He groaned. “That’s right. Milk me. Make me come.”

Those words. I shut my eyes tight, unable to face him—unable to face the floor or the darkness as my body obeyed him. I couldn’t stop milking him. I couldn’t stop making him come, even though I kind of wanted to. That would only prolong this, but I tried anyway. To relax myself, to be passive. But my muscles clenched hard around him, obeying him instead of me, until he gasped and hot liquid bathed my inner walls.

He jerked over me, rocking himself through his orgasm. Even then, I couldn’t stop clenching and clenching. It wasn’t just for him, I realized. With horror, I acknowledged the feeling inside me. Pure, unstoppable arousal. My cunt wasn’t trying to push him out; I was trying to pull him in, deeper, harder, so I could get off too. I felt exposed and dirty, more than the forced blowjob could have done. My own forbidden excitement was the true embarrassment, shining a light on things better left in the dark.

“Shhh.” He was at my ear again, soothing me. Only then did I realize I was crying. Not loose, helpless tears, but quiet sobs that racked my body. I didn’t want this. I didn’t want to be like this. The shame would never leave me alone, not ever.

He petted my back, stroking me. His other hand slipped underneath to my clit. He didn’t circle me this time. Two fingers slid on either side of it, holding still.

“Go ahead,” he muttered. “Ride me.”

And I did. Shamefully, I did, my hips rocking urgently, rubbing myself off on his hand. It felt almost painful, the sweet friction from his fingers, and I whimpered. He reached under me to where my breasts hung loose. He cupped one and then pinched my nipple. Hard. I came, spilling wetness onto his hand, my moans muffled by the rubber floor and unflinching drone of the plane.

He held me like that a little longer, his fingers warm and still on my clit. Comforting.

When he stood, I tilted to the side, falling against the wall. He found the cabinet marked Napkins and cleaned himself and put his clothes to right. Then he did the same for me, wiping my mouth, my sex, and tugging my bra and clothes back into place with a regretful sigh. I let him dress me like a doll, feeling as numb and hollow as one.

He picked up my phone from the shallow ledge. Even the faint light was a shock when I’d been in the dark so long, like squinting into the sun. The screen illuminated his face from below, an almost demonic perspective. He pressed some buttons and then slipped the phone into the pocket of my jeans.

He said nothing to me as he pushed the curtain aside and left. Perhaps there was nothing to say. Everything had been communicated through our bodies, murmurs in a soft caress and shouting in the rough invasion of his cock. A million words had been spoken with every stroke.

I remained in the room, leaning against the wall, as my breathing returned to even.

How long had he been in here with me? A few minutes? An hour? Either way, there was plenty of flight left. Time I would most definitely spend in my seat—just as soon as I could make myself move.

Finally, I pushed off the wall. My legs felt unsteady, as if we were on a ship instead of a plane, rocking to the motion of the waves. I found the restroom and washed my face. A pale face stared out from the small mirror. What was she thinking? Even I didn’t know, dazed by exhaustion and recent events.

My hand trailed along the textured plane walls for support. In the open aisle, between the seats, I straightened and forced myself to walk normally. But when I glanced back, a pair of eyes gazed steadily at me. The back row. The Air Marshal.

A shiver ran through me. Fear.

Ducking my head, I continued walking. At least almost everyone else was still sleeping. Even the little boy had fallen asleep, curled up in his seat and mine. I gently nudged him over and let sleep claim me.

*     *     *

“Welcome to Charles De Gaulle Airport. We hope you have a pleasant flight and enjoy your stay in Paris.”

I came awake in chunks, registering the seatbelt light dinged off, the rustle as people stood and reached for the overhead compartments. The little boy had stretched out, his head in his mother’s lap and his feet in mine.

His mother smiled at me, looking about as bleary as I felt. “Thank you so much for letting us switch seats,” she said with a French accent.

“No problem.”

“I hope he wasn’t any trouble. I think I dozed off early.”

“He slept like an angel.”

That had been true by the end. And I didn’t really mind trading seats. Obviously a child needed to sit with his mother. It was the airline who had assigned them seats on opposite ends of a very large jet.

Straightening, I tried to peek through the curtains at the front of the aisle, trying to catch a glimpse of Hunter. But there were two full sections between us, each with their own galley and restrooms. Passengers were restricted to the facilities in their own section. No mingling across the plane was allowed.

Hunter tended to break rules.

Rules like no sex in the storage closet of an airplane, for example.

I glanced at the back seat. The Air Marshal stretched in the aisle and swung his arms to loosen them. He rifled through a small piece of leather luggage—more of a briefcase. He leaned against the wall, the one I had touched on the way back to my seat, and looked at his phone. I flushed hot and then cold, remembering how my phone had gotten me into trouble last night. Embarrassment wouldn’t let me turn it on now, even though it was legal and allowed with the plane at the gate.

The line took forever, as expected since I was almost at the very back, behind the two hundred passengers on the plane. Only a few rows were behind me—and the air marshal waiting patiently in the rear hallway.

His gaze pricked the back of my neck. I stared ahead—which wasn’t hard considering how tired the trip had made me. Still, I couldn’t rest easy with him just ten feet away. Watching. Knowing.

Did he know what had happened in that storage closet?

I managed a weak smile for the cheery stewardess bidding us goodbye. How did she manage to get any sleep? Maybe there was a special cot somewhere we couldn’t see, a miniature dorm room for flight crew only.

They certainly hadn’t been in the storage closet.

The temperature dropped twenty degrees in the gangway. My blue hoodie, which had felt perfectly cozy at Chicago’s O’Hare terminal, now felt paper thin. Hunter and I would have to pull warmer jackets out of our suitcases before leaving the airport.

But first, I had to find him.

He stood a little bit away from the crowd of disembarking passengers. His expression was inscrutable as I walked up. How did he feel about last night? As for me, I felt sore—and satisfied. They commonly went together where he was concerned. He knew exactly how to get me hot, and it was just our perverse luck that the same things worked for him.

Still, there was a big difference between fumbling in the dark and facing him the morning after. My cheeks heated, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t quite meet his gaze.

He chuckled. “Miss me?”

Evil man. “You know I did.”

“Bet you were thinking of me.”

God, if I let him keep going, he’d tease me until my face burst into flames. “I bet you were thinking of me too.”

“Always, sunshine.”

Pleasure filled me. Unlike the pleasure from last night, this one wasn’t tainted with fear or arousal. This was as wholesome and bright as the nickname he gave me, complete with summertime scents and floating dust motes. Our feelings for each other were pure in a way our base carnality would never be. The sky and the earth, one casting light, the other catching it. Each more complete in the whole.

“Let’s grab breakfast,” he said, turning to scan the wide terminal corridor. “Do you need a restroom first?”