Chapter 9: On their private jet to a post-season vacation, Lando takes Aya aggressively over the desk, claiming her with rough, dominant sex as the plane shakes with turbulence. He reinforces his ownership over her, spanking her already sensitive pussy with each thrust, driving her to a screaming orgasm amidst the chaos.
The jet’s engine hum was a constant, soothing baseline, a world away from the screaming crowds and flashing lights they’d left on the tarmac. Aya sat across from Lando, her laptop open, fingers flying over the keys. The glow of the screen illuminated her focused expression.
“Your mother confirmed dinner in Monaco next Tuesday. The endorsement deal with the watch brand is final, but they want a full day for the shoot, not a half. And your physio is furious you skipped your last session. I’ve rescheduled for tomorrow at nine, and you will be there.”
Lando stared out the window at the black void, speckled with distant stars. The championship trophy was strapped into a seat opposite, gleaming dully. It felt like a relic already. The only thing that felt real was the faint ache in his shoulders, the memory of her body against the wall, and Daniel’s watchful eyes.
“Did you hear me?” Aya’s voice cut through his thoughts.
“I hear you.”
“You’re not listening.” She closed the laptop with a soft click. “What’s wrong?”
He turned from the window. She was in soft gray lounge pants and a simple white tee, her hair piled messily on her head. She looked more like the girl he’d fallen for in the garage three years ago than the impeccable professional from the party. The contrast undid him.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he said, standing up. The cabin was spacious but suddenly felt claustrophobic. “Everything’s perfect. I’m champion. I have you. It’s all perfect.”
He walked to the bar, poured two fingers of amber whiskey, and knocked it back. The burn did nothing.
“You’re pacing,” she observed, her tone flat. “You only pace when you’re lying to yourself.”
He stopped, his back to her. The memory of Daniel’s hand covering her mouth, the shared, secret complicity of it, surged up like a fever. It wasn’t jealousy. It was a terrifying, exhilarating expansion of a truth he couldn’t name.
“What happened in the corridor,” he began, his voice rough.
“Was a mistake,” she finished, but there was no conviction in it.
He turned around. “Was it?”
Her gaze was unwavering. “It complicated things.”
“Things were already complicated.” He took a step towards her. “He touched you.”
“You told him to.”
“I know.” Another step. The air between them crackled, thick with the unspoken. “And you came harder than I’ve ever felt you come.”
A faint flush crept up her neck. She didn’t deny it. That was answer enough.
The plane hit a patch of turbulence, a sudden, sharp drop that made the glasses in the bar tinkle. Aya’s hand flew out, bracing against the armrest. The movement pulled her shirt taut across her chest.
It was the spark to the tinder.
In three long strides, he was before her. He didn’t kiss her. He simply took her face in his hands, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones, looking at her as if he could divine the future in her eyes.
“I can’t share you,” he whispered, the confession torn from him.
“You don’t have to,” she whispered back.
“I did. And I liked it.” The admission hung in the air, ugly and true. “I liked that he saw. I liked that he knew what you sound like, what you feel like. I liked that it was our secret, the three of us. What does that make me?”
Her answer was to rise from her seat and kiss him. It was a deep, consuming kiss that tasted of closure and endless new beginnings. When she pulled back, her eyes were dark with a resolve that mirrored his own chaos. “It makes you mine,” she said, her voice low and certain. “And I’m yours. The rest is just noise.”
She took his hand and led him to the polished mahogany desk near the front of the cabin, sweeping a folder of contracts onto the plush carpet. The plane shuddered again, a persistent vibration now.
“Prove it,” she said, her back to him, her hands flat on the cool wood.
He didn’t need to be asked twice. His hands went to the waistband of her lounge pants, pushing them down along with her underwear in one swift, efficient motion. He bent her forward, the arch of her back exquisite. He fisted a hand in her hair, not pulling, just holding, establishing the connection.
He freed himself, his cock springing heavy and eager into his hand. He ran the head through her folds, already slick for him. She gasped, pushing back against him.
“Tell me,” he demanded, his voice a guttural snarl in the quiet cabin.
“It’s yours,” she breathed, the words muffled against the wood.
“Louder.”
“It’s yours, Lando. It’s always been yours.”
With a growl, he drove into her, a single, deep, claiming thrust that buried him to the hilt. She cried out, the sound swallowed by the jet’s hum.
He set a brutal, piston-like rhythm, each snap of his hips slamming her into the desk’s edge. The hand in her hair tightened, keeping her in place. The other hand came down, not on her ass, but between her legs, his fingers finding her swollen clit.
“This,” he spat, spanking her clit with quick, sharp slaps of his fingers, making her jolt and whimper with each contact. “This cunt belongs to the world champion. Say it.”
“It does!” she sobbed, her body shaking. “God, it does, it’s yours!”
The turbulence worsened, the plane bucking in the dark sky. It matched his thrusts, throwing them together harder, rattling the glasses at the bar. His balls slapped against her, a wet, rhythmic percussion undercut by the engine’s roar. He fucked her with a possessive fury, each plunge a stamp, a brand. The polished desk squeaked under their weight with every drive.
He could feel her tightening, her inner muscles fluttering wildly around his length. “You gonna come on my cock?” he grunted, his breath hot against her ear. “Gonna scream for me up here where no one can hear?”
“Yes, yes, fuck, Lando, please…”
His fingers worked her clit ruthlessly, circling, pressing, pinching in time with his thrusts. Her climax hit her like the turbulence, a violent, convulsing wave that made her shriek, the sound raw and unfiltered, lost in the noise of the flight. Her pussy clenched around him, a silken, milking vise that shattered his control.
He came with a raw shout, his hips stuttering, pumping his release deep inside her in hot, pulsing jets. He collapsed over her, his body weight pinning her to the desk, both of them slick with sweat and gasping for air in the thin, recycled cabin atmosphere.
For minutes, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the jet’s steady drone. He softened inside her, but didn’t move. He nuzzled the sweat-damp hair at her nape.
Eventually, she shifted. He pulled out, and she turned, leaning back against the ruined desk. Her face was flushed, her lips kiss-swollen, her eyes clear and frighteningly aware.
He tucked himself away, then reached for a cloth from the bar, running it under warm water. He came back and gently cleaned between her legs, the tender act a stark contrast to the ferocity of moments before. She watched him, silent.
He helped her step back into her clothes, his hands steadying her as the plane gave another slight lurch.
“The noise,” she said finally, her voice hoarse. “You said the rest is just noise. But it’s not.” She looked towards the window, at the endless night. “Daniel is our friend. What we did… what you asked him to do… that’s not noise. That’s a bomb. And it’s ticking.”
Lando followed her gaze. The trophy gleamed in the dim cabin light, a cold, metallic symbol of a victory that suddenly felt infinitesimal. He had won everything on land. But here, at 40,000 feet, he felt adrift, holding the only thing that mattered and realizing he had no idea what keeping it would ultimately require.
He took her hand, lacing their fingers together. Her grip was firm, an anchor.
“Then we’ll have to learn to live with the explosion,” he said.
The jet sailed on through the dark, carrying them toward a future that felt less like a celebration and more like a beautifully dangerous freefall.