Mile High

I don't love flying. Airports feel like temples to discomfort--long lines, invasive security, strangers packed together with too many elbows and far too little grace. But if you must suffer through a metal tube in the sky, the trick is to dress comfortably, breathe deeply, and carry a proper offering to the gods of distraction.

Comfort was easy: a soft pink zip-top I could toy with when I got restless, a faded pleated denim mini that barely covered my ass when I moved just right, ankle socks and sneakers. No bra. No apologies. Just a sliver of pink thong nestled where it counted. My body was already humming with anticipation--because I knew exactly what I looked like, and I wanted people to look.

I'd filled my phone with lust. Porn clips, smutty audio, erotic stories I'd read before and loved to reread. Some women meditate to calm themselves. I read about fucking.

Security wasn't terrible. A few slow stares. One lecherous old man who pretended to be looking at his shoes. Then a male TSA agent "randomly" pulled me aside for a pat-down. I smiled. I'd seen this show before. Technically, a female officer should've been assigned, but he made do with firm, exploring hands. His fingers skimmed the waistband of my skirt, brushing my lower back, ghosting over my thighs. After the story I'd just finished reading--something about a college girl caught masturbating in a campus library--I welcomed the attention.

His fingers brushed just under my skirt. Not quite high enough to be obscene. But enough. Just enough.

By the time I reached my gate, my thong was damp and my pulse was pounding low and deep. A red-eye flight, half-full, and I was already worked up. Delicious.

When my group was finally called, I stepped forward with a little sway in my hips--not exaggerated, just... rhythmic. Intentional. I knew how to draw a gaze. A man three rows back looked up from his phone and followed my ass all the way through the boarding lane. I didn't even pretend not to notice. Let him watch. Let him want.

The gate agent scanned my pass without a word, and I crossed the jet bridge like a priestess stepping into a holy place. The air shifted--cooler, tighter, buzzing with the hush of late-night departure.

A flight attendant stood at the cabin door. Young. Pretty. Her lipstick immaculate. Our eyes met, and I saw the flicker--just a second too long. She was curious. Maybe even hungry. Her smile sent a thrill through me.

I murmured, "Hi," and pulled my zipper down just a little.

The aisle was narrow, and the throbbing of the plane made it easy to stumble, to shift, to accidentally show too much. I adjusted my skirt as I walked, giving a glimpse of hip here, a flash of bare lower back there. I passed a man flipping through a magazine, and I saw his eyes catch on my thighs, wide and unashamed.

My row was near the back. Middle seat. Of course. But the aisle seat was still empty, and the man at the window looked promising. Mid-forties, maybe, with tailored sleeves and a jawline that hinted at discipline. Business class overflow, probably. Clean-shaven, neat. But something about the way he stared out the window, still and silent, told me he had thoughts worth disturbing.

I smiled and imagined the possibilities.

This flight might be fun after all.

My carry-on was small and light--barely more than a purse--but I made a show of it anyway.

As I stepped into my row, I turned my back to the man at the window seat. He looked like the kind who tried not to look, which only made it more fun. I slid my right knee onto my middle seat and slowly bent forward to stow the bag, arching my back like a dancer mid-bow.

The denim skirt rode up with barely a nudge, and I didn't stop it. I pretended to fumble with the strap. Wiggled. Shifted. Nudged it a little farther in. Gave him a view of my thighs, soft and bare, the pink band of my thong hugging my hips.

It wasn't about teasing him. Not exactly. It was about offering something real--something holy. Not exhibitionism. Revelation. A sacred unveiling. The female form as altar. My body as scripture. And when someone looked--really looked--I could feel their worship.

I glanced back.

He was looking.

At first he fought it. Pretended to read the safety card. Adjusted his cuffs. But his eyes were drawn--magnetized. When he finally gave in, he drank me in with helpless hunger. His gaze locked on the pink thong, the soft curves beneath it. I held the pose longer than necessary. Let him see. Let him want.

Could he see more? I wondered. Could he glimpse the slickness already gathering between my thighs? The flush of my skin, the pulse at my temple?

Our eyes met.

He froze.

Caught between reverence and shame, he jerked his gaze away and turned to the window, his face flushed a beautiful, guilty red.

I smiled. That particular shade of blush? That was the color of confession.

This flight was going to be fun.

I took my seat, letting my skirt fall down just enough to be polite--barely. I buckled my belt slowly, deliberately, brushing my fingers along my thighs as I shifted. I turned to him and offered a soft, knowing smile.

He tried to return it, but it faltered. Still red. Still shaken. He looked away again, like a penitent in the presence of something too divine to meet directly.

I didn't blame him.

After all, revelation is overwhelming.

The attendants moved through their pre-flight routine--oxygen masks, exits, flotation devices. The usual pantomime. One of them, another pretty brunette with a practiced smile and flawless lipstick, stood a few rows ahead of me, miming safety with her hands like a bored magician. I watched her for a moment. She was beautiful, but her energy was dim. Routine dulled the sacred.

I needed something to stir me again.

My fingers drifted to the little zipper at the front of my top. It was such a simple thing. A toy. A trigger. A key to unlock attention.

I glanced sideways.

My window-seat stranger was pretending to read the emergency card again. So dutiful. So polite. But his eyes kept flicking toward me--never for long, just enough to feed his hunger one small sip at a time.

He was starving, and I was about to feed him.

I started slow. A lazy tug of the zipper--down an inch. Up again. Down. Just enough to hint. The cool metal slid smooth under my fingers. My breath slowed. My blood didn't.

Down a little farther now. The pink top loosened. The soft upper swell of my breasts came into view. No bra, of course. I didn't believe in barriers between beauty and the worshiper.

I shifted in my seat, stretching just enough to make the zipper ride a little lower.

I felt my nipples stiffen with the cool air and the heat of the moment.

Zip-zip. Down, then up. A little peek. A little retreat. The ancient dance of reveal and conceal. I looked down at myself. My breasts were small, firm, and flushed now--little gifts, aching to be unwrapped. I brushed a finger over one nipple, just to feel it tighten.

From the corner of my eye, I saw him looking again.

This time he lingered.

He thought he was being subtle, but I knew how eyes move when they're driven by need. His gaze trembled, caught between fear and fascination, and settled on my chest.

I didn't look at him. Not yet. I just smiled softly, as if thinking of a secret. I stretched again, arms up just enough to pull my shirt tight across my chest. The zipper slid another inch downward. I was bare to just above my nipples now, the curve of each breast an invitation waiting to be accepted.

I turned and caught him.

Eyes wide. Lips parted. Caught red-handed in the act of worship.

This time, I didn't pretend not to notice. I locked eyes with him.

His face flushed instantly. He glanced away, but not before I saw the flicker in his pupils. Lust. Shame. Thrill. Awe. It was all there, written across his face in a single second of surrender.

The plane began to move--rolling backward from the gate. The soft rumble of engines waking up beneath us. I leaned back in my seat and let the zipper stay down.

I wasn't covering up.

Let him look.

Let him feel that impossible ache behind his zipper, the one that begged him to act while warning him not to.

I turned my head and spoke, my voice low, amused.

"You're not very good at sneaking glances," I murmured without looking at him.

He laughed, caught off guard. A short, surprised sound.

"I, uh... I'm sorry."

I looked at him then. Really looked. Eyes locked.

"Don't be," I said. "Not everyone gets a show."

He blinked.

I smiled again, softer now. Not mocking. Not cruel.

Just generous.

Because it wasn't about seducing him. Not really.

It was about sharing this part of me--this radiant, shameless heat that lived in my skin. I wanted him to see. To feel what I felt: this rising fire that danced between pleasure and power.

The engines roared louder. The plane surged forward, rolling faster and faster down the runway.

I could feel it in my chest. The thrum of movement. The rush of anticipation.

We were leaving the ground. And I was just getting started.

We were airborne now.

The city lights fell away beneath us, a scattered sea of gold dissolving into clouds. The cabin dimmed, passengers settling into silence, cocooned in their personal little worlds.

Except mine was expanding.

The hum of the engines became a rhythm in my bones. My thighs buzzed with awareness. I hadn't touched him--yet--but already my body was singing with energy, and I could feel him vibrating beside me like a wire pulled too tight.

I adjusted in my seat, turned slightly toward him, letting my skirt ride a little higher up my thigh. Just enough to hint. To make him wonder what I was or wasn't wearing.

"Sorry if I'm fidgeting a lot," I said, brushing a hand across my chest as if adjusting my top. It was still unzipped, loose and open, framing my breasts like a stage curtain drawn halfway. "Sometimes I just get... restless on planes."

He glanced at me. His eyes dipped--guilty and grateful. "It's okay," he said, clearing his throat. "I don't mind."

"I like to move," I continued, lowering my voice just a little. I uncrossed my legs and slowly re-crossed them, letting the motion smooth the hem of my skirt even higher. "It helps distract me."

He let out a quiet laugh. "Yeah, I, uh... I can see that."

I turned toward him just a bit more. Close enough that my shoulder almost brushed his. Close enough that he could smell the faint trace of my perfume--jasmine and warm skin.

"You know..." I tilted my head, catching his gaze. "I used to be shy about being seen. About being looked at."

His brow lifted. He didn't say anything, but his eyes asked for more.

"But then I realized..." I paused, letting the moment stretch between us like warm taffy. "There's something beautiful about being witnessed. Really seen. Like sharing a part of yourself with someone who's... hungry."

He shifted in his seat.

"And you..." I smiled now, sweet but sharp. "You look like someone who's starving."

His breath caught, audible even over the engines. I reached for my water bottle, unscrewed the cap slowly, letting my fingers glide around the rim before taking a sip. A single drop clung to my bottom lip. I didn't wipe it.

"Am I making you uncomfortable?" I asked, though my tone said I knew the answer.

"No," he said too quickly. Then: "I mean, maybe a little. But not in a bad way."

"Good." I leaned in, whisper-close now. "I like that kind of discomfort. The kind that tingles in your stomach. That you feel... lower."

His jaw tensed.

I pulled back and gave him a small, innocent smile, as if nothing had happened at all.

Then I stretched--arms up, top tightening across my chest again, the zipper brushing against the swell of my breasts. I stifled a soft sigh, more for him than me.

"Mm," I said casually. "It's getting a little chilly in here. I think I'm going to ask for a blanket."

I let that hang between us, a slow promise.

His eyes followed me as I reached for the call button.

The air between us buzzed.

And the game continued.

The plane was cruising west into the night. Cabin lights dimmed. Conversations dwindled into whispers. The hum of flight surrounded us--steady, intimate, like a slow, vibrating breath.

The seatbelt sign chimed off. Freedom, of a sort.

I unlatched mine and pressed the button above my head. A moment later, the pretty brunette flight attendant appeared, her lips still touched with that flawless red.

"Could I have a blanket, please?" I asked, feigning a little shiver. "It's gotten... chilly."

"Of course, ma'am. I'll bring you one right away."

She offered a polite smile, but her eyes flicked briefly to the exposed skin of my chest--the still-parted zipper, the hint of bare breast. Her cheeks flushed. She turned quickly. Another witness.

I turned back to my seatmate, the deliciously uncomfortable man beside me. He was still doing his best not to look. Still pretending to read the SkyMall magazine like it contained secrets worth knowing.

"Is it a nice view out there?" I asked, my voice soft, edged with heat.

He blinked, startled by the sudden attention. "Uh--yeah," he said. "Clouds mostly. Not much to see."

"Mind if I take a look?"

He hesitated, then nodded and leaned back slightly in his seat, making space.

I stood, turned toward the window, and bent forward--slowly, deliberately. My bare breasts hovered inches from his face, my shirt hanging open, my skin warm and flushed. There was no way he couldn't see everything. I let my breath rise and fall, let the rhythm lift and drop my chest before his eyes.

He looked.

This time he didn't try to hide it. His eyes locked on my breasts, lips parted, reverent and silent. As if he'd forgotten how to breathe.

I didn't move.

I just stood there, pretending to admire the stars--when in truth I was watching him reflected in the glass. Watching the way his eyes traced the curve of my breast, the hard little peak of my nipple. I felt it pulse under his gaze, as if drawn to the heat of his attention.

My pussy throbbed. The ache between my legs wasn't gentle anymore--it was urgent. Hungry.

And then--divine timing.

The plane bucked sharply beneath us, shuddering through turbulence.

I gasped and lost my balance, stumbling forward. My breasts landed squarely against his face, soft and bare, smothering his mouth. His hands shot out instinctively, gripping my waist to steady me.

God, his hands were big. Rough. Warm. And they clung to me like he didn't want to let go.

"Sorry," I whispered, not sorry at all.

Another jolt. I braced myself against the wall, and then--slowly--wrapped one hand around the back of his head. I pulled him gently forward, pressing his face between my breasts, cradling him like an offering.

"You might as well," I murmured, my lips brushing his ear. "This is a window seat worth savoring."

His breath caught against my skin.

The plane shuddered again, and I felt one of his hands slide lower, curving over the flare of my hips, then gripping my ass with firm, greedy fingers.

Yes. Yes.

"Do it," I whispered, voice low and electric. "Suck it while you can."

He obeyed.

His lips found my nipple, warm and soft. He closed around it like a man dying of thirst, sucking gently at first, then with more purpose. His tongue circled it, flicked it, teased it like a prayer.

I moaned--low and quiet, meant only for him--and arched into his mouth. The heat of him, the vibration of the engines, the soft rocking of the plane--it was all too much. I felt my nipple harden even more, aching for him.

He turned his head and took the other one between his lips. This time he tugged, just a little. I gasped. My hand gripped his shoulder. My other hand tightened in his hair.

I slid my leg between his, felt the hard length of his cock straining against his pants. I bit my lip to keep from groaning. So hard. So ready.

And then the plane leveled. The shaking stopped. The moment hung suspended between us--breathless, dangerous, sacred.

He released my nipple with a soft, reluctant kiss.

I straightened slowly, nipples wet and tingling, and adjusted my shirt just enough to make it look like I'd tried to fix it. He looked dazed, wrecked, utterly undone. I liked him that way.

"Well," I said softly, "thanks for the support."

His mouth opened, but no words came. Just a breath. A smile. He helped me ease back into my seat, and I noticed how his fingers lingered on my skirt, brushing high along my thighs. Almost touching. Almost not.

I didn't stop him.

The flight attendant returned then, smiling like she didn't know--or didn't dare acknowledge--the electricity in the air. She handed me the blanket with a perfectly pleasant, dangerously oblivious nod.

"Thank you," I said, draping it across my lap--and his.

Because this wasn't over.

This wasn't even close to over.

The blanket draped over us like a shared secret.

Thin and scratchy, sure--but beneath it, the air was warmer. Thicker. Alive with the hum of nerves and possibility.

He sat quiet beside me, hands folded in his lap, eyes fixed on the back of the seat in front of him. But I could feel it--the tension in his body. The way his thigh pressed just a little closer to mine than before. The way his breath caught every time I moved.

"Sorry about the... sudden intimacy back there," I said, my voice light, but tinged with something darker.

He turned to me slowly, lips parted in that dazed way I loved.

"Yeah," he said, chuckling softly. "Turbulence, right?"

I grinned. "Sure. Let's call it that."

The plane rumbled again, a gentle shake this time--nothing dramatic. Still, I shifted closer, just enough that our shoulders brushed. I turned toward him, legs folded beneath the blanket, hand resting innocently on my thigh.

"So," I said, "what's your name, mysterious window-seat man?"

"Frank," he said. "I'm a photographer. Based in New York."

Of course he was. He looked like someone who saw things--really saw them. That little detail made my skin buzz.

"Romy," I replied, offering my hand. He took it. His palm was warm. His fingers lingered.

I tilted my head, eyes narrowed with playful suspicion. "Photographer, huh?"

He nodded. "Mostly editorial. Some fashion."

I raised a brow. "Ever shoot porn?"

Frank laughed. Not awkwardly--like he'd been asked before. "No," he said, still smiling. "Although you're not the first to ask."

"Pity," I murmured. "You've got the hands for it. And the eyes."

He tilted his head, amused. "You think so?"

I let my gaze trail down his body, then up again, slowly. "Oh, I know so."

Silence stretched between us, but it wasn't empty. It was full--electric. My hand under the blanket began a slow, idle drift. Just resting. Then brushing. Then sliding.

"That whole 'accidental motorboating' thing back there," I said, feigning casualness, "wasn't planned. But I won't pretend it wasn't... effective."

He coughed a laugh, glancing around, suddenly remembering they weren't alone on the plane.

"I didn't mind," he said, voice low. "Any time you need help staying balanced, I'm happy to assist."

God, he was cute when he tried to keep things cool.

"And what if I want to feel a little off balance?" I asked, eyes locking with his again.

His smile faltered--but not because he didn't like it. Because he did. His pupils dilated. He licked his lips.

And that's when I did it.

Under the blanket, slow and stealthy, I let my hand drift down the front of my body. Just far enough to reach beneath the waistband of my thong. I wasn't trying to be obvious--just deliberate.

I found the slick heat already pooling there, and let my fingers begin a slow, lazy circle over my clit. I inhaled deeply through my nose, keeping my face serene. A model of composure, while pleasure sparked beneath the surface.

Another soft tremor of turbulence rippled through the cabin.

"Are you okay over there?" Frank asked, his voice soft and sweet.

He wasn't looking at my face anymore. His eyes flicked downward--toward the subtle movement beneath the blanket.

I bit my lip. "Mmhm. Just... warm, I think."

He watched me carefully now. Not moving. Not speaking.

"Do you want to tell me what you're doing?" he asked after a moment.

I turned to him, lips parting into a smile both wicked and affectionate.

"Just scratching an itch," I murmured. "Very minor. Very... persistent."

"Persistent, huh."

He paused, then leaned in a little closer.

"I'm pretty good with itches," he whispered.

I met his eyes. Held them.

"Then scratch it for me."

He didn't need to be asked again.

Frank didn't speak again--he didn't have to.

His hand slid beneath the blanket with the kind of confidence that came from knowing he was invited. Not just welcome, but wanted. I parted my thighs slightly, the movement subtle and slow, like a door opening with purpose.

His fingers found the edge of my thong, soft and soaked.

"Mmm," I breathed, low and lush.

He let his fingertips glide along the damp lace, teasing the place where it pressed into the crease of my thigh. Then he dipped beneath it. Heat met heat. His knuckles grazed my lips--slick, swollen, and pulsing. He made a quiet sound, almost a hum of appreciation, and began to explore.

His touch was reverent. Careful. Like he was learning me through his fingertips.

"God, you're soaked," he whispered.

I tilted my head toward him and smiled, voice barely above a breath. "Worship gets messy."

He chuckled softly, and then his fingers parted me.

My whole body responded.

He stroked slowly, tracing the wet line of my slit, circling the hood of my clit but never quite touching it. My hips shifted instinctively, seeking more--more pressure, more contact, more him.

His touch grew bolder. One finger slid inside me, smooth and easy. My inner walls clenched tight around it, welcoming him. Then another joined, stretching me, stroking that spot that made my toes curl in my sneakers.

He leaned toward me slightly, his breath warm against my cheek.

"Is that the spot?" he murmured, just before pinching my clit between his thumb and forefinger.

I gasped. My head fell back against the seat.

I couldn't speak. I just bit my lip, eyes squeezed shut, nodding wildly as the first wave of pleasure began to roll through me.

The blanket barely hid what was happening beneath it, but I didn't care. My body arched forward just slightly, and I buried my fingers into his arm, holding him to me as my orgasm bloomed--deep and slow and fierce. I clenched around him, my muscles rippling as if trying to pull him deeper inside, to keep him.

My breath came in hot bursts through my nose. I didn't dare cry out. Every sound was swallowed, every moan bitten back.

Just as the pulsing began to ease, Frank started again--stroking, circling, coaxing the next climax like it was his divine right.

"Frank--" I hissed, eyes wide and glassy. "You're going to make me--"

He didn't stop.

My second orgasm tore through me like a storm. My thighs locked around his hand, trapping him there. I shook. I trembled. I bit into his shoulder, the only thing keeping me from screaming.

When I finally managed to push his hand away, my body felt like it was made of warm, melted sugar. I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. I just existed--flooded and glowing.

He brushed a strand of hair from my cheek, a soft, reverent gesture that made my heart ache.

I turned to him, still panting, eyes wide and wet with pleasure.

"Take it out," I whispered.

His brow arched. "What?"

"Your cock," I said, voice firmer now. "Take it out for me."

He stared at me for a moment, reading the seriousness in my eyes, the need.

"I want to touch it," I continued, slipping my hand under the blanket and trailing my fingers down his thigh. "Let me feel you."

Frank's hand moved to his belt, fingers working with quiet urgency. I helped him, unfastening the clasp and tugging down the zipper. The sound was loud in my ears, shocking in its intimacy.

And then--God.

He was thick. Hot. Hard. My hand wrapped around him slowly, savoring the size and weight of him.

"Oh..." I breathed. "You're... perfect."

His cock throbbed in my grip, and I let my thumb slide over the tip, smearing the slick bead of pre-cum across the sensitive head. I stroked him slowly, lovingly, dragging my fist up and down the length of him in smooth, deliberate motions.

His breath caught.

I looked up at him, eyes locked. "Do you like that?"

He nodded, jaw clenched.

"Good," I whispered. "Because I adore this cock."

I cupped his balls with my other hand, rolling them gently in my palm, feeling the heat and tension building in them. He groaned quietly, barely restrained, and I smiled.

"I want you to come for me," I whispered. "Not yet. But soon. I want to feel it build. I want to watch you try not to."

And so I stroked him, slowly. Reverently. The way a lover does when she's not just teasing--but claiming.

I kept stroking him under the blanket--slow, steady, hypnotic. The tip of his cock glistened in my grip, and every time I slid my palm over it, he tensed like a man trying not to cry out during a funeral.

His thigh twitched. His breath grew shallow. His hand gripped the edge of his seat like he was holding onto sanity.

"Fuck, Romy..." he breathed, his voice tight.

I leaned closer, lips near his ear. "Not yet."

He groaned softly, and I felt his cock throb in protest.

"You want to cum?" I asked, barely a whisper.

He nodded, eyes closed. "God, yes."

"Then be a good boy," I purred, "and wait for permission."

I kept my strokes feather-light. My fingers danced up his shaft, circled his swollen tip, then back down with aching slowness. Every time his hips shifted--trying to chase more friction--I pulled back just a little. Denying him was delicious. Watching him squirm was divine.

I pressed a kiss to his cheek. "Patience is part of worship."

His jaw clenched. "You're evil," he muttered, half laughing, half dying.

"I know," I said sweetly.

And then--of course--the universe added its own little tease.

The flight attendant reappeared, pausing beside our row. Her brow creased. She tilted her head slightly.

"Ma'am?" she asked gently. "Is everything alright?"

I froze mid-stroke. Frank stiffened under the blanket, his cock still in my hand, twitching like it knew how close it had come to freedom.

I looked up with a flushed face and wide eyes, painting on the perfect expression of embarrassed distress.

"I'm--" I cleared my throat. "I'm okay. Just need to use the restroom."

Her eyes flicked briefly to the blanket, then to the damp spot that had bloomed beneath me. Her lips parted. She blinked. Saw it. Smelled it, maybe. She didn't say a word.

I gave her a small, apologetic smile. "I think I may have... had a little accident. Embarrassing."

The attendant nodded, a frown flickering at the edges of her mouth. "Of course. It's just at the back of the plane, to the left."

"Thank you."

She moved on, never looking back.

I turned to Frank, who looked utterly wrecked--his cheeks flushed, his cock straining against my hand, his pupils blown wide.

"You're not allowed to cum until I say," I whispered, slowly easing my hand off of him. "Understand?"

He nodded, barely able to breathe.

I smiled and pressed one last kiss to his jaw.

"Follow me in one minute."

I slowly peeled the blanket from my lap, careful to adjust my skirt so it covered everything, then stood--steady in appearance, but my legs were still trembling from the earlier orgasm. My thighs ached with the memory of his touch. And when I glanced down at my seat...

Good God. There was no hiding it. A glossy, spreading wet spot had soaked through the fabric.

I grinned.

That would explain things nicely.

I turned and walked down the aisle, each step deliberate, using the backs of the chairs to steady myself. My hips swayed with practiced elegance. I felt the eyes of passengers brush over me as I passed, none lingering--but I wanted them to. I wanted them to smell the sex in the air. I wanted them to wonder.

The restroom was blessedly unoccupied.

I slipped in and closed the door behind me, locking it with a soft click. The space was impossibly small. The toilet--laughable. The floor--no place for knees. But the stainless steel sink...

Yes. That would do.

I peeled off my soaked thong and climbed up onto the basin, the cold metal a sharp contrast to the heat still thrumming through my body.

I spread my knees wide and waited, slick and ready.

A moment later, there was a quiet knock.

"Anyone in there?" Frank's voice--low and tense.

I reached down and opened the latch, easing the door open just enough to meet his eyes.

"In here," I whispered. "Now."

Frank stepped inside, his body barely fitting into the tight space with mine. The door clicked shut behind him, and for one delicious second, we just stared at each other--breathless, flushed, ravenous.

"Well," he whispered, a crooked grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, "this is a little tight for my usual studio setups."

I laughed softly, still perched on the sink, bare and open. "Guess we'll just have to improvise. Unless you'd prefer to wait until we land..."

He didn't answer. He just grabbed my zipper and pulled it all the way down in one swift motion.

My breasts spilled out, high and flushed from arousal. His hands were on them instantly--firm, possessive. I gasped as his thumbs rolled over my nipples, coaxing them into hard, aching peaks.

"God, Romy," he murmured. "These... fuck, I've missed these."

"I'm right here," I said, smiling as I reached for his belt. "Now shut up and get that cock out before I change my mind."

"Don't tease me," he growled, but he was already undoing his fly. I reached into his briefs and wrapped my fingers around the thick, pulsing heat of him.

"Mmm," I purred. "Still just as big. Still mine."

I stroked him once, twice--slow and possessive, dragging my palm along the thick ridge, feeling him throb beneath my touch.

He leaned in and kissed me hard--mouth crushing, tongue plunging, hips bucking into my hand. I guided him between my legs, pulled him closer by the waistband.

"No teasing," I said. "Not this time. I want you in me. Now."

He didn't need more.

He lined himself up, pressing the thick, glistening head of his cock to my soaked opening. With a single, hungry thrust, he buried himself inside me.

I gasped, arching against him, my thighs bracketing his hips. My pussy clenched around him, sucking him in deeper.

"Oh, fuck--yes," I hissed. "Yes. Fuck me, Frank."

He began to move--slow at first, a deep grind that had me melting against the mirror. Then faster, harder, the slick slap of our bodies loud in the tiny space.

With every thrust, he pressed deeper, filling me, pushing me toward that dizzy edge again.

He lowered his head, mouth latching onto my breast. He sucked hard--wet, noisy, desperate--and I nearly came on the spot. He kissed down one tit, then the other, then back again, like he couldn't decide which he loved more. His teeth grazed my nipple. I moaned, loud this time, not caring who heard.

"Frank," I whimpered. "Don't stop. Please, baby, don't stop."

His mouth moved to my neck--biting, kissing, licking like I was the sweetest thing he'd ever tasted. "You feel so fucking good," he groaned. "So tight... so wet... You're gonna make me cum..."

"Do it," I whispered, wrapping my arms around him. "I want it. I want all of it."

He reached between us, fingers finding my clit, rubbing hard and fast.

That was all it took.

I came with a cry, muffled only by his shoulder as I bit down to keep from screaming. My pussy clamped around him, milking him, begging for his release.

He thrust once, twice--and then he roared softly into my neck, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself inside me.

Hot. Thick. Endless.

We clung to each other as we came--panting, shuddering, trembling in that tiny metal cocoon.

When the final wave passed, he leaned his forehead against mine, breathless.

"Well," he said with a tired grin, "remind me to always fly coach with you."

I laughed, still shaking, my insides flooded with heat. "Better than first class."

He looked down at where we were still joined, his softening cock still buried in me.

"We might have a slight... overflow problem," he said.

"Oh, you think?" I quipped, gasping as he slowly slid out of me. His cum followed, dribbling out of my pussy in thick, lazy streams.

"Hand me some paper," I said.

He did, and I wiped myself as best I could, moaning a little at how sensitive I still was.

"Wow," I whispered. "You really filled me up."

"Sorry about that," he said, grinning sheepishly.

I shot him a look. "You better not be sorry."

He leaned in and kissed me again, long and deep.

Once I'd wriggled awkwardly back into my thong--pointless as it now was--Frank peeked out the door.

"Clear," he said.

We exited one after the other, casually making our way back to our seats, breath steadier now, though my thighs still trembled from the memory of him pulsing inside me. I tucked myself under the blanket again, warm and deliciously sore. Frank slipped an arm around my shoulders and pulled me in close.

His hand rested on my bare thigh, thumb stroking lazy circles just beneath the edge of my skirt.

"You smell like sex," he whispered against my temple.

"You do realize you're the reason for that, right?" I replied, grinning.

He kissed the side of my head. "Just saying. You're going to scandalize the poor woman next to us at baggage claim."

I laughed softly, nestling into his side. "Let her be scandalized. Maybe she'll book a middle seat next time."

He chuckled and squeezed me. "I sure hope you plan on sharing a cab when we get to town."

I looked up at him, lips quirking. "A cab, huh? So you're that kind of guy--just fucks a girl in a bathroom and then offers her a ride?"

He shrugged, all mock innocence. "Maybe we could... share a hotel room too?"

I rolled my eyes, unable to suppress my grin. "Wow. You move fast."

He kissed my forehead and whispered, "I had to lock that down. You're clearly wife material."

I smirked and held up my left hand, flashing my ring. "Lucky for you--I already am."

He grinned, leaned in, and kissed me--sweet, full, familiar.

"Mmm," I murmured against his lips. "You always did know how to make air travel bearable."

"And you always did know how to make the Mile High Club feel like holy ground."

I giggled, kissed him again, and tucked my head against his shoulder.

We still had a few hours left in the air.

But this vacation?

Was already off to a perfect start.