I had been prepared for the worst; a seatmate who snored, hogged the armrest, reeked of cheap fast food. Maybe someone who'd spend the entire flight clearing their throat or needing the bathroom every twenty minutes. But instead, she slid into the middle seat and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
Her dress was a trap--tight, short, designed to draw the eye exactly where it shouldn't go. And mine followed, helpless.
The black fabric hugged her body like a whispered promise, dipping and clinging in all the right places. My gaze trailed downward, pulled by the way the hem flirted with the tops of her thighs, baring smooth, endless skin. The way she moved made it worse--every slight shift, every casual cross of her legs hiked it just a little higher.
I swallowed hard, mind spiraling where it shouldn't. What was she wearing underneath? Thin lace? Something soft? Or maybe--fuck--nothing at all?
Her hair framed her face in loose waves, falling just enough to brush over her chest, drawing my focus lower. The dress plunged just enough to tease the inner curves of her breasts, a perfect, dangerous line that led me straight to her throat.
That choker--delicate black lace against pale, flawless skin--might have been my undoing. A perfect accent. A temptation. A place to press my lips, to feel the thrum of her pulse against my tongue.
God, how I wanted to taste her.
And then there were her lips.
Dark. Glossed. Sinfully smooth, standing out against her fair complexion like a brand. They glistened under the dim cabin lights, soft and full, like they belonged somewhere on my skin. On my neck. My chest. Lower.
I forced myself to look away, fixing my gaze on the window, determined to be polite. To not stare. To not be that guy.
She wasn't wearing perfume--at least, nothing artificial. But there was something about her. Something undeniable. The warmth of her skin. The faintest trace of shampoo, of fabric softener, of her. It wasn't anything deliberate, yet it filled my senses, burrowing under my skin like a slow, torturous ache.
The man in the aisle seat had already surrendered to sleep, head slack, mouth open. No distractions. Just her, inches away.
We exchanged pleasantries as the plane climbed, soft words spoken out of politeness, nothing more. She didn't seem particularly interested in conversation, her attention drifting to the seatback screen in front of her, fingers tracing idle patterns along the armrest. Relaxed. Unbothered.
Maybe she just wanted to be left alone.
I exhaled, determined not to let my gaze wander. But then--
She shifted.
Not a stiff, proper cross of the legs, not a movement made with modesty in mind. No.
She parted them. Just slightly.
Settling in for the long flight, choosing comfort over decorum, her bare thighs opening in a way that was utterly unintentional--or maybe that was just my own delusion--but completely irresistible to a man like me.
Heat coiled low in my stomach, my throat tightening.
I shouldn't have looked. I shouldn't have.
But fuck--how could I not?
Then, something I hadn't expected.
Her fingers barely touched me, but it might as well have been a lightning strike. Light as a whisper, just the softest brush over my lap--but there was no mistaking the intent.
A slow, deliberate pass of her fingertips. Right over the thickening length of me, the one thing I had no hope of concealing.
Heat slammed into my gut. My breath stilled, chest locking up as a pulse of raw, aching need shot through me.
Was this real?
I turned my head, my pulse hammering, searching her face for some kind of explanation. A teasing smirk? A dare? Or--fuck--had she caught me looking? Did she think I was some pervert, sitting here trying to keep my hands to myself while my thoughts ran wild?
But there was no accusation in her gaze. No mockery. Just those dark, knowing eyes, her lips parting slightly, the barest tilt of her head.
Daring me.
Heat surged through me, spreading low and tight. I couldn't think. Couldn't second-guess. Instinct took over, raw and hungry.
My fingers drifted to her thigh, grazing smooth, bare skin just beneath the hem of her dress. Silky. Warm. My touch barely there, but I felt the way she tensed beneath it. The way her breath hitched.
And then--she moved.
Not away. Open.
Just enough. Just enough to let me feel the heat between her legs, the space where she was soft, wet, waiting. Just enough to wreck me completely.
The steady hum of the plane engines vibrated around us, masking the ragged sound of my breathing. The man beside her hadn't stirred. No one had. We were surrounded by strangers, rows of passengers lost in sleep, completely unaware of what was happening in plain sight.
Her palm pressed down, firmer this time, the heat of her touch searing through the fabric, sending a pulse of pleasure straight through me. My fingers clenched around the armrest, fighting the instinct to thrust up into her hand, to take--but she was in control, and we both knew it.
She leaned in, her breath teasing over my skin, lips grazing my jaw.
"Be good," she whispered, voice laced with mischief.
The cabin lights dimmed, casting a soft glow over the sleeping passengers around us. The rhythmic hum of the engines and the occasional flicker of seatbelt signs were the only interruptions to the stillness of the red-eye flight.
She shifted slightly, her thighs parting just enough to give me better access. My fingers explored her, teasing, sliding deeper, feeling the heat and slickness that told me just how much she wanted this.
Her breath hitched, a soft, restrained moan escaping her lips. My heart pounded, the thrill of our secret moment electrifying every touch, every movement. I risked a glance at her face--her eyes were half-lidded, lips slightly parted, a look of pure pleasure barely restrained.
The tightness in my pants had become unbearable, and I shifted in my seat, adjusting myself as discreetly as I could. She noticed, her gaze flicking downward before she bit her lip, amusement and desire mingling in her expression.
Without a word, her hand drifted back to my lap, fingers tracing over the straining fabric. She applied the slightest pressure, her touch maddeningly slow, teasing.
"You're going to have to be very quiet," she whispered, her voice laced with wicked amusement.
I swallowed hard, barely able to keep still as she unfastened my belt with practiced ease, her fingers slipping beneath the waistband.
The second her lips wrapped around me, the world ceased to exist.
The hum of the engines, the rustle of blankets, the slow, even breathing of sleeping passengers--it all melted into irrelevance, drowned beneath the molten heat of her mouth. Wet, soft, perfect.
A sharp pulse of pleasure shot through me, locking my muscles tight. My fingers dug into the armrest, white-knuckled, as she moved with a slow, deliberate rhythm. A tease. A torment. Her tongue flicked against me, testing my restraint, pushing the very limits of my control.
I sucked in a breath, fighting to stay still, but the slight scrape of her teeth, just enough to make my spine jolt, had my hips twitching toward her. She hummed in amusement, the sound sending vibrations straight through me, turning the slow burn of need into something unbearable.
Her hair spilled over my lap like a golden veil, shielding our illicit act from view, but the risk was still there--lingering at the edges, feeding the fire licking up my spine. Anyone could wake up. A flight attendant could walk by. The sheer wrongness of it only made it hotter.
My hands moved without thought, sliding down the curve of her back, feeling the subtle dip of her waist, the heat of her skin beneath my fingers. She arched slightly at my touch, pressing closer, taking me deeper.
Fuck.
Her throat relaxed around me, a tight, slick pull that sent a violent shudder through my body. My jaw clenched. My breathing turned ragged. My fingers flexed against her skin, barely resisting the urge to grip her hair, to hold her there just a little longer.
She made a sound--a soft, contented hum against me--like she was enjoying this just as much as I was. The sensation rippled through me like a live wire, pleasure cresting dangerously high.
I bit down on my lip, hard, fighting to keep silent, to not let a single sound slip.
But God, the way she worked me, the way she set a torturous, unrelenting pace--slow enough to drive me insane, deep enough to make my head spin--had me unraveling fast. My pulse pounded in my ears, drowning out everything but the wet, obscene sounds of her mouth on me, the slick heat of her lips dragging over every nerve ending.
I was close. Too close.
My hands slid up, gripping her waist, her ribs, anything to ground myself. I wanted to hold on just a little longer, to stretch this exquisite agony--but she knew. She felt it.
And then, just as I was about to fall apart, she pulled back.
Her lips barely skimmed over me, breath warm, teasing. I groaned--silently, painfully--as she looked up at me, dark eyes flickering with wicked amusement.
"Not yet," she whispered, voice husky, dripping with cruel intent.
She shifted back into her seat, smoothing down her dress as if nothing had happened--as if she hadn't just wrecked me with that sinful mouth. But the evidence remained. Oh, fuck, the evidence.
Her lipstick, once flawless, was now imperfect. Smudged. Streaked. A whisper of color out of place, tracing the path where I knew her lips had been.
And somehow, that made her even more devastating.
The ruined lipstick--the imperfection--was proof, a brand, a silent confession painted across her mouth. I wanted to wipe it away with my thumb. I wanted to smear it further against my skin. I wanted to drag her back down and ruin her completely.
But I couldn't. Not yet.
The cabin remained dim, passengers slumped in their seats, lost in dreams, unaware of the electricity burning between us. The soft rumble of the engines should have been background noise, but it pulsed beneath my skin, a steady, relentless vibration that did nothing to ease the ache still throbbing between my legs.
I exhaled sharply, trying to collect myself. Tried and failed.
And then--her hand.
Not withdrawing. Not done.
She returned to my lap, slow and deliberate, fingers grazing my still-hard length as she leisurely adjusted my pants. A touch that should have been practical, but wasn't. She took her time. Too much time. Her fingertips lingered, tracing the ridges of my zipper, pressing just enough to remind me of exactly what she'd just done.
