Chapter 13 Flight To Paris
Alex hated morning flights. He hated the noise, the stiff seats, the recycled air, and the forced stillness. But today, none of that was the reason his jaw was locked or his shoulders were tense.
Every time he blinked, the image of Shopia lying in his bed flashed through his mind: the way the morning light touched her skin, the way she looked at him as if he were something more than the man he'd spent years becoming.
He shifted in his seat, loosening his tie, which wasn't too tight. Nothing felt tight enough to keep the memory in.
He told himself several times that what happened the night before didn't matter. It wasn't supposed to mean anything. That was something he was good at. Good at keeping distance, keeping control, and keeping the world neatly arranged in compartments where feelings didn’t belong.
The plane taxied, engines roaring beneath them. Alex stared out the window, watching the runway blur, but all he truly saw was the soft curve of her smile when he’d kissed her goodbye. The way she’d clutched the sheet, as though unsure if she should reach for him or let him go.
He could still feel her warmth on his hands. Still feel the echo of her breath against his mouth. Still feel the quiet way her body had softened under his touch, like she trusted him without meaning to.
The plane lifted into the air, and Alex exhaled slowly, almost harshly, as though forcing something out of his lungs.
“This is ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath.
He didn’t get caught up on women. He didn’t think about them after they walked out the door. He certainly didn’t replay the sound of their laughter or the weight of their hands on his chest.
The flight attendant approached him with a polite smile.
“Mr. Maxwell, can I get you anything?”
“Whiskey,” he said automatically.
It was barely after eight in the morning. He didn’t care. When she returned, he took the glass and held it without drinking. He didn’t want to forget, not the taste of her kiss, not the warmth of her skin, not the quiet vulnerability in her voice when she’d asked if he really had to go.
The whiskey sat untouched on the fold-out tray, amber catching the cabin light like liquid sunrise. Alex stared at it, jaw still clenched, the memory of Sophia’s mouth on his throat more potent than any liquor.
He despised morning flights, but he despised this even more: the way she had slid under his skin in a single night and refused to leave. He could still feel the ghost of her teeth on his collarbone, the sting sharp enough to make him shift again in the leather seat. The faint bruise throbbed beneath his shirt like a secret heartbeat.
Across the aisle, a businessman snored softly. A baby cried three rows back. The recycled air tasted metallic and stale, but Alex could only smell her, vanilla and sex, and the faint citrus of her shampoo on his collar. He had showered and scrubbed himself raw with the hotel spray, but the scent lingered like a brand.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it. Then it buzzed again. And again.
He pulled it out, thumb hovering over the screen. Three new messages.
Sophia (8:12 a.m.) Still feel you between my legs. Don’t think I’ll be able to sit without remembering how you stretched me open.
Sophia (8:13 a.m.) Your cum is still inside me. Every time I move, I feel it. You marked me, Alex.
Sophia (8:14 a.m.) Safe flight. Come back and ruin me again.
His cock twitched, half-hard already, pressing against the seam of his trousers. He shifted, swallowing a curse. The flight attendant glanced over; he met her eyes with a cool stare that sent her retreating.
He typed back with one thumb, the words coming faster than thought.
Alex (8:16 a.m.) You’re going to kill me. I’m hard in first class because of you.
Sophia (8:17 a.m.) Good. Think about how wet I still am. How I’m touching myself right now, two fingers inside, pretending it’s you.
A low groan escaped him. He pressed the heel of his hand against his erection, willing it to go down, but the image of Sophia sprawled across the rumpled sheets, thighs spread, fingers slick with him, and moaning his name into the empty room was too vivid.
Alex (8:19 a.m.) Stop. Or I’ll drag you into the lavatory on the way back and fuck you until we hit turbulence.
Sophia (8:20 a.m.): Promise?
He stared at the screen, pulse hammering in his ears. The plane banked slightly, clouds smearing past the window like wet paint. He imagined her taste on his tongue, the way she’d clenched around him when she came, the broken sound of his name when he’d bitten down on her shoulder.
Another message.
Sophia (8:22 a.m.) I’m coming again. Thinking of your mouth on me in the shower. How you held me up when my legs gave out.
He closed his eyes, breathing through his teeth. The whiskey sloshed as the plane hit a pocket of air. He didn’t drink it. He didn’t need to. She was already in his bloodstream.
Alex (8:24 a.m.) Forty-eight hours. Then I’m tying you to that bed and not letting you up until you beg.
Sophia (8:25 a.m.) I’ll hold you to that.
He locked the phone, shoved it into the seat pocket, and stared straight ahead. The engines droned. The world blurred past at five hundred miles an hour. But inside his head, there was only her, legs spread, lips parted, voice wrecked with his name.
Sophia’s reflection stared back at her, flushed and marked, a map of last night’s surrender inked across her skin. The bruises bloomed like dark violets, one just below her collarbone where Alex had sucked hard enough to brand her, another high on her breast where his teeth had grazed, and a constellation of smaller ones along her inner thigh where his fingers had gripped while he’d driven into her under the shower spray.
She tilted her head, breath catching at the memory. Her pulse still thrummed between her legs, swollen and tender, a slick reminder of how thoroughly he’d filled her. She could feel him with every shift of her hips, every clench of muscle. The ache was exquisite, a secret she carried under silk and cotton.
‘I have to cover them up before class starts,’ she muttered, voice husky from screaming his name into the pillow.
But she didn’t move right away. Instead, she traced the bruise on her neck with trembling fingers, pressing just enough to make it throb. A soft moan slipped out, unbidden. Her nipples tightened against the cool air, and she watched them peak in the mirror, dark and sensitive, still bearing the faint imprint of his mouth.
Her phone buzzed again on the counter.
Alex (8:31 a.m.) I can still taste you on my tongue. Every time I close my eyes, I’m back between your thighs.