“I’m glad you approve,” I said with a touch of sarcasm.
“What kind of business?”
I might’ve normally snapped. I could’ve told him it was ridiculous to try to have a conversation while he fucked me with his fingers. But it really did feel like I was clinging to the distraction to avoid something. I couldn’t say what it was exactly, but there was a very real, very hard to pinpoint sensation that I was balancing on the edge of a cliff.
“Your turn,” I said. I had to pause, burying my face in his chest to stifle a moan. I gathered myself, with difficulty, and began questioning him. “Why are you going to New York?”
“It’s where I play football, for starters.”
“And where this mysterious indoctrination to the church is happening tonight, right?”
Chris’ fingers paused their relentless attack on my pussy, if only for a moment. He grinned slightly, then resumed. “That’s enough talking. And if you thought I was going to let you off that easily…” he straightened, pulling his fingers from me and then lifting them to my mouth. “Taste yourself,” he commanded.
One of my eyebrows flicked up. Kinky bastard. Hot, but kinky. I obediently opened my mouth, because when the sex god pulls his fingers from your pussy and tells you to lick them clean, what else are you supposed to do, exactly?
I tasted myself on his fingers, but all I could think about was the intensity in his eyes as he stared down at me.
Chris produced a condom, pulled down his briefs, and slid it on.
Before I knew what was happening, he had freed his length, which I was flattered to see was standing at attention for me. I tried not to stare, even though I wasn’t sure why I thought he’d be embarrassed about the work of art between his legs.
He took a fistful from the front of my panties, squeezing until I felt them grip me tight. I expected him to yank them down, but he pulled them back toward himself so quickly that the thin elastic band over my hip snapped away. He dropped them to the floor with a grin.
Wonderful, I thought, even as a little dirty thrill ran through me. It seemed like I was going to finish this flight commando, thanks to Chris Rose.
Chris gripped my shoulder, then spun me so my forehead was pressed to the wall and my ass was against his hard cock. Everything he did was so purposeful and confident that I couldn’t help but fall into the rhythm with him—to let him guide me and take control. It felt good.
With one hand on my waist and one still tight on my shoulder, he slid himself between my legs, making me feel like I was about to collapse. He teased me with himself, spreading my arousal and gliding across my entrance and clit for several agonizing seconds before he bent his knees and smoothly pressed himself into me.
I gasped. He took me slowly, which was a relief because I could feel myself stretching to fit him. My walls gripped him as he rocked against me, taking a little more of me with each thrust.
I closed my eyes and let the moment be my everything.
He pushed deeper until his hips made a soft clapping sound against my ass.
And I could almost forget the way they had all looked at me when Lance’s fiancée confronted me at the rehearsal dinner.
Chris reached around me and started to rub a delicious circle around my clit while he pounded me from behind.
And the burning shame I still felt about what happened in Texas faded, even if it was only for this moment.
This was moving on. This was what it felt like to get over Lance. To leave him in my rearview mirror for good and stop being so pathetic.
Chris stopped suddenly, then spun me to face him. I could see my own wetness glistening on his condom-clad length, and it was a visceral reminder of what I was doing.
Fucking a stranger.
Having meaningless sex on an airplane.
Probably preparing to have the most awkward walk of shame in a few minutes because everybody was going to know exactly what we’d been doing in here.
“I want you to look at me while I make you come,” Chris said. He stepped closer, then hooked his arms under my legs and hoisted me upwards with my back against the wall. With my legs spread, he lowered me down onto himself.
At first, I couldn’t look into his eyes. It was too intense. Too intimate. This was supposed to be casual, and there wasn’t anything casual about the way he was looking at me—the way his eyebrows were drawn together as if he was seeing straight through me. Studying me.
I tried to clamp my mouth shut against the moans that wanted to come, but they spilled from my lips all the same. I rolled my head to the side and closed my eyes, but Chris put a firm hand on my chin and turned my face toward his.
“Look at me.”
I obeyed him, and the rush of warmth from his continued thrusts seemed to double in intensity. I ran my hands down his muscular torso, relishing the soft, warm, hardness of his body. I squeezed his chest but there was almost no give to him. He was a rock with warm eyes. A rock with hands like silk. A rock that somehow was threatening to make me feel, even when I’d sworn to put that part of myself to rest.
I felt the orgasm rush up in me, overwhelming all thought. My body convulsed until I felt vulnerable, but Chris just pinned me between his big arms and took me through it, guiding himself more slowly into me as the final aftershocks passed through me.
I let my forehead fall against his chest, gasping for air. “Thank you,” I said.
He pulled himself out of me, and I could see from the tip of his condom that he’d come too. I felt a momentary rush of relief, because some insecure part of me had worried that I wouldn’t be enough for someone like him.
Chris hesitated for a moment while we both stood there—him hard and glistening, and me weak kneed and soaked.
“What?” I asked.
He shook his head. “It’s nothing. Thank you too.”
We both smiled a little awkwardly, and all the explosive chemistry of a few seconds ago seemed to dissolve into the air. It was for the best, I guessed. We both had made the terms of our little hookup crystal clear. He was mysteriously off the market in a few hours, and I was vow-bound to stop handing my heart to people who only knew how to break it.
I picked up my shredded panties and held them up for Chris to see. “You realize I don’t have a backup pair on the plane, right?”
“My logic left the building when you started taking off your clothes.”
I gave a small smile. I guess that was an acceptable apology.
We both left the restroom to dozens of pairs of accusatory eyes. I knew my hair was wild, even though I’d tried to tame it in the bathroom mirror. In my defense, it had been wild when I boarded the plane, too, but I doubt anyone made that distinction. Chris had just slid his hat back on, but we were both a little sweaty. Even though nobody could possibly know I wasn’t wearing panties, I felt incredibly dirty walking by so many people when I was still practically dripping wet and throbbing from what we’d just done.
We sat back in our seats, and Chris once again looked like he was about to say something. He faced me, then turned away again and plugged his headphones in again.
Just like that, the Chris Rose chapter of my life closed.
So why did I have a gut feeling that there was still more to the story?
I slid into an Uber outside JFK airport back in New York. It was chilly, overcast, and by all accounts should’ve been a highly depressing return home. Except there was a buzzing, ill-advised hope still churning along inside me. I knew it was supposed to be meaningless, but there was no changing that I’d just had the best sex of my life in a cramped, gross airplane bathroom a mile above sea level. I’d also felt a sort of effortless connection with Chris, and that was the part I was scared of.