Yearn by Tobsha Learner Page A

with great martial arts prowess? Suddenly he saw her floating down the aisle in a diaphanous tunic, her slim arms and legs outstretched in a kung fu pose, hands ready to lash out. Would seducing her be fucking or fighting? He’d always liked rough sex, and a woman like that could flip him on his back in seconds. Or maybe she was more of a spiritual type, a kind of Buddhist high priestess able to meditate for hours . . . he saw her perched on a remote rocky mountain crag in Tibet, cross-legged in saffron robes, eyes closed, her long black hair flying back from her serene face. Perhaps she would be able to teach him to levitate or at least overcome the fear he still secretly felt walking the red carpet on Oscars nights. Somebody so spiritual probably also knew everything about tantric sex—they would be able to have sex for hours, slow, delicious, gyrating intercourse, the kind of lovemaking that really made you transcend your own humanity and enabled you to soar through space and time. But the idea that she had made her own money rather than married it excited him the most. A rich, beautiful woman, powerful in her own right, who had no idea who he was—it couldn’t have been sexier. Jerome sighed and nestled closer to the expensive leather headrest. Maybe he had been spending too much time in L.A.
    He stared across at her legs; a thin diamond anklet encircled a fine ankle, the bones as narrow and delicate as a bird’s. Jerome imagined holding that ankle, imagined his fingers would be able to wrap entirely around it. She would be tiny against his six-foot frame, a doll he could manipulate. He thought about how erotic it would feel holding that ankle high against his waist as if she were straddling him, impaled upon him. And she would be small: a hot tight fist around his cock. Suddenly the weight of the script now resting across his lap felt heavy.
    â€œAnother glass of champagne, Mr. Thomas?”
    Startled again by the hostess’s voice, Jerome sat up, hiding his erection with the script. Ever the consummate actor, he didn’t even blush; instead he held up his glass to avoid the embarrassment of having the hostess bend down to fill it.
    â€œWhy not?” he replied, adopting the smile he’d crafted for his role in
Loser.
And now the smile, empty as it was, worked, and something in the hostess began to glow—some might have called it sexual hope—like the faint light of a ship caught in fog.
    â€œI loved your last film,” she murmured, but loudly enough for the Chinese woman to have heard.
    â€œMe too, wasn’t that a fabulous role?” Again, Jerome let his gaze slide across the aisle. The mysterious businesswoman was engrossed in the in-flight magazine. It was as if she hadn’t heard at all. She was utterly impervious. A shiver of pure ecstasy ran down his spine, then tightened around the head of his penis. Oh God, did he want her now.
    Oblivious to his flurry of desire, the hostess bent over him to place a small bowl of cashew nuts on his side tray. A wave of the perfume Poison, sickly and cloying, drifted down with her movement, and for a second Jerome had a flash of the tiny apartment the hostess would return to between flights—the large flat screen that dominated the living room, the cat that would be waiting instead of the ex-husband, the cat litter tray beside the fridge in the tiny kitchen alcove. Suddenly Jerome felt very claustrophobic.
    â€œAnd you did win the Oscar.” The hostess’s voice dropped half an octave, an affectation he imagined she thought seductive.
    â€œOh, I blame that on the director and the screenwriter—us actors, we’re just glorified puppets, really,” he joked, hoping she would leave him alone but meanwhile adopting the false modesty that had endeared him to many a TV host and journalist—a rehearsed response. The hostess smiled indulgently, then moved on to the next passenger, leaving him