"Sir, please keep your hands where I can see them," the voice cut through their heated moment like ice water.
Tito froze, his rough, calloused fingers halting their journey up Aya's silken thigh, his lips still tingling from the taste of her cherry lip gloss. He'd been so lost in her that he'd forgotten they weren't alone.
The elderly woman across the aisle glared at them with unmistakable disapproval, her thin mouth pinched into a judgmental line beneath oversized reading glasses that magnified her narrowed eyes. She cleared her throat with exaggerated loudness, adjusting her airline-issued blanket with deliberate, staccato motions that screamed of her indignation.
"We're 30,000 feet in the air," she announced, her voice pitched to carry despite the constant drone of engines, ensuring nearby passengers would hear her reproach.
"Not in a nightclub. Some of us are trying to enjoy a peaceful flight." She added, annoyed.
Aya stifled a laugh against Tito's broad shoulder, her breath hot and moist through the fabric of his shirt. The vibration of her suppressed giggles sent tingles down his spine, making him reluctantly withdraw his hand from her thigh. The loss of contact left his skin burning with unfulfilled desire, a phantom imprint of her softness lingering on his work-hardened palm.
"Sorry, ma'am," he managed, the formality his mother had drilled into him surfacing automatically. His deep voice carried the slight rasp that came from years of shouting over construction noise.
"Didn't mean to disturb your... reading."
Eight hours into an eleven-hour flight to Paris, and Tito Alvarez--who had never even left Florida before, let alone the country--was being scolded like a hormonal teenager for making out with a college girl he'd met just two weeks ago. The realization hit him with the same vertiginous sensation he felt on high scaffolding: exhilarating excitement mingled with gut-dropping terror. What the hell was he doing here?
As Aya nestled against him, her breathing gradually slowing into something resembling sleep, Tito stared out at the endless black sky scattered with pinprick stars and wondered exactly how he'd ended up here, a thirty-two-year-old construction worker flying to Paris with a twenty-one-year-old college senior who made his blood boil with a single glance.
Two weeks ago, he'd been dripping with sweat in the half-renovated student union hall at Miami University, hammering away at a support beam that needed reinforcing before the returning students could safely gather there again. Spring break chaos thundered outside the building's thick walls--the relentless beat of music from Ocean Drive, the rhythmic crash of waves, the constant hum of thousands of college students determined to make memories or mistakes, preferably both.
The union hall had become his sanctuary from the mayhem--cracked walls mid-repair, dust swirling in shafts of fluorescent light, tools scattered across makeshift workbenches where his crew would return after the holiday. The AC hummed faintly, creating a cool oasis from the sweltering Miami heat that turned spring break into a sweaty blur of bare skin and poor decisions. Sawdust coated the floor like fine snow, the rhythmic echo of his hammer the only soundtrack he needed or wanted.
Until she walked in.
Aya Chen had entered like a storm in human form--all sleek curves and sharp wit wrapped in barely-there fabric. Her vibrant yellow bikini top struggled valiantly against full breasts that swayed hypnotically with each confident step, while her scandalously short hot pants revealed hips that flared dramatically from a narrow waist that he could probably span with his hands. Long, tanned legs stretched endlessly beneath, toned from what he would later learn were years of dance classes. Tito's hammer had paused mid-swing, suspended in air as his brain short-circuited.
She was a vision of contrasts--half-Chinese, half-Indian as she'd later explain during pillow talk--with the slender build of her Chinese heritage but the silky smooth caramel skin tone that hinted at her Indian roots. Her chestnut eyes, almond-shaped and intelligent, had found his instantly across the dusty space, a flicker of interest sparking as she assessed him with unabashed female appreciation.
At six-foot-two with the broad shoulders and thick muscles earned from years swinging hammers and hauling steel beams, Tito knew exactly the picture he presented. His sweat-soaked tank clung to his chiseled chest like a second skin, worn jeans hugged thighs built from climbing scaffolding all day. Bronze forearms smeared with construction dust flexed involuntarily as he lowered the hammer, sweat beading down his stubbled jaw that he hadn't bothered to shave that morning.
"Union hall's closed for renovations," he'd said, his voice gruff from hours of silent work, trying to ignore the immediate attraction that surged through him. She looked so young, so collegiate--exactly the type he'd been avoiding since taking this university contract.
She'd merely smiled, an iced coffee sweating condensation in her delicate hand, her nails painted a shimmering gold that caught the light.
"Door was open," she replied, her voice carrying a musical quality that matched her fluid movements. The hint of challenge in her tone suggested she wasn't used to being denied entry anywhere.
"I'm working here," he countered, lifting his hammer slightly as if she might have missed the obvious evidence of construction.
"I can see that." Those bright, intelligent eyes had traveled deliberately down his body with shameless appreciation, lingering where his tank rode up to reveal defined abs carved from years of physical labor.
"Don't let me stop you. Pretend I'm not even here." Her smile said she knew exactly how impossible that would be.
He'd returned to hammering, hyperaware of her presence as she perched on a dusty table, sipping her coffee and watching him work with undisguised interest. The coconut scent of her expensive sunscreen had mingled with the salt air and sawdust, creating an intoxicating mix that distracted him with each deep breath.
"It's getting hotter in here now," he'd finally said, turning to face her with a cocky grin he usually reserved for women his own age, flexing a bicep unnecessarily as he reached for his water bottle. The movement was pure masculine display, and they both knew it.
She'd laughed then, bright and unrestrained, the sound bouncing off the half-finished walls.
"Pretty cocky for a hammer jockey, aren't you?" Her teasing tone held no malice, only playful challenge.
"Don't need clever lines when you look like this." He'd gestured down his body, only half-joking, but also testing her--seeing if she'd back down from his directness. Most college girls did, intimidated by his size and bluntness.
"Does that actually work for you?" She'd raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow, wrapping her glossy lips slowly around her straw in a way that made his jeans suddenly uncomfortably tight.
"The whole 'me Tarzan, you Jane' routine?"
"You're still here, aren't you?" he'd countered, unable to stop his eyes from tracking a bead of sweat that traveled down her neck to disappear between her breasts.
The banter had flowed effortlessly between them--her sophisticated sass matching his rough-edged confidence, her knowing smirk challenging his self-assured grin. When she'd finally slid off the table, her walk toward the door had been deliberately provocative, hips swaying with the knowledge that his eyes followed every movement.
"See you around, hammer boy," she'd tossed over her shoulder, pausing at the doorway to give him one last appraising look.
"Count on it," he'd replied, his voice dropping an octave as heat surged through him, even as his brain warned him that this particular college girl spelled trouble with a capital T.
The Second Encounter
On the second day, Tito had been working since dawn, the Miami heat already oppressive despite the early hour. Sweat darkened his gray tank in widening patches as he balanced on the extension ladder, measuring and marking the ceiling beams that needed reinforcement. The union hall was silent except for the occasional grunt of exertion and the scratch of his pencil against wood.
He heard her before he saw her--the light tap of sandals against tile, the soft rustle of fabric. His body tensed in anticipation, but he forced himself to continue working, refusing to look down.
"Morning, hammer boy," Aya called, her voice carrying a playful lilt that echoed in the cavernous space.
Tito finally allowed himself to glance down, his grip tightening instinctively on the ladder. Today she wore a loose white crop top that slipped off one shoulder, revealing the thin strap of a coral bikini beneath. Her cutoff shorts rode dangerously high, showcasing those endless legs that had haunted his dreams the night before.
