"Want to play a game?" Jameson asked me, temporarily removing my gaze from the window that showcased clouds and rolling hills below.
Intrigued, I said, "What game?"
"Truth or dare." His eyes were provocative, piqued with excitement.
With anyone other than the Hawthorne brothers, a game like this would seem almost juvenile. But I'd been around long enough to realize they put their own spins on every common game.
"Okay," I agreed tentatively. "Under one condition."
He turned in his seat, meeting my eyes. "Which is?"
"You can't dare me to join the mile high club."
A grin tugged on his lips. "What a shame. That was the only one I had prepared for you."
"You're disgusting."
"I, heiress, am exciting. You just won't admit it."
Rolling my eyes, I returned my gaze to the window. Our trip to France was roughly nine more hours, and without any layovers I assumed it would be a long flight.
I forced myself to turn toward Jameson.
"Truth or dare?" he asked.
To be on the safe side, I said, "Truth."
"Do you still have feelings for Gray?"
I swallowed. "No."
"Follow up truth," Jameson said, turning me so our bodies were tilted toward one another. "If I weren't in the picture anymore, would you date him?"
"Why wouldn't you be in the picture?"
"I'm the one asking the questions."
Growling, I said, "I wouldn't date him. We clash too much."
"What if —"
"Uh-uh," I interrupted. "It's my turn. I'm assuming you want a dare?"
"Your assumption is correct."
I had to think for a minute. Jameson surely wanted a challenge, but a plane didn't pose many opportunities.
"Ask the flight attendant," I decided, "to give you some alcohol."
"Too easy, heiress."
Jameson gestured the flight attendant — a petite lady wearing a white pencil skirt — toward us. As she neared, Jameson asked my dare. To my horror, when asked his age, Jameson lied and pulled out a fake I.D.
Only the flight attendant didn't know it was fake. Honestly, the only reason I could tell was because I knew he wasn't twenty-one yet. And that his name wasn't Chase Springfield. However, the picture was quite convincing. Dark hair, green eyes, the hint of a smirk that Jameson was imitating now . . .
The worst part was that the attendant actually handed him a bottle of liquor.
Only after she had left — and Jameson had tucked it away in his carry-on bag — did I grasp his arm. "Jameson, you have a fake I.D.?"
He pretended to shush me, as if the attendant had heard us. "That's Chase to you."
I smacked his arm. "You're insane. Actually, clinically insane."
"That's what you love about me."
"This isn't a joke!"
Jameson laughed anyways. "Heiress, I play to win."
"I don't care. You can't possibly have a fake I.D."
"And you can't possibly have inherited a billionaire's fortune."
Frustrated, I turned away.
Jameson let me fume for a full ten seconds before his hands slid over the small of my back. I shivered in surprise but refused to acknowledge him.
Although I wasn't watching him, as his hand coasted up my back I could all but see his smirk. He wasn't playing fair — but then again, he never was.
"I'm sorry, heiress," he said, his voice containing an innocence that was the exact opposite of his persona, "but I don't remember daring you to ignore me."
"You didn't," I agree, before thinking.
As Jameson tilted my chin, he grinned. "See? You can't go a minute without acknowledging my presence."
"Bet."
Jameson laughed. Leaning in to my ear, he initiated a low murmur. "Okay."
After a solid hour of Jameson taunting me, I'd lost several times. However, it wasn't my fault that he was being wicked in his ways.
As I sat trying in earnest to ignore him, Jameson slid his hands over the juncture of my shoulders, which made me shiver. Then he gently pinched his fingers together and dragged them between my scapulas, applying extra pressure on each vertebra. Another shiver overtook me.
Jameson Winchester Hawthorne wouldn't quit, even after he'd won so many times.
Heck, he even nibbled my ear to get a reaction out of me.
After minutes upon minutes of torture — more for me since I wanted to acknowledge him but was forcing myself not to — I finally leaned in and kissed him.
"I don't know what you were planning to gamble," Jameson said against my lips, "but I definitely won that bet."
"You broke the rules," I respond, focusing my attention on his lower lip.
"You didn't say there were any."
"I thought I implied that no touching, kissing, or—" I glared at him "—biting was allowed."
Jameson merely smirked. "I'm a Hawthorne, Heiress. I'll always find a loophole."
I suspected he was right, which is why I didn't argue. Jameson played to win.
But as I twined my arms around his neck and kissed him hard, a new thought came to mind. An idea I knew Jameson couldn't turn down.
I figured we still had seven hours left on our flight, which was a long time for Jameson to not acknowledge me.
"I bet you," I say to him, "can't keep your hands off me for the rest of the flight."
Determination flared in Jameson's eyes.
But I knew this was one bet he simply couldn't win.
