Chapter 2: Mile High Swap at 30,000 Feet
The jet's cabin had settled into a rhythm—the low thrum of enchanted stabilizers, the occasional clink of ice against glass, the soft rustle of Rebecca's breathing as she dozed against Charley's shoulder. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the auroras of Tennessee rolled past like spilled paint, green and violet bleeding into the darkness.
Amy Bryant took a slow sip of her wine, her blue eyes fixed on Mike Williamson with the kind of patient calculation that had nothing to do with the Consortium and everything to do with the way his forearm looked when he reached for his own glass.
"So," she said. "I've been thinking."
Mike snorted without looking at her. "That's never good."
"Rude." She swirled the wine, watching the liquid climb the glass. "I've been thinking about how we should pass the time. You know. Before we get to Miami and everything goes to hell."
"We've got maybe forty minutes."
"Plenty."
Mike finally looked at her. She was lounging in the leather seat across from him, one leg drawn up, her blonde hair loose around her shoulders. She was wearing jeans and a faded sweater that had probably been Jason's at some point in the distant past. The sweater was soft. The jeans were tight. And the look in her eye was the kind that had gotten him into trouble more times than he could count over the past two decades.
"Plenty for what?" he asked, though he already knew.
"Partner swap." Amy said it the way someone might suggest ordering dessert. Casual. Confident. "You and me. Jason and Casey. We've got two bedrooms in the back. It's practically fate."
Mike set his glass down on the polished mahogany table between them. "You suggest this a lot."
"I do."
"Like. A lot, a lot."
"I like to swap." She shrugged, completely unbothered by his observation. "You know this about me. You've known it for—what, twenty-two years now? Since that first night at Stacy's penthouse?"
Mike remembered. He remembered it vividly, actually, because it had been one of the more surreal nights of his life. Jan had thrown one of her infamous parties in Stacy's old Chicago penthouse—before Stacy had gotten zapped to the future, before any of them had known magic was real, back when they were all just young and stupid and bored.
Yukio had stopped by to deliver food. She'd been in college then, rooming with Amy, and she'd come bearing bags of Thai takeout and a grin that suggested she was up for anything. She'd ended up staying.
Amy and Jason had come looking for her. They'd ended up staying too.
And Mike—twenty-seven years old, still awkward, still not entirely sure how he'd ended up at an orgy in a penthouse apartment—had watched Amy walk in and thought, for one confused moment, that she'd wandered into the wrong place.
Because she'd looked so innocent. That was the thing. She'd looked like a kindergarten teacher, or a librarian, or someone who volunteered at animal shelters on weekends. Blonde hair, gentle eyes, a smile that could make you forget the word "fuck" even existed.
She'd asked where the bathroom was. Someone had pointed. She'd walked past a couple going at it on the couch, stepped over a pile of discarded clothing, and disappeared down the hall.
Twenty minutes later, she'd emerged, walked straight up to Casey, and asked, very politely, if she could eat her out.
Mike had choked on his drink.
Casey had said yes.
That had been twenty-two years ago. Amy had been—what, nineteen? Twenty? Young enough that Mike had felt vaguely paternal for about three seconds before she'd pulled Casey's pants down and proven that any paternal feelings he might have had were wildly misplaced.
He'd been fucking her ever since. Off and on, here and there, whenever the mood struck and their respective spouses were amenable. Longer than he'd known magic was real. Longer than Jan had stopped being a human and started being something else. Longer than most of the people on this plane had been alive.
And she was still asking for it. Still looking at him with that patient, knowing glint. Still wanting.
"You're staring," Amy said.
"I'm remembering."
"Good memories?"
"Confusing ones." He picked up his glass again, took a drink. "You looked so innocent back then. Like someone who'd never even thought the word 'fuck.' And then you walked up to Casey and—"
"I know what I did." Amy's smile was slow, almost lazy. "I remember every second of it. First time I ever ate a woman out. First time I ever did anything with anyone besides Jason, actually. You should have seen the look on your face."
"I was scandalized."
"You were turned on."
"Both. I was both."
Amy laughed, and the sound was warm and genuine and entirely at odds with the conversation they were having. That was the thing about Amy Bryant. She had a way of talking about sex like it was the most natural thing in the world—because to her, it was. She'd never understood why people got weird about it. Bodies did things. Bodies wanted things. Why pretend otherwise?
"So," she said, drawing the word out. "You and me. Jason and Casey. Yes?"
Across the cabin, Casey Williamson-Kapowski had stopped pretending to look at her phone.
She'd been listening to the exchange with the kind of patient amusement that came from twenty years of marriage to Mike and twenty-two years of friendship with Amy. She knew exactly where this was going. She'd known the moment Amy had suggested taking the jet instead of commercial—the perks of being a bestselling author, apparently—and the moment Amy had poured herself that first glass of wine.
Casey looked at Jason, who was sitting beside her, reading something on his tablet with the focused intensity of a man who was trying very hard not to think about what was being discussed three feet away.
Jason Bryant was many things. An accountant. A father. A man who had once dressed up as a hobbit for a Renaissance Fair and had absolutely no regrets about it. He was also, Casey knew, a man who had been married to Amy for over two decades and had never once tried to change her.
He was also, if the bulge in his jeans was any indication, a man who had heard the words "partner swap" and responded physically before he'd had time to form a conscious thought about it.
"You're blushing," Casey said.
Jason's head snapped up. "I'm not."
"You are. It's adorable."
"I'm not—" He looked down at his tablet, realized he'd been on the same page for the past fifteen minutes, and set it aside with the air of a man accepting his fate. "This is weird. This is—we're on a plane. There are people. Rebecca and Charley are right there."
"Rebecca's asleep. Charley's asleep. And Yukio—" Casey glanced toward the front of the cabin, where Yukio was quite obviously not asleep. The adventurer was sprawled in her seat with her cane across her lap, watching the exchange between Mike and Amy with the kind of focused interest usually reserved for nature documentaries about mating rituals.
"Yukio is enjoying herself," Casey said.
"I'm enjoying myself," Yukio confirmed, not bothering to pretend she hadn't been listening. "Please continue."
Jason groaned.
Casey reached over and took his hand. His fingers were warm, slightly sweaty, the fingers of a man who was nervous and aroused and trying not to be either. She squeezed them gently.
"Look," she said, her voice low enough that only he could hear. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to do. But Amy's going to end up with Mike either way—you know that, right? She's been eyeing him since we left Chicago."
Jason did know that. He'd watched his wife's gaze drift toward Mike more than once during the flight, watched her bite her lip in that particular way she had when she was thinking about something she wanted. He knew his wife. He knew what she liked.
And he knew that the only thing standing between Amy and what she wanted was him.
"I'm not saying no," he said carefully. "I'm just saying—planes. People. My daughter is going to be in danger, and we're—"
"We're going to be there in twenty minutes," Casey said. "Twenty minutes, Jason. And then it's going to be chaos and violence and all the things we're apparently driving toward. But right now—" She leaned closer, her breath warm against his ear. "Right now, Amy wants to fuck your best friend's husband. And I want—"
She stopped.
"What?" Jason asked, his voice slightly strangled.
Casey pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. Her face was kind—it was always kind, that was the thing about Casey—but there was something else underneath. Something sharper. Something that had been married to Mike Williamson for twenty years and had learned exactly what she wanted and exactly how to ask for it.
"I want you," she said simply. "I've been thinking about it since Chicago. You've got that look. The one that says you're nervous and you're not going to admit you're nervous, and honestly, that works for me."
Jason stared at her.
Then, very slowly, he smiled.
It was a different smile than usual—not the goofy, dorky smile of a man who had just found a first edition of a fantasy novel at a used bookstore. This was something else. Something hungrier.
"Okay," he said.
Amy, who had been watching this exchange out of the corner of her eye while pretending to discuss logistics with Mike, turned and gave her husband a thumbs up.
Casey stood, her hand still wrapped around Jason's. She was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, her silver-streaked hair loose around her shoulders, and she moved with the kind of casual confidence that came from knowing exactly who she was and exactly what she wanted.
"Bedroom," she said to Jason. "Now."
"Should I—"
"Walk."
Jason walked.
He was aware of Mike watching him—aware of the smirk on his friend's face, the way Mike raised his glass in a silent toast—and aware of Amy's pleased little smile as she watched him get dragged toward the back of the cabin. He was aware of Rebecca and Charley, still asleep, still oblivious. He was aware of Yukio, still watching with frank appreciation.
And he was aware of Casey, whose hand had released his and moved to the small of his back, guiding him through the narrow door of the rear cabin.
The room was small. A bed, neatly made. A small window showing the auroras bleeding past. Soft lighting that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere.
Casey closed the door behind them and turned the lock.
"Okay," she said. "Now I'm going to take my clothes off. You can watch. You can help. But if you try to talk about the Consortium or Inez or anything else that isn't me, I'm going to be very disappointed."
Jason swallowed. "Understood."
"Good."
She pulled her shirt over her head in one smooth motion. Beneath it, she wore a simple black bra that did nothing to hide the shape of her breasts—full, slightly sagging from age and gravity childbearing, tipped with nipples that had already hardened in the cool cabin air.
Jason's mouth went dry.
"Come here," Casey said, and he went.
---
In the main cabin, Mike and Amy were alone.
Well. Alone except for Rebecca and Charley, still asleep, and Yukio, who had moved from her seat to a closer chair with the unapologetic interest of someone who had decided that voyeurism was the highlight of the trip.
"He's always so nervous," Amy said, watching the spot where Jason had disappeared. "It's adorable. You'd think after twenty years of marriage, he'd be used to this by now."
"Some people have shorter learning curves than others," Mike said.
"Are you calling my husband stupid?"
"I'm calling him adorable."
"That's fair." Amy set her wine glass aside and rose from her seat. She moved with the easy grace of someone who was comfortable in her own skin, her blonde hair swaying against her back as she crossed the cabin to stand directly in front of Mike. "So. Here we are."
"Here we are."
"You've been through this before."
"I have."
"Many times."
"Many, many times." Mike looked up at her, taking in the flushed pink of her cheeks, the way her lips had parted slightly, the light in her eyes that had nothing to do with the wine and everything to do with what she wanted. "You know you don't have to keep asking."
"I know." Amy stepped closer, her knees brushing against his. "But I like asking. It's part of the fun."
"You're a strange woman, Amy Bryant."
"Thank you."
She leaned down and kissed him.
It started soft—a simple press of lips, a gentle exploration. But Mike had been kissing Amy for over two decades, and he knew exactly what she wanted. He cupped the back of her head, his fingers threading through her hair, and pulled her closer.
Amy made a small sound against his mouth and straddled his lap.
The leather of the seat creaked beneath them. Her thighs bracketed his hips, her weight settling against him in a way that made him groan low in his throat. She kissed like she did everything else—with enthusiasm, with intent, with the complete absence of shame or hesitation.
Her tongue swept against his lower lip, and he opened for her.
"Fuck," he muttered against her mouth. "You taste like wine."
"Shut up and kiss me."
He did.
The kiss deepened, became messier, became the kind of kiss that left no question about where things were heading. Amy's hands slid beneath his shirt, her fingers tracing the softness around his waist—he wasn't the young man he'd been at thirty, but she didn't seem to care. If anything, she seemed to appreciate the additional surface area.
"You've gotten comfortable," she murmured against his lips. "I like it."
"You're just saying that because you like me."
"I'm saying it because it's true. And because—" She rocked her hips against him, feeling the hard line of his cock through his jeans. "Because I know exactly what you can do with all of this."
"All of this?"
"Shut up."
She kissed him again, harder this time. He felt her hands working at the buttons of his shirt—fumbling, a little clumsy, too eager to be bothered with precision. He helped her, pulling the fabric free, letting it fall open so she could press her palms against his bare chest.
"You're warm," she said. "You're always so warm."
"Hot-blooded."
"That's a terrible pun."
"Shut up and stop talking."
Amy laughed—and then stopped laughing when Mike grabbed her ass.
His hands were big and warm and calloused, palms curving around the denim of her jeans like they belonged there. She ground against him, feeling the length of his erection through their clothes, feeling her own arousal building into something sharp and urgent.
"Bedroom," she said. "Now. Before I lose my patience and let you take me right here."
"There is no bedroom. There's the couch and the floor and—"
"There are two bedrooms back there."
"One's taken by your husband and my wife. The other one's—" He glanced over at Rebecca and Charley, still asleep, then at Yukio, who waved cheerfully.
"I'll be quiet," Yukio said. "Mostly."
"That's not—"
"There's a bed in the other room," Amy said. "Calista and Katrina went in there to 'sleep.' They might not be sleeping anymore. But I don't care. You're going to fuck me, and I'm not doing it on the floor of a private jet when there's a perfectly good bed three feet away."
On the way to the bedroom, they passed the door where Calista and Katrina were supposedly sleeping. The sounds coming through the thin barrier gave lie to that particular fiction—subtle moans, whispered endearments, the distinct rustle of something far more intimate than sleep. Amy smirked but didn't comment. She'd seen the way those two looked at each other.
The bedroom itself was compact but luxurious—a double bed with crisp white sheets, a small porthole window, and a door that locked with a satisfying click. Mike had barely crossed the threshold before Amy shoved him backward onto the mattress.
He landed with a grunt, propped up on his elbows, watching as she stood silhouetted against the dim cabin light. Her fingers found the hem of her sweater—Jason's sweater, he remembered, the one she'd stolen years ago and never given back—and pulled it over her head in one fluid motion.
Beneath it, she wore nothing.
Mike's mouth went dry. He'd seen Amy naked more times than he could count over two decades. He'd memorized the gentle curve of her waist, the modest swell of her breasts, the pale blond triangle at the apex of her thighs. But he never tired of looking at her.
She was never in a hurry, never insecure, never apologetic. She undressed the way she did everything—slowly, deliberately, inviting him to watch.
"You're staring again," she said.
"I'm appreciating."
"Good answer." She unbuttoned her jeans with careful precision, sliding them down her hips, revealing a simple pair of cotton underwear. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband and pushed them down too, stepping out of them and tossing them aside.
Mike unbuttoned his own jeans with fumbling haste. He wasn't young anymore, wasn't capable of the effortless movements he'd had at thirty. He was forty-nine years old and had the softening belly to prove it, but Amy was already moving toward the bed. She straddled him with a fluid grace that made him forget every insecurity.
"Let me help you with those," she whispered, tugging his jeans and boxers down his hips with practiced efficiency. His cock sprang free, thick and hard and already glistening at the tip.
"Someone's eager," she said.
"Shut up."
Amy laughed, low and throaty. "Make me."
He surged upward, catching her off guard, rolling them both so she was on her back and he was braced above her. She landed with a soft oof, but her laugh turned into a gasp as he dragged his cock against her slick folds.
"Where do you want me?" he murmured.
"Inside me. Now. Don't tease—I swear to God, Mike, if you tease me—"
He positioned himself at her entrance and thrust forward.
Amy cried out, a sharp, broken sound that filled the small cabin. She was wet—soaked, really—and he slid in with almost no resistance. Her cunt was impossibly tight around him, her walls clenching and fluttering like she was trying to pull him deeper.
"Fuck," she gasped. "Fuck, yes, just like that—"
Mike began to move. Slow at first, a gentle rhythm meant to let her adjust. He watched her face—watched her lips part, watched her eyelids flutter, watched the flush spread across her chest. He'd known Amy for over twenty years. He'd fucked her in every position imaginable, in every location their group could find, but she never failed to surprise him.
Even now, at forty-two, with two grown children and a career that demanded more of her attention than most people could spare, she still wanted this. Still needed it. Still asked for it with the same frank, unashamed hunger she'd had at nineteen.
"Harder," she commanded, always the one giving orders in bed. "Fuck me harder, Mike. I'm not made of glass."
He obliged.
The pace quickened, became rougher, became the kind of fucking that left bruises on hips and marks on throats. Amy wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, her heels digging into the small of his back as she urged him on.
"God, you feel—" He couldn't finish the sentence. Didn't need to. Finish it. Amy's inner muscles rippled around him, tight and hot and impossibly perfect, and he had to grit his teeth to keep from coming on the spot.
"Don't you fucking dare," she warned, as if reading his mind. "I haven't come yet. You're not allowed to come until I do."
"Bossy."
"You love it."
He did. He'd always loved it. There was something about Amy's straightforwardness, her complete lack of pretense, her willingness to ask for exactly what she wanted and expect to get it—he'd never been able to resist her.
He slid his hand between their bodies, his thumb finding her clit with practiced precision. She bucked against him, moaning low in her throat. Her nails dug into his shoulders. Her breath came in ragged, desperate gasps.
"That's it," she panted. "That's—yes, right there—don't stop—"
"I'm not stopping."
"If you stop, I'll kill you."
"Noted."
Her hips moved against his, matching him thrust for thrust, grinding her clit against his thumb with a rhythm that built and built and built. Mike felt the familiar tightening in his balls—the pressure that meant he was close, too close—and fought it back. Amy came first. Always. That was the rule, whether spoken or unspoken, and he'd never broken it.
"Are you close?" he managed.
"Yes—yes—God, don't stop—"
"I'm not—"
And then she was coming.
Mike felt it first in the way her cunt clenched around him, a vise of muscle that milked him with every wave. Then her body: arching off the bed, her head thrown back, her mouth open in a scream that she barely managed to muffle by biting her own shoulder. Her nails raked down his back. Her legs tightened around his waist, pulling him impossibly deeper.
He followed her over the edge.
His orgasm hit like a freight train, abrupt and devastating. He buried his face in her neck, moaning something that might have been her name, spilling himself inside her. Her body still held him, still milking every last drop.
They stayed like that for a long moment. Neither willing to move, or perhaps simply unable. Amy's hands had found his back, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on the sweat-slicked skin. Mike's face was still buried in her neck, his breath warm against her shoulder.
Then the door opened.
Yukio stood in the doorway, leaning on her cane, her dark eyes gleaming with satisfaction. Behind her, the main cabin was quiet—Rebecca and Charley still dozing in their seats, the dim lights casting soft shadows across their sleeping faces.
"I got bored," Yukio said, by way of explanation.
Amy lifted her head, looking past Mike's shoulder at the intruder. Her chest was still heaving, her body still trembling with aftershocks, but there was no embarrassment in her expression. Just curiosity.
"How long have you been standing there?" she asked.
"Long enough."
"Enjoy the show?"
"Immensely." Yukio stepped into the room, letting the door swing shut behind her. It was dim, the only light coming from the porthole and the soft glow of the cabin beyond, but Amy could see the heat in the woman's eyes.
"You want to join," Amy said. It wasn't a question.
"I want to join."
"You'll have to wait your turn." Amy stretched beneath Mike, her body arching in a way that made him catch his breath. "I'm not done with him yet."
"Not done?" Mike repeated, his voice muffled.
"I never said I was done." She pushed at his shoulders, rolling him onto his back. Mike went willingly, his softened cock slipping free as she settled atop his thighs, her hands splayed across his chest.
He lay beneath her, looking up at her with something that might have been adoration or exhaustion or both. "You're going to kill me."
"I've been trying for years."
"How's it going so far?"
She laughed and leaned down to kiss him. Behind her, Yukio settled onto the edge of the bed with a soft sigh, content to watch for now. The cane was still in her hand; she set it aside, resting it against the wall.
The jet hummed around them, a cocoon of warmth and enchanted stabilizers, carrying them south. Toward Miami and danger and whatever awaited them there. But for now, for this moment, there was only this.
Amy broke the kiss and looked over her shoulder at Yukio. "Give us five minutes." She glanced down at Mike, who was staring up at her with the dazed expression of a man who had just been thoroughly fucked. "Maybe ten."
"I can wait," Yukio said. "I'm very patient."
"You're many things," Amy said, "but patient isn't one of them."
"Perhaps not." Yukio's smile was slow and sharp. "But I'm willing to make an exception."
She settled back against the wall, one hand drifting to rest on her thigh, her gaze lingering on the pair tangled in the sheets. The jet raced toward the sunrise.
---
In the main cabin, Rebecca opened one eye.
She'd been awake for the past fifteen minutes—couldn't help it, really, not with the sounds coming from the back of the plane. Charley was still asleep beside her, his head resting on her shoulder, his breathing slow and even. She envied his ability to sleep through anything.
She shifted slightly, careful not to wake him, and glanced toward the rear of the cabin. Yukio had disappeared. The bedroom door was closed. And from behind it, muffled but unmistakable, came the sounds of Amy Bryant enjoying herself.
Rebecca closed her eyes again and smiled.
Twenty minutes to Miami. Twenty minutes until they had to be adults again, had to face killers and Consortium agents and the dangers that threatened her daughter. But for now—for just a few more minutes—she could pretend that everything was as it should be.
She leaned her head back against the seat and let the hum of the engines carry her toward sleep.
The lights of Miami were just beginning to appear on the horizon when the cabin intercom crackled to life.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the pilot's voice came through, calm and professional, "we'll be beginning our descent shortly. Estimated arrival in fifteen minutes. Please ensure your seat backs and tray tables are in the upright and locked position."
From the rear bedroom came a muffled curse—Amy's voice—followed by Yukio's low laughter.