He yanks me across his lap, digging his nose into the curve of my neck and snuffling, then helping himself to a generous bite.
“Oi,” I protest. “I’m getting all gussied up for the main event.”
“Right.” He tosses me into the window seat and walks back a few metres to grab dress bags from the hanger. “You’ll have to get naked first.”
I’m already working on it.
“Here’s the one the shop assistant who hates you picked out.”
I glance at the chartreuse colour, wondering why the woman dislikes earning a commission, then shake my head. “Next!”
“This is the sales lady who thinks you’re an Eliza Doolittle project.”
“I am,” I say, my interest perking when I see the beautiful dark green in lush velvet. “Okay. That’s my new favourite.”
“What about…?” He produces the next garment in gold lame with a flourish.
I spend the next twenty minutes happily trying on one dress after another, deciding to keep at least half of them, even if most of my days are spent at home or at uni, alternating with visits to Mum and an occasional venture into the great outdoors to rage it up at a party or three.
“You look good enough to eat,” Trent announces as I test the roominess of the gold number by straddling him in his seat.
I grab handfuls of his hair, sucking on his left earlobe before whispering, “No one’s stopping you.”
In a second, we’re flipped, me relaxing on the seat while Trent is on top of me. He slides onto his knees before me, rolling the gorgeously coloured fabric up to my hips, then tugging my lace underwear down, slipping it off and pocketing it.
“No underwear on the private plane,” he murmurs, the vibrations from his words spiralling across my skin like the sweetest caress. “Or at the show,” he adds. “Or while walking around home.”
His words muffle as he turns to kiss the inside of my thigh, gradually working his way up, taking my hips and tugging me until I’m perfectly positioned for him to spread my legs wide, and bury his face for a feast.
The gentle lapping of his tongue is a tease designed to make me crawl with desire, and I clamp the arms of the seat so hard I’m sure the imprints will remain visible the next time someone takes this recliner. At first, his thick fingers clamp around my thighs, the rough pads of his fingertips and thumbs in constant motion, creating an orchestra of delight and need across my skin.
Then he moves his right hand, running his thumb along my lips, then again, the second time applying enough pressure to spread them gently apart. He slides the thumb inside me, the rest of his hand playing with my perineum and sliding up to tease my hole while his tongue rejoins the festivities, licking me with long smooth strokes from bow to stern.
I close my eyes, delighting in the flood of sensations that ripple through my body, spreading myself wider so his access is unrestricted, giving him carte blanche to do whatever he feels.
“Such a pretty pussy,” he murmurs, moving his thumb to circle my clit gently while his fingers take prime position, slotting in to the first knuckle, the second, finally getting its neighbour to join in the fun. “You taste so good.”
A retort springs to mind about boys and their diets but I push it aside for later. Right now, takes too much of my attention to devote any to foolish words and silly teases.
“Are you going to come for me?” he asks, his tongue darting and retreating until I want to grind myself hard against his face.
When I lift my hand from the chair, needing to grab handfuls of his hair, to control him, to put him exactly where I need him, he clicks his tongue.
“Naughty girl. Do you need me to restrain you?”
And it’s that tease and everything that floods into my mind at the suggestion that sends me catapulting over the edge. Trent opens his mouth, pressing the width of his tongue against my clit to capture every convulsion as I spasm around his fingers, as my hips jerk until I’m pressing harder against his tongue and his fingers and anything, any friction my greedy cunt can find to prolong the glorious sensations.
When Trent withdraws, my fingers seek the buttons on his shirt, fumbling to undo them until he lifts my hand away.
“No time,” he whispers, the guttural tones sending a new ripple of pleasure vibrating down to my bones. “You’ll have to store up every impulse, every dirty thought of what you want to do to me until after the show.”
I hum in agreement, so relaxed that I couldn’t protest even if I wanted to. “I can do that.”
The steward comes out to tell us we’re close to landing, and I tug my dress down, hoping he doesn’t know what we were just up to from the guilty expression on my face.
“Hey,” I say as we dismount after landing near the terminal. “Does that qualify me for the mile high club?”
“Oh, I doubt it. If that’s on your bucket list, we’d better try harder on the flight back.”
