out, proving he was paying attention when I switched everything over earlier.

Sitting back up, Dom turns the phone toward me. Not handing it to me, just letting the facial recognition unlock it.

I fight against the embarrassment of him seeing the generic background I have on my screen.

I thought the beach scene was pretty, and I didn’t have a photo of my own that was better, so I stuck with it.

Dominic doesn’t pause, though, unbothered by my choice of background.

I crane my neck to see what he’s doing, but he turns the phone away from me, tapping away at the screen.

It doesn’t take an expert to guess what he’s doing, and he confirms it when he sets my phone in his lap and removes his own from his pocket. He just glances at it, checking to make sure the message went through, then he puts it back in his pocket and hands me my own back.

I open my texts, and sure enough, at the top of the thread is an outgoing one from me to Big Guy.

I raise my brows, but Dom just plucks the phone from my hand and once again invades my space to return it to my backpack and push the bag back where it was.

“Well,” he says, settling back into his seat. “If you’d’ve given me a nickname to work with, I would’ve used it. But it appears that only one of us is feeling the endearments. And, wife”—he cuts me a look—“if you’re Shorty, then I’m Big Guy.”

Wife? Gah.

I’m saved from responding when the flight attendant rolls a cart to a stop at Dominic’s elbow, asking what we’d like to drink before dinner.

Being new to this whole first-class thing, I do my best to act unsurprised at the free Jack and Coke that Dom orders for both of us.

Keeping up the act of being together, Dom waits until the attendant moves on before asking me if I’m driving myself home from the airport.