Chapter 6: Mile High Club Initiation
The airport bathroom had been a mistake.
Not morally — Jordan had stopped caring about morality somewhere around the third time Genesis had pulled him into a supply closet during finals week. But practically. Functionally. They'd almost missed their flight, and the gate agent had looked at them with the particular disdain of someone who'd seen too many honeymoon couples and not enough sleep.
Now, six hours into the transatlantic haul, the taste of stale cabin air and recycled breath coated the back of his throat. His legs were cramping. The movie on the seatback screen was some forgettable action film, all explosions and no plot. Genesis sat two rows ahead, her head tilted against the window, apparently asleep.
She wasn't asleep.
His phone buzzed.
One word. Now.
Jordan's heart did something complicated in his chest. He counted to thirty. Then he stood, stretched, muttered something about the bathroom to the woman beside him, and walked down the aisle.
The lavatory door was closed. He knocked twice. It opened.
Genesis grabbed his shirt and pulled him inside.
The space was a coffin. Chipped linoleum, flickering fluorescent light, a mirror fogged with condensation from the humid cabin air. The engines hummed through the thin walls, a constant vibration that rattled his teeth. Genesis had already pulled her leggings down to mid-thigh, and she was bent over the sink, her bare ass catching the harsh glare.
"You took your time," she said.
"Two rows. I had to be subtle."
"Fuck subtle."
She reached back, grabbed his wrist, and pulled him closer. Her skin was warm. The small of her back curved into the swell of her hips, and below that, the dark shadow between her thighs.
Jordan fumbled with his belt. His fingers were clumsy, stupid with want. Genesis laughed — low, breathless — and reached back to help, unbuttoning his jeans, shoving them down just far enough.
"Ready?" she asked.
"Since the airport."
"Then stop talking."
He grabbed her hips. Yanked her back. And drove into her without preamble.
Genesis bit her lip. Hard. Her whole body arched, and the sink creaked under her hands, and Jordan felt her cunt clench around him like a fist. Hot. Wet. Perfect.
"Fuck," he whispered.
"Shut up and move."
He moved.
Every thrust slammed her against the counter. The mirror fogged with their breath. The plane rattled around them, engines droning, and Jordan fucked his wife in a space the size of a closet, with strangers sitting six feet away.
Genesis reached back. Grabbed his wrist. Her nails dug into his skin.
"Harder," she whispered. "I don't care if they hear."
"You'll care when they arrest us."
"I'll care later. Harder."
He gave her harder.
His hips slapped against her ass, and the sound was obscene in the tiny space, wet and rhythmic and impossible to ignore. The counter dug into her stomach. Her tits pressed against the mirror, leaving smears. Jordan grabbed her hair — just a handful, just enough — and pulled, and she moaned into her own arm, biting down to muffle the sound.
"That's it," he said. "Take it."
"I'm—fuck, I'm close—"
"Come for me. Quiet."
She didn't come quiet.
She came with a shudder that wracked her whole body, her cunt milking his cock, her legs shaking so hard he had to hold her up. Jordan clamped a hand over her mouth, and she bit his palm, and the pain shot up his arm like electricity.
"Again," he said.
"I can't—"
"Yes, you can."
He kept moving. The plane hit turbulence, or maybe that was just them, and Genesis came again, her second orgasm rolling through her like a wave, and Jordan felt his own release building, pressure behind his balls, heat in his spine.
He pulled out.
His cock slid free, slick and throbbing, and he pumped himself twice, three times, and came across the small of her back. Ropes of it. White against her skin, dripping down the curve of her spine.
Genesis stayed bent over the sink, breathing hard.
"Feel better?" she asked.
"Not even close."
"Good. Because we have seven more hours."
He wiped her back with a wad of cheap airline toilet paper. Flushed it. Tucked himself away. Genesis pulled her leggings up, adjusted her shirt, ran her fingers through her hair.
They looked at each other in the fogged mirror.
"We're disgusting," she said.
"Completely."
"I love it."
She kissed him. Quick. Dirty. Then she unlocked the door and slipped out without looking back.
Jordan waited thirty seconds. Counted to sixty. Then he followed.
The cabin was dim. Most passengers were asleep, and the ones who weren't had headphones on, eyes fixed on screens. No one looked at him. No one knew.
He slid into his seat. The woman beside him didn't stir.
Two rows ahead, Genesis ordered a ginger ale from the passing cart.
"Rough flight?" the flight attendant asked.
"Just thirsty," Genesis said.
Jordan stared at the back of her head. Her hair was still messy. There was a red mark on her neck — from his mouth, from the bite, from something — and she hadn't bothered to cover it.
She turned. Caught his eye. Smiled.
That smile. The one that had started all of this.
He thought about the notebook. The one he'd stopped writing in. He thought about the beach. The vows. The bite mark on his shoulder that had faded but not disappeared.
He thought about the fact that he was married to the woman who'd just let him fuck her in an airplane bathroom, and she was drinking ginger ale like nothing had happened, and in seven hours they'd land in Portugal, and he'd get to do it all over again.
His phone buzzed.
You're staring.
He typed back. You're worth staring at.
Sap.
You married me.
Worst decision of my life.
He smiled. Put the phone away.
The plane hummed. The engines droned. And somewhere over the Atlantic, Jordan Cole realized he'd never been happier.
The ginger ale was flat.
Genesis drank it anyway, because her throat was raw from biting back moans, and because the carbonation gave her something to focus on besides the ache between her legs. She could still feel him. The stretch. The heat. The way he'd pulled her hair and called her his wife.
She pressed her thighs together. Squeezed. The pressure helped. Barely.
The flight attendant came by again. Genesis asked for another ginger ale. The woman raised an eyebrow but didn't comment.
Smart woman.
Jordan was two rows back. She could feel him there, a warm presence at the edge of her awareness. He'd be thinking. He was always thinking. Probably spiraling into some philosophical tangent about the ethics of public sex, or the nature of desire, or whether Kant would approve.
Kant would definitely not approve.
Genesis smiled into her cup.
The plane hit turbulence. The seatbelt sign dinged. Genesis fastened hers and closed her eyes.
She thought about the beach. The stars. The way Jordan had looked at her when she walked down the path, barefoot, petals crushed underfoot. He'd forgotten every word he'd rehearsed. She'd seen it in his face — the panic, the awe, the love.
She'd never forget that look.
The turbulence passed. The seatbelt sign went off. People got up, stretched, queued for the bathroom. Genesis stayed where she was.
Her phone buzzed.
You okay?
She typed back. Sore.
Sorry.
Don't be.
A pause. Then: I love you.
I know.
You're supposed to say it back.
I love you too, you idiot.
She could feel him smiling. Two rows back, surrounded by strangers, grinning like a fool.
They landed in Lisbon eight hours later.
The airport was chaos — bright lights, foreign signage, the smell of coffee and jet fuel and something floral she couldn't identify. Genesis grabbed her bag from the overhead bin and waited for Jordan to catch up.
He looked wrecked. Dark circles under his eyes. Hair sticking up in seventeen directions. The collar of his shirt was misbuttoned.
"You look like shit," she said.
"Thanks."
"You're welcome."
They walked through customs together. The agent glanced at their passports, at their faces, at the matching rings on their fingers. He stamped the documents and waved them through without a word.
Outside, the air was warm. Humid. Alive.
Genesis stopped on the sidewalk and tilted her face toward the sun.
"We're here," she said.
"Wherever here is."
"Portugal. The beginning. Whatever you want to call it."
Jordan wrapped an arm around her waist. Pulled her close. Kissed the top of her head.
"What now?" he asked.
"Now we find a hotel. Shower. Sleep for twelve hours. Then find food."
"And after that?"
She turned. Looked at him. That look — the one that meant trouble, the one that had started all of this, the one he'd been chasing since the first time she laughed at one of his terrible jokes.
"After that," she said, "we figure out the rest."
He kissed her. Properly. Deep. She tasted like ginger ale and airplane peanuts and something underneath that was just her.
"Deal," he said.
They found a cab. The driver spoke no English, and they spoke no Portuguese, but Jordan pointed at a hotel on his phone and the man nodded and drove. The city blurred past — white buildings, red roofs, narrow streets, laundry hanging from windows, the ocean glittering in the distance.
Genesis leaned against Jordan in the back seat. His arm was around her. Her head was on his shoulder.
"Hey," she said.
"Hm?"
"I'm glad we almost missed that flight."
"Me too."
"I'm glad you proposed with a notebook."
"Me too."
"I'm glad you're my husband."
He was quiet for a moment. Then he pressed his lips to her hair.
"I'm glad you said yes."
The cab pulled up to the hotel. Jordan paid. They grabbed their bags. The lobby was small and cool, tiled in blue and white, with a ceiling fan spinning lazily overhead.
The woman at the desk smiled. Said something in Portuguese. Jordan said something in English. They figured it out.
Room 23. Second floor. Window facing the ocean.
Genesis climbed the stairs. Jordan followed. Their bags thumped against the steps, and the floorboards creaked, and the air smelled like salt and something baking.
The room was simple. A bed. A dresser. A window with white curtains that billowed in the breeze. The ocean stretched beyond, endless and blue.
Genesis dropped her bag. Kicked off her shoes. Fell backward onto the mattress.
"Come here," she said.
Jordan came.
He lay down beside her. She turned to face him. Their noses were inches apart. She could see every detail — the faint scar on his chin from a childhood fall, the fleck of gold in his left eye, the way his mouth curved when he looked at her.
"I love you," she said.
"I know."
"Say it back."
"I love you too."
She kissed him. Slow. Gentle. Different from the airplane. Different from the beach. This was something new. Something quiet.
"We should shower," she said.
"Together?"
"Obviously."
They undressed each other. Slow. Deliberate. Jordan unbuttoned her shirt, one button at a time, pressing his lips to each inch of skin he revealed. Genesis pulled his shirt over his head and ran her fingers through his hair.
The bathroom was small. The shower was smaller. They squeezed in together, and the water was hot, and the steam filled the space until they couldn't see each other.
Jordan washed her hair.
Genesis washed his back.
They didn't fuck. They didn't need to. They just stood there, tangled together, letting the water wash away the flight and the sweat and everything else.
When they got out, the sun was setting.
Genesis wrapped herself in a towel. Walked to the window. The sky was pink and orange, bleeding into purple, and the ocean reflected it all like a mirror.
Jordan came up behind her. Wrapped his arms around her waist. Rested his chin on her shoulder.
"We made it," he said.
"We made it."
"What do you want to do first?"
She turned. Looked at him. Smiled.
"Everything."