The Mile High Club (19 page)

Memories of fevered nights of long make-out sessions and roaming hands—his
and
mine—flitted through my brain. I nodded. “Yeah, we did.” He fell silent then and, like the rest of the plane, we slept.

I awoke from an erotic dream, disoriented for a moment until the loud, steady hum of the plane became real again. What was also real was the big, warm hand resting on my thigh. I glanced at Max, sound asleep and sprawled in his seat—as sprawled as anyone can get in an airplane seat—his face in sleep slack and peaceful, hints of the youth I once knew in the lock of hair slipping boyishly down his forehead.

I don’t know what made me reach out and touch his mouth, but one moment I was watching him sleep and the next I was brushing my index finger over his full lips—lips that had driven me out of my mind when I was too inexperienced to know what I had been missing. Still caught in the web of my sex dream, I contemplated what that mouth could do to me now. I shivered at the thought.

Memory and fantasy were so intertwined in my tired brain that I didn’t realize Max was awake and watching me until his lips parted. The quick lick of his tongue against the tip of my finger made me jerk back in surprise.

“I—I’m—I was dreaming,” I stammered.

“About me, I hope.” His drowsy expression held a hint of lust. Just a hint—as if he had been dreaming, too—but it was enough to make me press my thighs together. “Want to tell me about it?”

I shook my head. “I don’t really remember what it was about. Just…that it was about sex and need—I needed something…”

“So it was about me.”

I didn’t take offense at his comment. The scenario probably had been related to Max, but even my dreaming self couldn’t conjure up what it would be like to sleep with Max because it had never happened.

“Yeah, probably.”

He shifted so that his mouth was very close to my ear. “You know what’s funny? I bitched about not being able to fuck you but you’re the only woman I ever dream about like that.”

I looked at him, trying to sniff out the mockery. He looked utterly sincere. “Really?”

His hand stroked my thigh and I jerked against him as if he were stroking my bare pussy. The past was so close to the surface, I knew exactly what his fingers would feel like on my skin. But there was a blanket and skirt between me and those fingers.

“Yeah,” he said, staring at me so intently I felt like he could see my thoughts. “Really.”

The plane was quiet except for the hum of the engine; everyone around us was asleep and only a couple of overhead lights illuminated night owls several rows away. The flight attendants were nowhere to be seen, no doubt catching up on the gossip before having to serve the next round of beverages. I felt something like anticipation thrumming in my veins—anticipation and a long-dormant desire. I hadn’t known what to do with it when I was in high school, but I knew now.

I took Max’s hand off the blanket that covered my lap. The flicker of disappointment on his face immediately turned to one of interest when I lifted the blanket and returned his hand to my thigh. I felt him reach down to toy with the hem of my skirt, at last touching bare skin. I sighed and closed my eyes.

“Remember all those nights on your parents’ couch?” he whispered. “That dance we did every time? Touching, pulling back—all that teasing.”

“I wasn’t teasing,” I said. “I was trying to be good.”

He slid my skirt up an inch. If this had been high school, I would have let him go just to midthigh, then I would have pushed him away and sent him home. Now it was all I could do not to beg him to fuck me right there on the plane.

“You
were
good. The girl most likely to be good.” He shook his head. “And I was the poor, love-struck fool who thought I could corrupt you.”

“I’m not that girl anymore.” I reached under the blanket and jerked my skirt up until his entire hand rested on my bare skin. “And I’m not sure what I’m most likely to do, but I know what I want to do.”

He curved his hand around my thigh, high enough that I could feel the barest touch against the edge of my panties. I squirmed, tilting my hips as much as the seat belt would allow—which wasn’t much—and looked at him.

“What are you doing?” he said, but it was not an admonishment. “We’ll get arrested and be banned from the airline for life.”

I sighed. “Oh, c’mon, Mr. Law Professor, don’t be a prude.”

“Believe me, I’m not feeling very prudish,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “I just can’t do to you what I want to do.”

“That never stopped you from trying.”

That was all it took. Max shifted toward me and slid his
hand over my panty-covered crotch. The heat was so intense I whimpered. Though the noise of the plane drowned out the sound, he looked at me sternly.

“Hush, or I’ll stop.”

I licked my bottom lip and was rewarded with a barely perceptible groan. “Don’t stop until I come.”

Roughly, he slid his hand under the waistband of my panties and touched me. He was using his left hand and the position was awkward, with his elbow lodged uncomfortably beneath my breasts, but it didn’t seem to matter when his middle finger found my clit. I clutched at his wrist, needing to touch him and not just be touched. I moved my hand down until it covered his, resting against my pussy, pressing against my clit. I rubbed his hand and he rubbed me.

“Like that?” He stroked me and I tried not to moan. “You like that?”

I bit my lip to keep from making a sound and nodded. I wanted to fling myself on top of him, run my hands all over his body, sink down onto his cock, but I was limited to this—his hand on my mound, his middle finger pressed against my clit in the confines of the airplane.

I reached between us and unfastened my seat belt. Without the restraint, I was able to slide a little lower, spread my thighs a little wider….

Max made a
tsking
sound in my ear. “You’re supposed to keep your seat belt fastened at all times.”

I grinned wickedly as I pressed his hand between my thighs. “I told you I wasn’t a good girl anymore.”

My smile faded to a look of surprise as he slid his middle finger inside me. I felt my pussy clench involuntarily and couldn’t contain a gasp of desire. I clutched at his hand, guiding him with urgency as he rubbed my pussy with short, but hard, strokes.
The palm of his hand rested against my clit—not enough pressure to get me off, but enough to keep me in a state of near orgasmic arousal.

“You’re so fucking wet. I knew you would be if I ever touched you like this,” he whispered.

We were shoulder to shoulder because of the angle and the narrow seats, his body kept a little away from me because he would have to move his hand if he shifted closer and I needed that hand where it was. I needed to come.

We both froze as a flight attendant passed by, Max’s finger pressed inside me, my spread thighs barely concealed by the flimsy blanket. But she didn’t even glance our way and, after a moment, she passed back to her station and Max resumed playing with me.

“Tell me what you need,” he whispered. “I want to get you off.”

I trembled at his words. We might not have been in the most intimate of positions or locations, but his words were doing as much to get me off as his finger. I shifted, frustrated at the confines of my seat and the bad angle.

“More, another finger,” I told him. “And keep talking to me.”

Immediately, I felt him slide his index finger inside me along with his middle finger. I brushed my own fingertips against the back of his hand and down over his knuckles, wet with my desire. If there had been room, I would have added my finger to his two—to feel both of us inside me, surrounded by my wetness.

“Better? Feel full?”

I nodded.

“Wish it was my cock inside you instead of my fingers?”

I jerked up against his hand. “Yes,” I said with a whispered hiss. “Oh god, yes.”

“Good. Think about my cock fucking you,” he said as
he stroked me harder. “Think about it as you come on my fingers.”

That was all it took. I clenched my thighs around his hand, a mental picture of his cock—which I had never even seen—driving into me. I bit down on my lip until I tasted blood, eyes closed so I could pretend we were alone as I rocked as little as possible against the fingers inside me.

“I feel you,” he whispered. “You’re grabbing on to me. Your pussy is so wet, but you’re still clinging to me.”

Max kept talking to me, whispering sexy, naughty things as my orgasm went on and on. It was as if my body, limited by our surroundings and position, was taking as long to finish coming as it had taken to get to orgasm. Softly panting, I relaxed my grip on Max’s wrist, realizing that I had been digging my nails into him the entire time.

“Sorry,” I said, rubbing the indentations my nails had left behind. “I was kind of lost there for a minute.”

He slowly withdrew his fingers, rubbing them over my pussy. “Don’t worry about it. That was amazing.”

I shook my head. “You have no idea.”

There was a moment of awkward silence punctuated by yet another flight attendant pass-by. This time, she looked pointedly at us. Her expression was neutral, but the wink gave her away.

I sunk lower in my seat, mortified. “Oh hell, she knows.”

“There’s still some of that good girl left in you,” Max said.

I shifted in my seat, tugging my skirt down over my hips. I smiled wickedly at him as I slipped my hand into his lap and stroked his erection through his pants. The motion was so familiar I knew exactly how he would react. This time, though, I knew I wasn’t going to be content with a little groping and fantasizing.

“I bet you could have me thoroughly corrupted by the time
we leave London,” I said, giving his cock a little squeeze.

By the time we made our descent into Heathrow, the butterflies in my stomach had nothing at all to do with flying.

 

 

 

 

 

A
t nine o’clock in the morning, the Philadelphia International Airport was fairly busy. The wide brown corridors were packed with people, there were long lines at the newsstands, and the food court was all lit up and ready to serve. All of the gates were admitting flights. Their signboards were filled and their rows of gray chairs occupied and noisy.

But Betty Culp was far enough away from all this confusion, at the back end of the airport, to take a deep breath and inhale the freshly showered, spicy aroma of the guy standing in front of her. They were boarding a flight to Kearny, Nebraska, and there weren’t many people going
there
that day. She could see that most of the people on the flight were business travelers, and that they were all carrying briefcases, light and simple, to their destinations. And the guy in front of her, a young man in his early thirties, with short, dark hair and wide, solid shoulders, was rocking on the balls of his feet as he inched toward the gate with a black raincoat over his arm. He kept fidgeting with a
thick, gold wedding band on his right hand as if it either hurt, or itched, his ring finger.

When Betty discovered a few minutes later that the same awkward guy was seated right next to her, she lowered her head and sighed as she slipped past his stocky legs to claim her seat. He had the aisle, and she had the window. Why couldn’t he have been bald and fat? Why couldn’t they just seat her next to someone’s grandmother for once? The plane was almost empty; she could have had two seats to herself. Just when she swore that she was going to be good in the air, and that she wasn’t going to seduce one more guy on a commercial flight again, fate had placed her in another tempting situation.

He wore a dark business suit, with a pale blue shirt and a yellow tie, but you could see his body was muscular and stocky: like a professional baseball player. He sat with his legs spread wide and his big feet crossed at the ankles; he was one of those steak and potatoes types, who looked a bit out of place in anything other than worn jeans and a T-shirt. Betty sat next to him and crossed her legs like a proper lady. She was wearing a short beige skirt that day, with fawn leather pumps and no stockings. It was August and her long, thin legs were tanned and smooth. She hardly ever bothered with underwear.

They buckled their seat belts, and she noticed that his bulky hands gripped the arms of the seat with thick, long fingers. His skin was tanned, too, so his knuckles didn’t turn white, but he clenched tightly until the plane was finally in midair. She couldn’t help laughing when he took a deep breath after the captain announced that everyone could unbuckle their belts. “I guess you don’t fly often,” she said. “That was a pretty smooth takeoff.”

He smiled and rubbed his strong chin. “Ah well, actually, I hate to fly. And I never do it unless it’s absolutely necessary. But I guess I’m going to have to get used to flying about once a month
now. My ex-wife just moved back to Nebraska to be with her family, with my two kids, and I don’t have much of a choice.” His voice was deep and hoarse and he kept shaking his right knee up and down.

She smiled. “Trust me, you’ll get used to it. I fly all the time.” When she smoothed her skirt she noticed that he stared at her legs for a moment. At least he was divorced, but she still wasn’t sure if he was remarried because of the wedding band.

“Are the flights to Nebraska always this empty?” he asked. He looked around the plane and motioned with his left arm. The seats behind them and in front of them were empty, and there were two college-age boys sitting across from them in the middle row listening to their iPods. “This is almost like a private charter flight, when you think about it.”

“You really never know,” Betty said. “Sometimes the flights are jammed, other times they
are
empty. That’s the one rule I’ve learned about flying: you never can predict anything.” And she was an expert, too. As the marketing director for a large chemical company, Betty had flown the world by the time she was thirty years old. She’d also blown half the world, too. She discovered early in her career that men who travel a lot by plane are usually walking around the airports with semi-erections in their Brooks Brothers slacks.