The Mile High Club

Katya

Ten minutes later, I sat in a luxurious seat of the private jet, biting my lower lip in rage.

Of course I wasn't going to be whisked into a jet without a warning, and since he asked ever so politely, I decided to teach him a little lesson.

Now, Ferrara sat opposite me with marks of claws on his neck, my finger nails paining me in reminder of how I had achieved that.

We were both strapped to the seat with a seatbelt, panting for breath, angry as we stared at each other.

An automated voice reminded us to stay in our seats as the flight was about to take off, and in front of us were assorted snacks and wine arranged in an inbuilt table that doubled as a box.

It could withstand the takeoff turbulence.

Ferrara looked pissed as hell and equally hot as he glared at me, the muscles of his jaws ticking.

The takeoff barely lasted for a few minutes, and then the flight was moving smoothly.

But it still felt like turbulence in my heart.

I was frustrated, dying with the need to unstrap the s