Ivy is across the aisle from me, her legs curled beneath her, staring out at the darkening sky. The Spanish coastline has long since disappeared. Ahead of us England is waiting with its grey skies and its complications and everything that comes next.
I watch her.
She feels it—she always feels it—and turns to look at me, and what I see in her face is the same thing I am holding very carefully in my chest.
We are both scared.
Not of Elena. Not exactly. Of what Elena represents—the reminder that nothing is sealed, nothing is finished, that the life we are building has fault lines running through it that can open without warning on a golden afternoon when we are least expecting it. I had allowed myself one week. Seven days. I had let my guard down and within days she had found us.
I look at my wife—sun-warm, extraordinary—and think about Elena’s drink in her hand, and something cold moves through me that I need to do something about immediately.
I stand up.
Ivy looks up at me. Something crosses her face—recognition, warmth—and the cold thing in my chest begins to transmute into something else entirely.
I lean down, both hands on the armrests of her seat, my face close to hers.
“I'm going to show you that you're mine,” I say.
Her lips part. Her eyes go dark.
Barely a breath, she nods.
I take her hand and pull her up and she comes willingly, her body already angled toward mine the way it always is. I walk her forward toward the cream leather club chairs at the front of the cabin—not the bedroom, not the back—right here, where the light is low and gold and the stewardess is somewhere behind that curtain and could appear at any moment.
Ivy glances at the curtain.
“Alistair—”
“Sit down,” I say.
She sits.
I crouch in front of her, my hands on her knees, and push them slowly apart. She is wearing that white sundress—thin cotton, barely there—and her skin beneath my palms is warm from the Spanish sun, smooth and golden, and I take my time runningmy hands up the inside of her thighs while she watches me with those dark wide eyes and tries very hard to breathe normally.
“Someone could come,” she whispers, breath hitching.
“I know,” I say.
I push the hem of her dress up slowly, inch by inch, watching her face the entire time. Her lip catches between her teeth. Her hands grip the armrests. I find the edge of her underwear and pull it aside and she makes a small involuntary sound that travels directly up my spine.
She is suddenly wet. Warm and slippery beneath my fingers, her pussy ready, and I stroke her slowly—just the pads of two fingers, drawing lazy circles—and watch the color rise in her cheeks.
“Alistair—”
“Quiet,” I say.
I take my time. Long deliberate strokes, reminding us both of exactly what we are to each other—what no one else is, what no one else will ever be—and she is gripping the armrests so hard her knuckles are white, her hips making small helpless movements toward my hand.
“Please,” she breathes.
I slide two fingers inside her and feel her clench immediately around them, her back arching, a moan escaping her that she quickly smothers with the back of her hand.
“Don't,” I say. “I want to hear you.”
She drops her hand. The next sound she makes is unguarded and perfect and I feel it in my cock like a live wire.
I work her slowly—fingers curling, thumb circling her clit—and she comes apart beautifully, her thighs trembling against my hands, her breath growing ragged and uneven. The cabin air is warm and close and smells of her—sweet and warm—and the jet hums steadily around us and somewhere behind that curtain the stewardess is going about her business, and the recklessness of it is making Ivy's pussy wetter by the minute.
