Chapter 10: Mile-High Breeding
The world outside the hidden apartment ceased to exist for three days. Food appeared at the door in paper bags, deliveries from places with no logos. The fire was kept stoked. The only sounds were the rain against the tiny window, the crackle of logs, and skin on skin. He talked more in that room, his voice low in the dark, sharing fragments—the pressure of a penalty kick, the hollow echo of an empty stadium after a loss, the way the paparazzi’s flashes looked like a fan of silent lightning. He never mentioned love. He mentioned need, a constant, gnawing thing that he claimed only you quieted.
On the fourth morning, he was gone when you woke. A note in his sharp script lay on the pillow next to you. Back Sunday. Don’t wear the jeans with the rip. I hate them.
The order was so trivial, so strangely domestic, it felt more intimate than anything that had happened in the bed. You wore the ripped jeans home anyway, a petty rebellion that felt empty.
Sunday night, a car fetched you. It did not take you to the penthouse or the hidden apartment, but to a private airfield on the city’s gritty fringe. A small jet waited on the tarmac, its engines whining in the damp air. The driver ushered you up the steps.
Inside, the cabin was all muted grays and soft leather. Matteo sat at a small table, a tablet glowing before him, a headset half off one ear. He was dressed in team travel gear—dark track pants, a tight-fitting zip-up jacket with the club’s crest. He glanced up as you entered, his expression unreadable. “Sit. We’re taking off.”
You buckled yourself into a seat opposite him as the plane began to taxi. He went back to his tablet, swiping through diagrams of plays. The impersonal atmosphere was a bucket of cold water. This was his work world. You were cargo.
Once they leveled off, he removed the headset and rubbed his eyes. The drone of the engines filled the cabin. A partition separated you from the cockpit; the two flight attendants were secured up front.
“Where are we going?” you asked.
“Away match. Two nights.” He poured himself a whiskey from a decanter, didn’t offer you one. “You’ll stay in the hotel. You’ll order room service. You won’t leave.”
“I’m a prisoner now?”
He finally looked at you, his gaze weary. “You’re a complication. One I’m choosing to manage. This is the management.” He took a drink. “You wanted in my world. This is it. Airports, hotels, routines. And silence.” He gestured to the tablet. “I have to focus.”
The rejection was precise, surgical. You turned to look out the window at the black nothingness, humiliation heating your cheeks. You’d spent three days wrapped around him, and now you were a problem to be managed.
Time stretched, thin and tense. He studied his plays. You pretended to sleep. The plane hit a patch of turbulence, a sudden, violent jolt that made your stomach lurch. The fasten seatbelt sign dinged on.
Matteo sighed, pushed the tablet away, and stood. “I need to piss.”
He walked down the narrow aisle toward the back. Another jolt shook the cabin, harder this time. You gripped the armrests. The plane shuddered, the engines groaning against the chaotic air. The turbulence didn’t cease; it became a steady, rattling bounce.
You unfastened your belt, needing the solidity of the floor. You took a few unsteady steps toward the small restroom at the rear, thinking to splash water on your face. As you passed the dimly lit galley, a hand shot out from the shadowy alcove and grabbed your arm, yanking you sideways.
He pushed you back against the vibrating wall of the tiny bathroom, his body caging you in. The door clicked shut behind him. The space was claustrophobic, all cold metal and plastic, smelling faintly of antiseptic and his cologne.
“You wore the jeans,” he said, his voice barely audible over the shuddering plane.
“You told me not to.”
His hand went to the button, popping it open with a rough tug. The denim was tight. He had to wrench them down your hips, his knuckles digging into your skin. The plane dropped suddenly, your stomach soaring into your throat. He slammed a hand against the wall by your head to steady himself, the other shoving your panties aside.
“Matteo—”
His hand clamped over your mouth, hard. His eyes were dark voids in the emergency light. “Scream and the whole team hears,” he hissed, his breath hot against your ear. “They’ll hear how wet you are. They’ll know what a dirty little secret I’m fucking on this plane.”
His own track pants were already pushed down, his cock springing free, thick and ruddy in the weird light. He was already fully hard. He rubbed the head through your slickness, gathering it, then pressed it against your entrance. The plane bucked again. He used the momentum, driving into you in one brutal, unforgiving stroke.
The force stole your breath, the cry muffled by his palm. You were stretched, filled, pinned. The vibrations of the aircraft seared up through the floor, into your legs, into where you were joined with him. It was chaos, a violent, shaking union.
“Fuck,” he groaned, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. He began to move, his thrusts erratic, governed by the lurching of the plane. Each drop sent him deeper, each bounce jarred you both. It was raw, merciless, a fight for leverage in the shuddering dark.
He removed his hand from your mouth, both of his now gripping your ass, lifting you, adjusting the angle. “You think I don’t know?” he panted, slamming into you, his balls slapping against your skin. “You think I don’t see you testing me? Wearing the jeans. Looking out the fucking window like I broke your heart.” He fucked you harder, the sound wet and obscenely loud in the tiny metal box. “You don’t have a heart to break. You have this.” He drove in deep. “This greedy, hungry cunt. It’s all you are for me right now. And it’s all I need.”
His words were weapons, designed to degrade. But your body betrayed you, clutching around him, a traitorous pulse of pleasure building with every jarring impact. The danger of it, the sheer wrongness—being taken like this, here, with his teammates just yards away—coiled the tension in your gut tighter.
He felt it, your body tightening. “Yeah,” he snarled. “That’s it. Get off on it. On being my dirty secret.” One hand snaked between you, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing rough, frantic circles. “Come for me. Come on this fucking plane where anyone could walk in. Let them hear you.”
The combination was too much—the relentless penetration, the brutal words, the thumb on your clit, the whole world shaking apart. You came with a sharp, choked gasp, your body seizing around him, wave after wave of illicit pleasure tearing through you. You bit into his shoulder to silence yourself, tasting the salt of his sweat through the fabric.
Your climax triggered his. With a guttural, stifled roar, he pistoned into you twice more and held, buried to the hilt as he emptied himself. You felt the hot spurts deep inside, a claiming that was both crude and devastatingly intimate. He slumped against you, his weight heavy, both of you breathing raggedly against the relentless hum of the engines.
Slowly, the turbulence began to subside. The ride smoothed. The anger seemed to drain from him, leaving behind a spent hollow.
He pulled out, the sudden absence a shock. He righted his clothes with efficient, rough movements, not looking at you. You fumbled with your jeans, your fingers numb, your legs still trembling.
He unlocked the door, opened it a crack to peer out. The cabin was quiet, dim. He looked back at you, his face a mask of conflicted shadows. “You should… clean up,” he said, his voice flat. “We’re landing soon.”
He slipped out, leaving you alone in the vibrating metal room. You stared at your reflection in the small mirror—flushed face, wild eyes, the ghost of his handprint faint on your mouth. You were a complication he was managing. A secret to be fucked in a bathroom. The hotel room waiting for you would be just another gilded cage.
You splashed cold water on your face. The water beaded on your skin, like the city lights far below, distant and untouchable. You knew, as you zipped up the hated jeans, that this was the true shape of his world. It wasn’t passion in a hidden apartment. It was this: a stolen, violent fuck in the shaking dark, a secret to be carried, and the silence waiting on the other side of the door.