Chapter 5: Mile-High Reckoning
The click of the suitcase wheels faded first, then the murmur of the security line, until all Ryan heard was the hollow thrum of his own pulse in his ears. He stood motionless, a statue in the river of travelers flowing around him. The taste of her—bitter coffee, lavender, him—was still on his tongue. The phantom sensation of her body, clenched tight around him in that filthy bathroom, burned in his nerves.
He turned and walked, not toward the exit, but down the concourse. His movements were automatic, his vision narrowed to the glowing flight information screens. He found her gate. He saw the line, the last few passengers handing over their boarding passes. He saw the flash of red hair, the familiar curve of her shoulder beneath her blouse, just as she disappeared into the Jetway tunnel.
He didn’t think. He went to the ticket counter, his voice strangely calm. “Is there a seat available on flight 227 to Chicago? Any class.”
The agent tapped at her keyboard. “We are boarding. I do have one seat left in business class. It’s quite—”
“I’ll take it.” His credit card was on the counter before she could finish.
He moved through security in a daze, his carry-on nothing more than the leather satchel he always carried. He felt disembodied, watching his own hands place his belongings in the bins. The airport bathroom was a brand on his soul, a secret he carried through the scanners. He reached the gate as they were making the final call. He handed over his newly-printed boarding pass, his heart hammering against his ribs.
The flight attendant directed him to 4A. The cabin was quiet, the soft chatter of pre-departure rituals hushed. He walked down the aisle. And there she was. 3A. The window seat. Her head was turned, looking out at the tarmac, her profile a clean, heartbreaking line against the thick plane window. He slid into the seat directly behind her. She didn’t turn.
The engines whined to life. The plane pushed back. As they taxied, he saw her hand come up, a tissue dabbing carefully at the corner of her eye. The sight of it, that small vulnerability, unraveled something feral in him. It wasn’t pity. It was possession.
Once they were aloft, the seatbelt sign chimed off. The cabin settled. He unbuckled his belt. He leaned forward, his lips inches from her ear, his voice a low vibration meant only for her. “The bathroom. Now.”
She stiffened. A minute passed. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, she unclipped her own belt and stood. She didn’t look at him. She walked toward the front of the plane, past the galley where flight attendants were preparing drinks, and turned left toward the lavatories. He counted to ten, his blood singing, then followed.
The first lavatory was occupied. The one beside it showed a vacant green lock. He knocked once, softly. The door clicked open immediately. He slipped inside and locked it.
The space was impossibly small, a pressurized closet of steel and plastic. The cracked mirror reflected a fractured version of them. The air was close, recycled, smelling of fake lemon and the nervous sweat that was already beading on his temples.
She was backed against the wall, her chest rising and falling too fast. “You’re insane,” she breathed, but her eyes were dark, hungry, fixed on his.
“You knew I would be.” He closed the distance, caging her in. There was no room for prelude. His mouth crashed down on hers, the kiss a battle for air, for memory, for the future they were hurtling toward. His hands found her hips, hiking her skirt up, his fingers tearing at the already-torn seam of her panties. He’d ruined them earlier; now he disposed of the pretense. He spit into his palm, a crude, necessary lubricant in this sterile box, and rubbed the wetness over himself and against her. She was slick from earlier, from him, from the memory of the violation they’d shared just an hour before.
“You’re still loose from me,” he murmured against her lips, his fingers finding her asshole, pressing. It gave way more easily this time, a learned welcome. “You’re still mine from before.”
He positioned himself, the head of his cock pressing against that tight, forbidden ring. The plane hit a pocket of turbulence, a sudden drop that shoved them together. He sheathed himself inside her in one brutal, claiming stroke.
She cried out, a sharp, choked sound lost in the roaring hum of the engines just outside the thin wall. Her head thumped back against the metal. He filled her completely, the hot, intimate stretch a raw echo of their goodbye. It was tighter here, more constrained, every sensation magnified by the perilous, vibrating space.
He began to fuck her, hard and deep, his pelvis slamming into the soft flesh of her ass with each thrust. The metal wall shuddered and rattled. He clutched her hips, his fingers digging in, holding her steady as the plane trembled around them. Her moans were stifled, bitten off, pressed into the shoulder of his jacket. Each gasp vibrated through him.
“They can’t hear you over the engines,” he grunted, his own breath ragged. “Let go. I want to hear you come.”
He drove into her, his rhythm punishing, a physical argument against separation. She was so tight, a scorching, velvety fist milking him. He could feel the tension coiling in her belly. He snaked a hand around her front, down between her legs, finding her clit. It was swollen, hard. He rubbed rough, tight circles.
“Come for me, Channah,” he ordered, his voice guttural. “Come on my cock while I’m in your ass.”
The command, the crude touch, the relentless penetration broke her. Her body convulsed, a violent, silent quaking. Her internal muscles clamped around him in a series of fierce, rhythmic pulses, pulling him deeper, urging his own climax. She threw her head back, her mouth a wide, soundless ‘O’ of ecstasy in the cracked mirror.
He pulled out, his cock gleaming and wet. He spun her around, her back against the vibrating wall. Her eyes were glazed, her lipstick smeared. He gripped himself, stroking twice, three times. “Open,” he commanded.
She dropped to her knees on the cramped floor, her hands bracing on his thighs. She took him into her mouth, swallowing him to the root in one fluid, practiced motion. Her throat worked around him. She sucked with a frantic, greedy hunger, her tongue swirling over the sensitive head, tasting herself, tasting their joined sin. The sounds were obscenely wet and loud in the tiny room.
He watched, his hands fisted in her red hair. The sight of her—on her knees in an airplane bathroom, her makeup ruined, her mouth stretched wide around him—was more potent than any fantasy. “Gonna come,” he warned, his voice strangled.
She looked up, her eyes meeting his. She took him deeper, holding him there, her gaze unwavering. He erupted, a hot, pulsing flood down her throat. She swallowed convulsively, but it was too much. It spilled from her lips, dripping in thick, white strands onto her chest, staining her blouse. She kept sucking, drawing out every last drop until he was soft and spent.
She stayed there for a moment, her forehead resting against his thigh, breathing hard. Then she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, a gesture both crude and profoundly intimate. He pulled her up. They dressed in silence, the roar of the engines their only conversation. He used a damp paper towel to gently clean the worst of the mess from her chin and chest.
They didn’t speak. He unlocked the door, cracked it open to check the corridor, and slipped out first. He returned to his seat, his body humming with a profound, weary satiation. A few minutes later, she walked back to hers. She paused beside his row, her hand resting on the headrest of his seat. Her fingers, just for a second, brushed through the ends of his hair.
Then she was gone, back to 3A. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. They had three hours of flight left. And then a city. And then a tomorrow he could no longer predict. The memory of her choked cries, buried in the engine’s scream, was the only map he had.