In any case, it’s obvious he belongs up here in the bougie seats, not me.
I try not to stare as he settles in without fuss, like the world makes space for him. He smells faintly of cedar and fresh air.
Thedivider between our seats sits half-raised, a beige suggestion of privacy.
I could lift it. I don’t.
He doesn’t either.
The plane pushes back. Engines growl, the cabin angles up, and we lift into the night.
To keep my mind off my handsome neighbor, I pick up the glossy, bound menu to peruse. The pages promise gourmet offerings like salmon blini, beef tenderloin, seared cod, pavlova. Fancy food designed to seduce passengers into forgetting they’re eating reheats at thirty thousand feet.
I can’t help but smirk. My chef brain hungers for something else. Barcelona tapas, savory paella, seafood markets. The things I should have researched, planned, anticipated. I didn’t have the bandwidth. By the time Marcella forced this ticket down my throat, I was too fried to arrange anything.
So here I am, a chef without a plan, hungry without knowing what for.
The attendant returns. “Ms. Delgado?”
“Cod. Pavlova. Albariño.” I decide on the fly.
She turns to him.
His voice pours low, Rioja-rich. “The same.”
Good God. The accent. My nipples throb. My pussy clenches again, sharp and insistent.
I stare straight ahead, heat flushing my skin.
Silence stretches. Not awkward, charged. At least for me. Every nerve is attuned to him. The warmth radiating from his body. The faint scrape of his watch on the leather armrest. Even the rhythm of his breath.
I find myself imagining him leaning closer. His lips brush my ear as his hand slides over mine. He presses me back into this wide leather seat, parting my legs under the blanket. Sinks his manicured fingers into my pussy until I’m writhing at thirty thousand feet.
The visual slams through me so hard I gasp.
Mortified, I grab my champagne and drain what’s left. My cheeks blaze. If he looked at me now, he’dknow.
Crossing my legs tight, I force my gaze to the screen in front of me where the tiny airplane charts our journey.
“You vacationing in Barcelona?” The man’s accent cradles each word.
I peer over. “Yes.”
“Ahh. My home. In Barcelona, mornings don’t rush you. They unfold leisurely, like something waiting to be savored.”
Jesus.
Heat shoots through me, even though his description is a bit cheesy. He doesn’t know me, can’t—but with two sentences he’s named the city as I remember it. Butter bleeding from fresh pastry, shutters banging, oranges stacked like suns in wooden crates.
Of course, he could mean something entirely different…
“So true.” I swallow, pushing the thought out of my mind. “I studied there.”
His mouth curves, one corner only, a smile built for secrets. “Then you understand.”
Oh, I do. Too much. My body is still whirring from the fantasy I didn’t mean to conjure. His hand under my blanket, spreading me and stroking my clit until I beg for him to make me come in gasps.
My heart pounds low and hot. My panties are soaked.
