Turbulent Desire

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.

Then, as if to truly test my restraint, she leaned down--one last torment, one last brand of possession--and pressed a soft, lingering kiss just above my waistband.

Heat shot down my spine, my stomach tightening, my entire body clenched in restraint as she finally--finally--settled back into her seat.

She turned slightly, just enough to watch me from the corner of her eye, a knowing smirk still playing at her lips.

"Patience," she whispered, her voice molten, wicked.

I swallowed hard. Still throbbing. Still reeling.

Patience? She was torturing me.

But then--her fingers found mine.

Slowly, deliberately, she guided my hand back to her thigh. Back under the hem of her dress. Back to heat.

Still hot.

Still soaked.

II swallowed hard, my pulse hammering as she guided my fingers back between her thighs. Soft. Bare. Scorching heat. The moment I touched her, felt how wet she was, a violent surge of need crashed through me.

She shifted, pressing into my hand, pushing against my fingers like she couldn't help herself. Her breath hitched--a tiny, trembling sound, barely audible--but I felt it. It vibrated against my skin, sent a thrill of possession through me.

My fingers worked slowly, teasing the slickness between her thighs, my touch deliberate, controlled. I relished the way her body reacted, how her grip tightened around my wrist, silent but pleading. The way she trembled beneath me.

She tried to stay still. Tried.

The dim cabin lights cast golden shadows against her skin, illuminating the delicate lace wrapped around her throat. That choker--so soft, so intricate. A fragile band of lace that only made her look more sinful. A contrast of innocence and temptation, of something meant to be cherished but begging to be pulled tighter.

I wanted my mouth there. Right there. Wanted to feel her pulse thrumming beneath my tongue, taste the heat in her skin, drag my lips across that delicate line where silk met flesh.

Her head tipped back slightly, offering more of her throat, her body surrendering as she melted deeper into the seat. My fingers pressed inside her, pushing deeper, curling just right.

Her lips parted, breath unsteady.

I watched, drunk on her. The way her eyes rolled back for half a second before she caught herself, before she forced them open again--barely. Heavy-lidded. Dark. Her lashes fluttered, her throat flexing as she swallowed.

She was fighting it. Losing.

Her dress concealed my hand, the hem hiding what was mine. But underneath, I felt everything. Bare, hot, slick. Her thighs clenched around me, her body locking up as I stroked over that perfect, sensitive spot.

I worked her deeper, faster, slower again, dragging her closer to the edge only to keep her right there.

Her fingers curled into my arm, nails digging into my skin, her silent plea more.

I leaned in, my lips grazing the shell of her ear, my voice a slow, deliberate rasp.

"Be good."

A full-body shudder ran through her. Her thighs clenched tighter around my hand, her breath breaking apart in uneven gasps as her body bowed, tightened, snapped.

Her climax hit like a slow, rolling wave--silent, overwhelming, devastating. Her fingers clamped around my wrist, her throat flexing, her mouth parting in a soundless cry.

I pulled my hand away, dragging my fingers against the inside of her thigh, coated in proof of what I'd just done to her.

Then, I tasted her.

My tongue swept over my fingers, slow, deliberate, my eyes locked onto hers.

Jesus, the way she watched me.

Her lips parted. Her chest rose and fell in uneven breaths. She licked her lips, eyes heavy with something darker, hungrier.

She wasn't sated.

She was starving.

Then, her voice--low, full of quiet, lethal intent.

"Now it's my turn."

She didn't wait for my response.

Instead, she moved--slow, deliberate--shifting in her seat just enough to face me. Her lips brushed against my jaw, soft, warm, knowing. A fleeting whisper of contact that sent a shiver down my spine. But it was her fingers that undid me.

They slipped to my lap, purposeful, skilled, undoing my belt without hesitation. My pulse kicked up, my breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts as she freed me, as her hand wrapped around me with unbearable softness.

I clenched my jaw, trying to keep still, trying to maintain some semblance of control, but she stroked me--slow, torturous, teasing. Not a single wasted movement. Every glide of her palm, every delicate squeeze was calculated to make me suffer.

I gripped the armrest, my knuckles turning white. The pressure of restraint made every touch more unbearable. The hum of the engines, the deep breathing of sleeping passengers--it all faded into irrelevance beneath the pounding of my heartbeat.

She caught my gaze, her lips curling into a wicked, siren's smile.

And then--heat.

Her mouth enveloped me, wet, scalding, perfect. My whole body tensed, my hips jerking forward before I could stop myself. Fuck. I bit down on the inside of my cheek, barely stopping the groan that tried to claw its way up my throat.

Her tongue moved, tracing me, coaxing, exploring, claiming. She worked me in slow, languid strokes, sealing her lips tightly around me as she dragged me deeper. Too much. Not enough.

I slid my fingers into her hair, not to rush her--God, never to rush her--but just to feel her, to let the silk of her hair wrap around my knuckles as she took me in inch by inch.

She hummed, a soft vibration that sent a jolt of pleasure rocketing through me. My fingers flexed, gripping tighter as I fought for control.

Her throat flexed around me--tightening, loosening--a slow, rhythmic pulse that had my vision blurring. The way she moved, the way she swallowed me down, the way she owned me in this moment was devastating. I could still taste her on my lips, the scent of her skin clinging to me, driving me insane as she owned me with every expert pull of her mouth.

The pressure was unbearable. My stomach tightened, my thighs tensing as she worked me closer, dragging me toward the edge only to pull back just when I thought I couldn't take anymore.

She wanted me to feel it. To teeter at the very brink of pleasure and suffer.

My breaths came in ragged bursts, each one heavier than the last, my entire body drawn tight with restraint. I fought it, tried to hold back, but she wasn't going to let me.

She took me deeper.

Slow. Wet. Sinful.

A low, strangled sound caught in my throat as I clenched my fists, barely managing to stay silent. My entire body locked up, pleasure crashing over me like a goddamn tidal wave.

She felt it. The way my muscles tensed beneath her hands. The way my grip in her hair turned desperate. She slowed her pace, drawing out every last flicker of sensation until I was at the absolute edge.

And then, finally--finally--she pulled back.

Her lips, glistening, curved into a smirk.

She wiped the corner of her mouth, her tongue flicking out to taste me before she whispered, "Not yet."

I nearly groaned in frustration, but the sheer thrill of her teasing, of her dragging this out, was almost as intoxicating as her touch.

She dipped back down, slow and deliberate, her tongue tracing along my length with a featherlight touch, leaving a burning trail in its wake. My body tensed, muscles wound so tight I thought I might snap. My breath was ragged, unsteady, each inhale a battle as I fought to hold on, to keep control for just a little longer.

But she wasn't going to let me.

Her lips sealed around me, taking me deeper, her tongue curling, pressing, teasing in a rhythm that was both slow torture and pure bliss. Her hand followed, stroking in perfect sync, a firm, languid squeeze that sent sharp pulses of pleasure racing up my spine.

I gripped the seat, hard, my fingers flexing, my entire body locking up as the pleasure became unbearable, as that white-hot pressure coiled low in my stomach, tightening, building.

She felt it. Knew it.

Her pace quickened just enough, her lips tightening, her tongue working me with devastating precision. The wet heat of her mouth, the way she swallowed me down, the way she owned me in that moment--I was done.

A deep, shuddering wave of pleasure crashed through me, sending me spiraling into freefall. My vision blurred, every muscle clenched, my breath lost in a silent, desperate exhale as I came--hard, uncontrollably--into her waiting mouth.

She took it all. Every last drop. Not rushing, not pulling away, letting me feel everything. The slow, sensual glide of her tongue, the subtle pull of her lips, the way she dragged out every second, making sure I felt it.

And then--she withdrew, excruciatingly slow, leaving me trembling.

She sat up with unshaken poise, fingers trailing lazily over my thigh one last time, as if savoring the way my body still pulsed with the aftershocks of her touch. Her dress smoothed back into place, as if nothing had happened. But the glint in her eyes told me otherwise.

She turned toward me, her dark, mischievous gaze locking onto mine.

Then--she parted her lips.

My breath stuttered.

The dim cabin light glowed against the warm, milky liquid pooled on her tongue, glistening, teasing. She held it there, letting me see, letting me ache for her all over again.