Chapter 10: Mile High Temptation
The airport lounge had felt like a purgatory of their own making. Sitting across from each other in silent, plush chairs, sipping tepid espresso, they might as well have been strangers. The memory of Rohan’s bed, still vivid and humid in their minds, lay between them like a third passenger. Anya had texted him a ‘good morning’ with a heart emoji. Sid had kissed his wife on the cheek and told her he’d call from the hotel.
Now, cocooned in the first-class pod, the pretense finally snapped.
Sid had upgraded them without a word, handing her the new boarding pass with a look that said this is happening. The pod was a vault of soft leather and polished wood, a door that clicked shut, sealing them off from the world. As the plane climbed, pressing them back into their seats, the pressure in the cabin mirrored the one building in Sid’s chest.
The lights dimmed. The attendant brought champagne, her smile professional, unobtrusive. She left them alone.
For a few minutes, there was only the resonant hum of the engines. Anya stared out her window at the blanket of clouds below, moonlit and endless. Then she turned to him, the champagne flute dangling from her fingers. “So, a bed with a door that locks,” she said, her voice low.
“A bed with a door that locks,” he echoed.
She placed her glass in the seat’s holder, then reached for the thick, grey blanket provided. She spread it over both their laps, a move that looked casual, cosy. Under its dense wool, her hand found his thigh. Her fingers, cool from the champagne glass, traced a line up the inseam of his trousers.
He let out a slow breath, watching her profile. She didn’t look at him, just stared straight ahead at the partitioned wall as her fingers worked open his button, then his zipper. The sound was obscenely loud in the quiet pod.
“Anyone could walk in,” Sid murmured, even as he shifted to give her better access.
“They knock first,” Anya whispered back, her fingers closing around him. “Protocol.”
Her touch was deliberate, a reclamation. The sterile, public space made it feel more illicit than the bedroom, more dangerous than the garage. This was a calculated risk in a tube of metal hurtling through the sky. Her thumb swept over him, and he bit back a groan, his head falling back against the headrest.
He turned toward her, his own hand moving under the blanket, over the smooth silk of her dress, up her thigh. He found the edge of her underwear, his fingers slipping beneath. She was already wet. She gasped softly, a tiny, sharp intake of breath she covered by taking a sip of champagne with her other hand.
“Tell me,” he said, his voice rough. “What are you thinking about right now?”
Her eyes drifted shut. “Your desk. The day I came in with the rebrand proposals. You were standing by the window, on the phone. You had your back to me. I watched you for five whole minutes and thought about walking over, putting my hand right where it is now.”
He remembered that day. The dappled afternoon light. The way she’d said his name to get his attention. The current that had passed between them when he’d turned.
His fingers moved against her, a slow, relentless rhythm hidden by the blanket’s bulk. Her breath grew shorter, hitching in her throat. She tightened her grip on him in response, her strokes matching his pace. It was a silent, furious conversation.
“We’re insane,” he breathed, his forehead touching her temple.
“Yes.” The word was a sigh, a surrender.
The pod felt ten degrees hotter. The champagne sat forgotten. Their movements became less careful, more urgent. The leather creaked under them. Anya’s heel dug into the footwell, her body arching subtly against his hand. He watched the tension gather in her jaw, the flutter of her eyelids.
A sudden chime echoed through the cabin, followed by the pilot’s voice announcing minor turbulence ahead. The seatbelt sign flickered on with a gentle bing.
They froze, a suspended animation of guilty hands and held breath. Anya’s eyes flew open, wide with a mixture of alarm and wild laughter. Slowly, reluctantly, they withdrew their hands, rearranging themselves under the blanket. Sid fastened his trousers with clumsy fingers.
The plane gave a slight lurch. His hand, now innocent, found hers on the seat between them. Their fingers laced together, tight, as if bracing for a crash.
The turbulence passed, a few soft bumps and nothing more. The seatbelt sign stayed on.
“We should probably…” Sid began, not knowing how to finish the sentence. Behave. Stop. Act our age.
Anya leaned closer, her lips brushing his ear. Her whisper was a hot, confident thing. “When we land, we take a car. The villa is forty minutes from the airport. The driver will be behind a partition. I won’t be able to touch you for forty whole minutes.” She let that sink in. “I’m not waiting that long.”
She let go of his hand and reached up, pressing the call button above them.
A minute later, the attendant slid the door open a crack, her polite smile in place. “Yes, sir?”
Sid cleared his throat. “Could we have some privacy for a rest, please? Until landing.”
“Of course, sir. The partition between your seats converts to a full bed, if you’d like. I can assist.”
“We’ll manage,” Anya said smoothly, her voice perfect, corporate. “Thank you.”
The attendant nodded, sliding the door shut again. They heard a faint click, likely a ‘do not disturb’ indicator engaging.
The hum of the engines returned, louder now in the newfound silence. Anya stood up in the confined space, her movements graceful and sure. She reached for the latch on the partition between their seats, folding it down, revealing the promised expanse of a made-up bed, cool white sheets stark against the dark wood.
She turned and looked down at him. The blue glow from her reading light carved shadows under her cheekbones, made her eyes look endless.
Without a word, she lay down on the bed, holding a hand out to him.
He unbuckled his seatbelt, the click echoing in the pod. He went to her. They didn’t speak. There was no more need for the crude whispers, the dirty promises. The bed was the answer to every question they’d asked since the parking garage, since Rohan’s bedroom.
What followed was a slow, deliberate undoing. Clothes were shed not in a frenzy, but with a focused reverence, folded and placed on the empty seat. The chill of the cabin air on skin was a shock, then a memory as they found the heat of each other. The sheets were cool and crisp, smelling of ozone and clean cotton, a jarring contrast to the feverish skin they touched.
He kissed the hollow of her throat, the inside of her wrist, the plane of her stomach. Every touch was a brand, a claim staked in this transient, airborne chamber. When he finally entered her, it was with a deep, quiet sigh that seemed to belong to both of them. There was no frantic pace, just a rolling, endless rhythm timed to the drone of the engines far below. It felt less like a collision and more like a culmination, a destination reached.
The world outside the small, locked door ceased to exist. There was no ground, no sky, no marriage, no boyfriend. There was only this suspended, weightless now, the slow build of pressure, the shared, shuddering release that was so quiet it was almost solemn.
Afterward, they lay tangled in the narrow bed, the sheets damp and rumpled. Anya traced idle circles on his chest. The plane’s gentle descent began, a subtle change in the engine’s pitch.
“They’ll make us put the seats up soon,” she said, her voice soft.
“I know.”
She propped herself up on an elbow, looking down at him. In the dim light, her face was unreadable. “What happens after Goa?”
He knew what she was asking. Not about logistics, but about the spell. Would it break when they re-entered gravity, when they stepped back into their other lives?
Before he could form an answer he didn’t have, a firm knock rattated the door. The attendant’s muffled voice came through. “Sir, madam, please prepare the cabin for landing.”
The world flooded back in, cold and administrative. They untangled themselves, a silent, efficient team. They dressed in the fading intimacy of the pod, their shoulders brushing in the small space. Sid raised the partition, clicked the seats back into position. Anya smoothed her dress, ran her fingers through her hair.
By the time the attendant opened the door to check on them, they were seated separately, buckled in, looking out their respective windows as if they’d spent the flight in quiet contemplation. The bed was folded away, leaving no trace.
The plane touched down with a squeal of tires, a jolt of solid ground. Goa’s humid, floral air would soon replace the cabin’s recycled atmosphere. The car with the partitioned driver was waiting.
As they taxied to the gate, Sid looked over at Anya. She met his gaze, and in her eyes, he saw the same relentless truth he felt. Goa wasn’t an ending. It was just another locked door. And they were already on the other side of it.