My cock jerks hard enough to hurt. “Fuck,” I mutter.
She blushes, but she does not close her legs. No, she watches my face instead. She wants to see what she does to me.
So I let her.
I hook one finger beneath the lace and drag it aside. She’s soaked.
Hot and slick, swollen for me, her body answering before she can dress it up with pride or shame or manners. I touch her with two fingers, just a slow stroke through her folds, and she nearly buckles.
I catch her with my other arm around her waist. “Quiet,” I say.
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“I don’t want to.”
Christ.
I cover her mouth with mine before she says anything else that makes me forget where we are.
My fingers find her clit, and her whole body jolts.
I circle it slowly, watching the way her face changes. The defiance leaves first. Then the embarrassment. Then everything but need. Her head falls back against the wall, eyes half-closed, lips parted beneath mine as I rub her in tight, deliberate circles.
She’s too responsive. Too beautiful like this.
All that polished restraint stripped away in a washroom at thirty thousand feet because she decided, for once in her obedient life, to want something and take it.
Me.She wants me.
Her hand drops between us, fumbling at my belt. I catch her wrist.
She makes a frustrated sound. “Roman.”
I should slow her. I should keep control. Instead, I put her hand back on me.
She works my belt open, clumsy from haste. Then the button. Then the zipper. When her fingers wrap around my cock, I have to brace one hand against the mirror.
Her eyes widen.
I see the moment she feels the size of me. The thick heat in her palm. The hard pulse of need she dragged out of me and then followed me here to claim.
She strokes me once.
I groan into her neck.
“Like this?” she whispers.
I laugh once, harsh and broken. “Do not sound so innocent while your hand is on my cock.”
She does it again, slower, dragging her palm over the length of me, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from making a sound too loud for the cabin.
Enough. I turn her around to face the mirror again.
She gasps as I press in behind her, my open shirt against her back, one arm around her waist, her skirt pushed up over my wrist.
“Look,” I say.
