Chapter 13: The Mile-High Club
The silence in Justin’s house had become a physical thing, a thick gel coating every surface. Emery left before dawn, her body sore, the phantom crinkle of plastic still haunting her ears. She drove with no destination, the canyon roads winding and empty. Her phone buzzed once—a photo from Justin, the used diaper balled up in his trash can. She deleted it, rolled down the window, and let the cold air blast her face.
It didn’t help.
The memory of hospital linen and Harry’s betrayed eyes was sharper now, a clean cut compared to the bruise Justin had left. She needed something else. Something to eclipse both.
An idea, reckless and perfect, formed. She called an old contact, a stylist who worked awards shows. “Who’s flying private to London today?” Her voice sounded convincing, light. The girl on the other end laughed, gave her a name, a tail number, a time. “Be a darling,” Emery said. “Say I’m with the wardrobe team.”
The jet was a study in cream leather and subdued wealth. The other passengers were two publicists, already working, and a stylist who nodded at Emery vaguely before putting on headphones. And him.
Zayn Malik sat alone in the back cabin, a black beanie pulled low over his dark hair, absorbed in his phone. He glanced up as she passed. His eyes, a liquid brown that held a stillness she craved, tracked her for a second before returning to his screen. No recognition. Just observation.
Emery’s heart hammered against her ribs. This was the pivot. Away from the brutal, transactional sun of Los Angeles and toward something… heavier. Deliberate.
She waited until the plane was cruising, the publicists dozing, the stylist snoring softly. Then she got up and walked to the lavatory. She didn’t look back. She didn’t need to. She felt the shift in the air behind her, the subtle creak of leather.
Inside the tiny bathroom, she stared at her reflection. The girl who boarded flights on a whim was still there, but her eyes were hard, desperate. She counted to thirty.
The door opened behind her.
He slipped in, his body filling the small space, and locked the door with a soft, definitive click. The mirror showed him behind her, taller, his presence immediate and smothering. He didn’t speak. He simply turned her around, his hands firm on her hips, and brought his mouth down on hers.
The kiss wasn’t hungry. It was consuming. Slow, deep, and impossibly thorough. His tongue mapped her mouth with a quiet intensity that left her dizzy. He tasted of mint and something darker, like black tea. When he finally pulled back, his breath was warm on her cheek.
“I need you,” he whispered, the words rough, almost reluctant.
His hands went to the button of her jeans, popping it open with efficient tugs. The zipper sounded obscenely loud. He didn’t ask. He pushed the denim and her cotton underwear down her thighs in one motion, the fabric catching at her ankles. The cool air of the ventilated cabin hit her bare skin.
Then he dropped to his knees.
His hands spread her, holding her open, and he didn’t hesitate. His mouth was on her, his tongue a flat, hot stroke from her entrance to her clit. She gasped, her head thunking back against the wall. He groaned against her, the vibration shooting through her core.
“You’re so fucking wet for me already,” he muttered, his voice muffled by her flesh. It wasn’t a question. It was a dark observation.
He licked into her, slow and then faster, his nose nudging her clit before his lips closed around it and sucked. Hard. Her knees buckled. One of his arms shot around her thigh, holding her up, anchoring her as his mouth worked. He added fingers then, two, pushing them inside her with a smooth, relentless pressure. He curled them, searching, and found the spot that made her vision blur.
“Zayn—” His name was a choked plea.
He answered by fucking her with his fingers in a steady, deep rhythm, his tongue circling her clit with focused precision. The pleasure built not in a wave but in a pressurized coil, tightening low in her belly. She could hear the wet, filthy sounds of his mouth on her, could smell her own arousal mixing with his cologne. The plane hit a patch of turbulence, jostling them, and he bit down gently on her clit, making her cry out.
He didn’t let her come. Just as she was teetering on the edge, he withdrew his mouth and fingers, leaving her empty and trembling.
He stood, his own breathing ragged. His eyes held hers in the fogging mirror as he unbuttoned his jeans, freeing his cock. It was thick, erect, the head flushed and wet. He didn’t use a condom. The thought was distant, irrelevant. He spun her around, bending her over the small sink. The porcelain was cold against her stomach.
He positioned himself and pushed.
The intrusion was slow, deliberate, and breathtakingly complete. He filled her in one long, continuous thrust, burying himself to the hilt. A deep, ragged groan escaped him, his hands gripping her hips so hard she knew she’d bruise.
“Take it,” he growled, his voice thick.
Then he moved. His hips drew back and slammed forward, a piston stroke that stole her breath. The impact of his body against hers was a solid, rhythmic slap. The mirror fogged completely, erasing their reflection, leaving them nothing but sound and sensation.
His pace was relentless, deep, each thrust jolting her forward. One hand left her hip and snaked around her body, his fingers finding her clit again. He rubbed in rough, tight circles, matching the rhythm of his pounding.
“You like this?” he breathed into her ear, his teeth grazing the lobe. “Being fucked in a plane? Being used?”
Yes. The word was a fire in her brain. This was what she wanted. To be so full of feeling that every other memory—the hospital, Harry’s hands, Justin’s cruel smirk—was crushed into dust. Zayn’s silent intensity was a battering ram against the walls of her own mind.
The coil snapped. Her orgasm ripped through her without warning, a silent, convulsing wave that clenched violently around his driving length. Her mouth opened in a soundless scream against the cold sink.
Feeling her clench, he lost his control. His rhythm broke into frantic, shallow thrusts. With a raw, gut-deep sound that was more pain than pleasure, he shoved in deep and held, pulsing inside her. She felt the hot spill of his release, a foreign, intimate heat flooding her.
He collapsed over her back, his weight pressing her into the sink. For long minutes, there was only the sound of their harsh breathing and the distant hum of the jet engines.
Slowly, he softened and slid out of her. A slick trickle followed. He righted his clothes with a quiet, practiced ease. He didn’t look at her as he turned on the tap, wet a paper towel, and handed it to her.
She cleaned herself mechanically, pulling her jeans up over sticky skin. The silence was different now. Not empty, but charged with something unsaid.
He finally looked at her as he unlocked the door. His dark eyes were unreadable, but there was a shadow in them, a recognition.
“You’re running from something,” he said, his voice low.
Before she could answer, he was gone, slipping back into the cabin as silently as he’d arrived.
Emery stayed in the lavatory, staring at the fogged mirror. She wiped a clear streak with her hand. Her reflection was flushed, lips swollen, eyes wild.
Zayn was wrong. She wasn’t running.
She was burning it all down. And this, the smell of sex and jet fuel, the ache between her legs, the blank stare in the mirror—this was the smoke.