“It’s private,” he says again, voice low against my mouth. “No one is coming back here.”
That should not be as comforting as it is.
His fingers slide beneath the fabric and find me already wet.
He exhales through his nose, almost a laugh, almost something rougher. “There you are.”
My head falls back against the seat. “Aleksei?—”
“I know.” He strokes me slowly at first, just enough to make me squirm, just enough to let me feel how slick I already am for him. Then he circles my clit with deliberate pressure, and the whole cabin seems to tilt.
“Oh my God.”
His mouth moves to my throat, kissing there while his fingers keep working, steady and cruel and perfect. My legs try to close around his hand; he presses his body between them and doesn’t let me.
“You get wet so fast for me,” he murmurs.
“That’s your fault.”
“Yes.” The satisfaction in his voice makes me want to slap him and kiss him at the same time.
He slips two fingers inside me, slow and deep, curling them at once, and I jerk against the seat with a broken moan.
“That’s it,” he says softly. “Let me take care of you.”
The words should feel condescending. Instead, they go straight through me.
I clutch at him harder, trying and failing to stay quiet as he works me open with those long, devastating fingers, his thumb on my clit, his mouth at my neck, my jaw, the corner of my mouth whenever I start to lose myself too visibly.
He’s so calm about it. That’s what gets me.
Like he could make me come on a private jet at thirty thousand feet and still look perfectly in control while doing it.
Meanwhile I’m unraveling by the second. “Aleksei,” I whisper, half plea, half warning.
He looks at me. “You’re close.” He leans in and kisses me again, harder now, while his hand moves faster. The pressure builds, heat coiling tight and bright in my stomach, every nerve pulling toward the same point.
“I can feel it,” he says against my lips. “Come for me.”
My body heeds his command. Pleasure crashes through me hard enough to make me bite back a cry against his shoulder. I shake around his fingers, my whole body tightening, then letting go in waves that feel endless in the enclosed warmth of the cabin.
He doesn’t stop immediately.
He works me through it, slower now, gentler, until I’m oversensitive and breathless and clinging to him like the earth might tilt if I let go.
Only then does he draw his hand away.
I’m still trying to gather myself when he lifts those fingers and, without breaking eye contact, licks them clean.
The sight is so filthy my body clenches all over again.
He notices. A slow smile touches his mouth. “Relaxed now?”
I stare at him, dazed, flushed, absolutely not answering that honestly.
He sits back in his own seat at last, composed again somehow, while I remain a ruined, boneless mess in mine.
I’m still trying to get my breath back when I look at him and realize he’s sitting there like he didn’t just make me come apart in a leather seat over the Atlantic.
