Title: Forty Thousand Feet
The agency had chartered a small, luxurious private jet for the long flight to New York. The moment the main door hissed shut, the real world—Ms. Kim, the press, the cold contract—was locked outside. It was just Bok Soo and me, separated only by the heavy silence of the pressurized cabin.
I was technically working. I sat across the small table from him, reviewing the minute details of his New York press kit. But the air was too thick, too charged, for focus. My hands trembled slightly as I held the papers.
Bok Soo was lounging in the leather seat, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He wasn't reading. He wasn't watching the movie on the screen. He was watching me.
His stare was relentless, burning with the memory of the kiss and the triumph of hearing his name on my lips. It was that slow, possessive gaze that made my skin crawl with unwanted heat, especially after our confrontation.
"You're circling the same line, Peter Bella," he drawled, using my full name deliberately, his voice low and teasing.
I forced myself to meet his eyes. "I am ensuring the information is accurate, Bok Soo." I said his name clearly, feeling the illicit thrill of using it in this private space.
He smiled—a slow, dangerous curve of his perfect mouth. He set his glass down and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.
"Are you?" he challenged. "Or are you thinking about the parking garage?"
My cheeks flushed crimson. He knew he had total control. He was daring me to lie.
"I'm thinking about the schedule," I insisted, my voice tight.
He pushed the papers aside, his hand covering mine on the table. He didn't squeeze or grip; he simply asserted his presence, his skin hot against mine.
"There are ten hours left on this flight, Peter Bella. Let's use them."
He stood up and walked to the back of the cabin, which contained a private, curtained sleeping compartment. He paused at the heavy velvet curtain and looked back at me. His eyes were dark with undeniable intent.
He didn't speak. He didn't command. It was the ultimate non-verbal challenge. Come to me. Now.
My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs. I knew the consequences. This was no longer about saving my mother; this was about mutual, devastating desire. But my body was already betraying me, rising from the chair, drawn to him like a magnet.
I walked the few steps to the curtain. I slid it open and stepped inside the tiny, luxurious room. It was dimly lit, intimate, and silent.
Bok Soo was standing there, waiting. He didn't move toward me. He didn't need to.
He reached up slowly and began to unbutton his shirt, his eyes locked on mine the entire time. Each button he released was a deliberate act of possession.
When the last button gave way, he shrugged the expensive shirt off his shoulders and tossed it onto a nearby ottoman. His chest was magnificent—sculpted, powerful, exactly as beautiful as his face.
"You said you wanted honesty," he murmured, his voice a low, husky sound. "This is me, Peter Bella. No cameras. No scripts. No anxiety."
I couldn't speak. I could only stare, mesmerized by the sheer, physical reality of the man who had terrified and saved me.
He took a single, slow step toward me. He reached out, not to his own clothes this time, but to mine. His fingers lightly brushed the zipper running up the back of my simple dress.
"Show me what you truly want," he commanded softly, his eyes intense and daring.
My breath hitched. My hands flew up to my own back, meeting his there. In a moment of mutual surrender, I pushed his hands aside and reached for the zipper myself. With a trembling movement, I pulled it down slowly, exposing the line of my back.
Bok Soo let out a low, satisfied sound—a low growl that vibrated deep in my core.
He didn't wait. He closed the remaining distance, his arms wrapping around my waist, pressing my back against his bare, warm chest. He leaned his head down, burying his face in the sensitive skin of my neck.
"You're shaking," he whispered, his hot breath electrifying my skin. "Let me anchor you."
He began to trail a line of open-mouthed kisses along my collarbone, down to my shoulder, his possessive hands tracing the curves of my waist. I leaned my head back, surrendering to the devastating pleasure.
"B-Bok Soo," I gasped, the sound lost in the confines of the cabin.
He turned me in his arms, his mouth finally crashing down on mine. This kiss was deeper, slower, and infinitely more demanding than the one in the parking garage. It was a promise, a claim, a dangerous fusion of our separate needs.
Forty thousand feet above the ocean, with the world silent below, my beautiful, broken, arrogant boss made it devastatingly clear that the contract was no longer about work. It was about us.