Chapter 16: Honeyed Turbulence
The private jet’s cabin was a capsule of hushed luxury, the deep thrum of engines a constant bass note. Singapore’s neon grid lay far below, a fading circuit board. Sergio stretched in his wide leather seat, the exhaustion of the podium ceremony a pleasant ache in his muscles. The scent of jet fuel and chilled air mixed with the faint, expensive trace of his cologne.
The door to the galley whispered open.
Salma stepped through, a tablet held against her chest. She had changed out of her team kit into dark, tailored trousers and a simple silk shell, her hair a loose cascade over her shoulders. She looked fresh, which meant she hadn’t slept either.
“Welcome back, Mr. Dorbenson,” she said, her voice low. “I trust the race went well?”
He liked the formality. It was a game now. “The car was a dream. The strategy was a work of art. My new PA, however, is a tyrant who scheduled a call with the Italian sponsors for the moment my champagne was still wet.”
A slight smile touched her lips. “The tyranny of success. Your pilot says we’ll have some bumps over the Bay of Bengal. Nothing severe.”
She moved to sit in the club seat opposite him, but he gestured to the empty space beside him. “Sit. Tell me what the Italians really said. You edited for my ego, I know you did.”
She hesitated, then slid in, leaving a careful foot of space between them. The tablet glowed on her lap. “Signore Borelli said your second stint was una corsa da dio. A drive from God. He also said you are still, and I quote, ‘a stubborn bastard who ignores pit wall instructions.’”
Sergio laughed, the sound rich in the quiet cabin. “He’s not wrong.” He reached for the small porcelain dish on the table between them, left by the flight attendant. A delicate dome of mascarpone, drizzled with dark orange honey and scattered with pistachios. “You should eat. The tyranny of scheduling means you probably skipped dinner, too.”
He scooped a perfect spoonful, the cheese trembling, the honey dripping. He held it out to her.
Her eyes flicked from the spoon to his face. A replay, a challenge. She leaned forward, her lips parting.
He withdrew the spoon with a fluid, mischievous smirk and brought it to his own mouth. He watched her as he tasted it, the sweet, rich cream, the floral burst of honey. “Mmm. Excellent.”
She didn’t flinch. She just watched him, a dark, knowing look in her brown eyes.
He dipped his index and middle fingers into the dish, coating them generously in the cool, sticky mascarpone and honey. He held her gaze as he offered them, not the spoon.
The jet hit a pocket of turbulence. The cabin lights flickered. A soft chime sounded.
She didn’t wait for the all-clear. She took his wrist, her fingers firm, and guided his hand to her mouth. Her lips closed over his fingers, and she sucked, slow and deep, her tongue working to clean the sweetness. The pressure, the heat, the deliberate rhythm was an electric shock straight to his core. A low, involuntary groan vibrated in his chest, harmonizing with the shudder of the airframe.
Her moan was softer, swallowed by the engines’ roar as they hit another bump. She didn’t stop. She drew his fingers deeper, her eyes locked on his, until they were spotless, until every trace of honey was gone.
She released him with a soft, wet sound. Her breath was uneven.
So was his.
The turbulence settled. The cabin lights steadied. The calm was deafening.
He didn’t pull his hand back. He traced her slick, honeyed lower lip with his thumb. “Alma,” he said, her name barely a breath.
The tablet on her lap buzzed, a sharp, insistent sound. She blinked, the professional mask slamming down so fast he almost saw the cracks form at the edges. She looked at the screen. “It’s Zurich. The logistics update for the factory visit tomorrow. I have to take this.”
“Let it ring.”
“I can’t.” She was already shifting, turning her body away, the connection severed. “It’s my job.” She tapped the screen, bringing the device to her ear. “Salma Khalil,” she answered, her voice miraculously steady, clean, professional. “Yes, go ahead.”
She stood up and walked toward the rear of the cabin, speaking in rapid, fluent German about hangar space and security clearance.
Sergio leaned back, staring at the ceiling. The taste of honey was still in his mouth, but it had turned sharp. He looked at his clean fingers, then at her retreating back, the elegant line of her spine straight as a ruler. The frustration was a live wire, but so was the admiration. She was the most disciplined person he’d ever met.
And he was a man who made a living breaking the limits of discipline.
The hotel in Zurich was all muted grays and silent elevators. His suite was vast, overlooking the lake, pre-dawn light bleeding cobalt into the sky. Sergio showered, the water scalding, trying to wash away the travel and the tension. It didn’t work.
Wrapping a towel around his waist, he padded out into the living area. The lights were off, but the city glow illuminated the room.
She was there.
Salma stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, a silhouette against the glass. She’d changed into a long, loose shirt, her hair a dark cloud. She held a glass of water, staring out at the sleeping city.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked, his voice rough.
She didn’t turn. “The time zone is a fiction. My body is still in Singapore.”
He walked to the minibar, pulled out a small bottle of whiskey, and poured two fingers. He didn’t offer her any. He came to stand beside her, close but not touching. The space between them hummed.
“The call went long,” he said.
“It was complicated.”
“Everything with you is complicated.”
That made her turn her head. Her profile was sharp in the dim light. “It doesn’t have to be.”
“Yes,” he said, taking a sip, the whiskey burning a path down his throat. “It does. Because if it were simple, you’d be bored. And so would I.
He finished the whiskey, the glass clicking on the marble sill too loud in the quiet. Her silence was a loaded thing. It stretched between them, thinner and more fragile than the window glass.
“What are you so afraid of?” he finally asked, turning to face her fully.
She let out a short, breathless laugh. “You’re joking. The team handbook is forty pages long. My name is on half the memos about professional conduct.”
“I didn’t ask about the team. I asked about you.”
She looked down into her water glass, her knuckles pale. The city lights caught the curve of her neck, the rapid pulse at its base. He saw it. He always saw it.
When she lifted her eyes, the defiance was back, but it was raw at the edges. “I’m afraid of becoming a footnote in your biography. The handy assistant who blurred the lines. The distraction you got over.”
Her honesty was a physical blow. It left no air in the room.
He moved then. He took the glass from her hand, his fingers brushing hers. He set it on the sill. It was heavy, cut crystal. His other hand came up to cradle her jaw, his thumb resting where his honey-coated one had been hours before.
“Salma,” he said, using her full name, the syllables a vow. “Look at me.”
She did. Her breath hitched.
“You were a distraction the moment you corrected my German in that first meeting. Not a footnote. A whole damn chapter I can’t stop rewriting.”
Sergio guides a strawberry to her lips and she bites into it, juice spilling down his fingers, he hums and says “you made a mess Alma, clean me up” she moans shakily and sucks his fingers into her mouth licking and sucking them clean