His palm cradles my jaw. My fingers slide to his collar and learn the line of muscle beneath the fabric. He tastes like the champagne. His kisses go deeper, like he’s tasting his favorite fruit. I press closer. The armrest gets in the way, and he laughs under his breath. I do too. It breaks something brittle inside me that needed to break.
I swing a leg over his lap and settle there. He is strong and solid under me. I feel grounded for the first time in a long time. I’m not sure how he does it—how he makes me feel safe even now.
The truth is, the night I met him at Rope, I felt safe. Reckless, yes. Wild, yes. But safe in a way I had not felt in years. Maybe ever. He looked at me and I knew that while he was in the room, nothing bad would reach me there.
That certainty scared me more than the club ever did. It made me feel young in the worst way, like a girl playing at being grown. I did not know how to sit across from a man like that and hold a conversation without giving myself away. So I tookthe easy out instead of facing a post-sex conversation. I crawled out the bathroom window and told myself it was because I had gotten what I came for.
It was my ego. Leaving was simpler than speaking to someone like him.
There is no sneaking out now. We are married. He’s not going anywhere and neither am I.
His hands travel the safe places first. Spine. Waist. The curve where my dress fits and then lets go. No rush. We have hours. We can take our time and still feel greedy for it.
I touch his hair. It is rough where it’s salt and softer where it’s pepper. He makes a low sound when I scrape my nails lightly at the nape. I file that sound away to use again. He maps my shoulders with his mouth. I tip my head so he can.
He stops at the line of my scar and kisses just below it. “Come here.”
“I am here,” I say, but I move tighter to him anyway. He checks the door with that glance that reads the world. He presses a button. The cabin lights dim one more step. The shade slides down over the window. The hum deepens. The rest of the plane goes away.
It’s just me and him now.
I want skin. I say it with my hands. He understands. He unbuttons. Slow again. He’s not teasing me. He’s setting a pace that keeps my head clear. I help. We make a mess of the shirt and his pants on the cushion and forget it. Same with my clothes.
I slide my hands under his shirt where it’s rumpled around his waist. His skin is hot. He is cut and thick and built to take hits. Itrace over a scar I do not know. It’s small and round, and I want to know if it was made by a bullet or a stab wound, but asking now would ruin the mood. He shivers when I touch there. He does not tell me the story.
Tonight is not for old stories. Tonight is for a new one.
He reaches into the drawer in the side table without taking his mouth from mine. A small packet appears. He tears it open with a movement so practiced it barely exists. Relief rolls through me hard enough that it almost hurts.
We will be careful this time. I’m on birth control, but I was when we met, and that had twin consequences, so I’m happy for more protection this time.
He pulls my hips to him, and for the second time, I wonder how that’ll fit. When he wedges against me, it feels like heaven. I glide up and down his length, letting him spread my wetness across the condom before entering me. Finally, I settle myself onto the head of his cock and start the excruciatingly slow journey of taking him inside.
Roman’s jaw is tense as I take him inch by inch. He watches my face for anything but yes. My eyes sting for a second from the rush of it. I blink and ride it out. He wipes a tear with his thumb. It is not sadness. It is pressure leaving. He kisses me until the heat becomes unbearable and we both must breathe as I sink all the way down.
And then, he’s unleashed.
I do not want poetry. I want this. I want the feel of his hands. The way he rocks up into me rougher and harder with every stroke. The way he says my name like it’s the only word he knows.
He shifts and presses and changes the pace until I am off-balance in the best way. The impact of his thrusts sends my body spiraling inside myself. His length hits every spot I need hit, and his pubic bone does the rest to my clit. I can’t breathe, and I don’t care. Something big is coming.
The world goes white around the edges and then comes back with sound. I’m beneath him now, on my back on the seat. The edge of my orgasm shines in my bones. I hold on to his shoulders and ride this out, begging, “More, harder!”
“Always,” he vows and proves it. Our bodies smack together, wet, hard, loud.
I come hard enough to bite my lip. He kisses where I bit and swears under his breath in Russian, then in English like he’s trying to pick the right syllables for the moment. My voice wobbles. “Come for me!”
He growls, “Fuck, Mina, now!” He buries his face in my neck and holds still where he can, but his body jerks inside of me. I hold still around him. The plane hum fills in where the noise was. We don’t move for a minute. I like that minute more than anything before it.
When we separate he takes care of the details. Quick. Clean. He tosses the evidence into a small bin and closes the lid. He brings a warm cloth from the lavatory and hands it to me without being precious about it, and we dress. He hands me water next. His chest rises and falls like a man who finished work that mattered.
It did.
I curl into his side and listen for footsteps that do not come. No one knocks. No one asks if we want anything. The cabin stays ours.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Better than okay.”
