16. Fifteen
The hum of the private jet's engines did nothing to quiet the storm in my head. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Xander spread out beneath me, desperate and trusting as I claimed him. The memory of how perfectly he'd surrendered made something dark and hungry twist in my gut. Twenty years of certainty about my sexuality had crumbled in the face of his beauty, his vulnerability, his absolute trust in my strength.
I glanced over at Xander now, curled up in the leather seat beside me. Sleep had softened their features, the careful persona of the professional model falling away. Even without their signature dramatic makeup and carefully curated wardrobe, Xander's presence remained magnetic. Something about their unguarded expression made my protective instincts surge to the forefront.
The gold band on my finger caught the light. It was a prop for our cover story, but one that stirred something possessive in my chest. Just hours ago, I'd marked him as mine in more primal ways. The trust he'd shown me, letting me see his careful routines, telling me where he liked to be touched and where he didn't... it had awakened something I'd spent forty-two years denying.
His breathing changed subtly before his eyes fluttered open, immediately finding mine. For a moment, he looked lost, vulnerable in a way that made my protective instincts flare. Then his public mask slipped into place, though I caught the slight tremor in his hands that betrayed his uncertainty.
"See something you like, darling?" Xander pitched his voice just loud enough to establish our cover as newlyweds for anyone watching. But I caught the real question beneath his performance, the need for reassurance that what had happened between us was real.
"Always," I murmured, keeping my voice low and intimate, playing the doting husband for any observers. I reached over and squeezed his hand, watching his pupils dilate at the possessive touch. "You should try to rest more. It's a long flight."
"I'm not tired." He stretched deliberately, putting on a show for our cover but also testing my control. "Tell me more about your latest book. The one about the detective who falls for a criminal?"
I had to admire how naturally he worked our cover story into conversation—Asher Verity, the crime novelist, and his beautiful young muse. "You've heard it all before, baby. Several times."
"But I love hearing you talk about your work." His smile was pure seduction, but I caught the slight tremor in his bottom lip that betrayed his genuine anxiety. "Besides, what else are we going to do for the next few hours?"
I could think of several things, none of them appropriate for public viewing. The memory of this morning—of Xander spread out beneath me, begging so prettily—made my cock throb. But we had a cover to maintain, and I needed to keep my head clear.
"Why don't you tell me about your modeling experience instead?" I suggested, maintaining our pretense for any listeners while giving him the validation I knew he needed. "I love hearing about your work, too."
The genuine smile that flashed across his face made my chest tight. He launched into a detailed discussion of photographers and runway shows. I watched them gesture animatedly, struck by how the practiced performance fell away when they talked about fashion. Their eyes lit up with genuine passion as they discussed fabric and silhouettes. Fashion wasn't just their cover story. It was their art form, a means of self-expression and transformation they'd mastered long before this mission. After this morning, after seeing him stripped of his usual armor of perfect makeup and provocative clothing, I understood better why he approached fashion with such intensity. Every choice was deliberate, every element carefully crafted to create the image he wanted the world to see.
Seeing him like this, completely unselfconscious in his enthusiasm, made something fierce and protective roar to life in my chest. I wanted to preserve this version of him forever.
"You're staring again," he teased, but I heard the vulnerability beneath his playful tone.
I caught his hand, bringing it to my lips in a gesture that looked romantic to observers but let me whisper against his skin. "Can't help it. You're beautiful like this."
His breath hitched, pupils dilating. For a moment, his carefully maintained mask slipped, showing me the Xander beneath the performance. Then someone walked past our seats, and the professional model persona snapped back into place.
"Such a charmer," he laughed, the sound perfectly calibrated to carry just far enough. "No wonder I married you."
But his fingers tightened around mine, silently asking if I meant it. If this was real. If I was going to reject him now that I'd had him.
I squeezed back, promising without words that I meant every touch, every claim, every mark I'd left on his skin this morning. We'd save the serious discussion for somewhere private. For now, this would have to be enough, these small touches, these careful words, these moments of connection hidden beneath our cover.
"Rest," I said, an order wrapped in gentle concern. "We have a long few days ahead of us."
"Bossy," they murmured, but settled deeper into their seat, maintaining their grip on my hand. Even in this small submission, they managed to make it feel like a choice rather than capitulation. I watched them drift off, still marveling at how they could yield without ever truly surrendering their power—a paradox that made every moment of control they chose to give me infinitely more precious.
The plane banked toward Paris, and something dark unfurled in my chest. Soon we'd be in our hotel room, where I could properly reassure him of exactly who he belonged to now. Where I could show him that this wasn't just a game or a cover story. This was real. He was mine now, in every way that mattered.
Just a few more hours of maintaining our cover. Then I'd remind him exactly why I'd claimed him in the first place.
The plane banked again toward Charles de Gaulle, giving us our first glimpse of Paris sprawled below. Even from this height, the city gleamed like scattered diamonds, the Eiffel Tower rising from the center like a beacon. Xander pressed closer to the window, his carefully maintained facade cracking just enough to show genuine wonder. The sight of him so excited made my chest tight.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" I kept my voice low, intimate. Playing the doting husband while fighting the urge to pull him into my lap, to mark him as mine where everyone could see.
"It's perfect." He turned to me with that devastating smile, the one that made my cock throb even as my protective instincts flared. "Thank you for bringing me here... darling." The slight pause before the endearment betrayed his own adjustment to our cover.
The landing gear deployed with a shudder, and Xander's hand found mine. I wasn't sure if it was performance for observers or genuine nerves about what awaited us, but I squeezed back either way. The weight of the prop ring on my finger felt heavier with each mile closer to Paris.
Xander maintained his model persona flawlessly through landing and initial processing, charming every official with that practiced smile. But I saw the tension in his shoulders build as we approached the main customs checkpoint. We both knew his documentation could raise questions. France wasn't known for its progressive stance on gender markers.
Sure enough, the customs agent's eyes narrowed as he examined Xander's passport, lingering on the "X" gender marker. While technically required to accept it under international law, the French official's expression made his feelings clear.
"Additional screening will be necessary," he announced in clipped English, gesturing to a separate area. "Standard procedure for... unusual documentation."
I felt Xander's mask slip for just a fraction of a second before he recovered, smile brightening even as his fingers tightened on his carry-on.
"Of course," Xander replied smoothly, though I caught the slight tremor in his voice.
The "additional screening" started with being pulled into a small office away from the main customs area. A second agent joined the first, both of them staring at Xander's passport like it was a puzzle to solve.
"Please explain the purpose of your visit," the first agent demanded, though we'd already provided our cover story.
"Honeymoon," Xander replied with practiced ease.
"And you are... what, exactly?" The second agent gestured vaguely at Xander's appearance. "Male? Female? The passport is unclear."
My jaw clenched, but Xander's smile remained steady, professional. They must have navigated this particular brand of ignorance countless times before, each encounter building the diplomatic skill that made them such an effective operative. "I'm non-binary. The X marker is legally recognized under international-"
"Yes, yes," the first agent cut him off. "But what were you born as? We need to know for security purposes."
I started to object, but Xander's hand found mine under the desk, squeezing in warning. This wasn't my battle to fight, not yet.
"Do you have any medications you need to declare?" the first agent asked. "Syringes? Hormones? Not everything legal in America is welcome here."
Xander’s answering smile was tight, but predatory. “No, but you’re welcome to search my luggage a third time, just in case.”
"Have you had surgeries?" the second agent pressed. "We need to know if we should expect... anatomical differences during screening."
My stomach turned. These questions had nothing to do with security and everything to do with satisfying their morbid curiosity. "Perhaps," I cut in, my voice arctic, "you could explain how these questions relate to entry requirements? I'm particularly interested in citing them accurately in my complaint to the ICAO."
The agents exchanged glances. But instead of backing off entirely, they shifted tactics. "A full body search will be required," the first agent announced with cold satisfaction. "Strip search and cavity examination."
The blood drained from Xander's face, though his smile never wavered. This wasn't just harassment anymore. This was a threat of state-sanctioned sexual assault, thinly veiled as security protocol.
"Absolutely not." My voice came out lethally quiet. "You will not subject my husband to a degrading and unnecessary search designed solely to humiliate."
"It is standard procedure for cases of suspected identity fraud-"
"Identity fraud?" I leaned forward, letting every ounce of barely contained violence show in my posture. "My husband's documentation is legal and valid. You're suggesting an invasive cavity search because his gender marker makes you uncomfortable. I wonder how the international press would view France's treatment of gender-diverse travelers?"
The room went silent except for the quiet hum of fluorescent lights. I felt Xander trembling slightly beside me, though his expression remained perfectly composed. The kind of composure that came from facing this threat before, from knowing exactly how wrong these "searches" could go.
"Are you threatening a customs official?" the second agent asked, but there was uncertainty in his tone now.
"I'm promising consequences," I corrected coldly. "Process our entry properly or explain to your superiors why you're violating human rights law. Your choice."
"Very well," the first agent finally said, stamping our passports with obvious reluctance. "Welcome to France. Conduct yourself accordingly, gentlemen ."
The casual cruelty of the comment, delivered with bureaucratic indifference, made my blood boil. But Xander stood with fluid grace, every movement deliberately elegant, a final middle finger to their small-minded prejudice.
"Merci," he said sweetly. "I do hope your worldview expands beyond the limitations of your paperwork someday."
Only when we were well clear of customs did he let his perfect posture slip, just slightly. I pulled him into an alcove. "Has that happened before?" I asked quietly.
"Only every time I travel." His laugh was bitter but not broken. "Usually without someone in my corner. The questions are always the same. What's in my pants, what's on my birth certificate? Am I trying to trick people? Am I mentally ill? Have I mutilated my body..." He shrugged, aiming for casual but missing by miles. "You get used to it."
"You shouldn't have to get used to it ." The protective fury in my voice surprised even me. I'd spent my career dealing with prejudice in law enforcement, but this was different. More personal. "No one should."
His smile turned genuine, if tired. "Welcome to my world, darling." The endearment was for our cover, but the gentle mockery was all Xander. "Though I have to admit, having a big strong man defend my honor was a nice change of pace."
Something dark and protective rose in my chest at his attempt at lightness. "This isn't funny, baby. What they tried to do-"
"I know exactly what they tried to do." Xander's voice went sharp before he caught himself, pitching it back to the honeymoon sweetness our cover required. "But getting upset about it won't help. Neither will your righteous fury, however... appreciated it might be."
The way he said 'appreciated' made my cock throb, despite the situation. Or maybe because of it. The need to possess, to protect, to make him feel safe warred with my rage at what he'd just endured.
"Next time-" I started, but he cut me off.
"Next time will be exactly the same," he said quietly. "Different country, different officials, same threats. Same questions about what's in my pants, same implications that I'm trying to trick people, same 'security concerns' that always end with someone wanting to violate me just because they can." His voice cracked slightly on the last words.
I pulled him closer. "Look at me," I ordered softly. When those incredible eyes met mine, I saw the cracks in his mask, the fear and exhaustion he'd been hiding. "You're not alone anymore. I meant what I said in there. You're mine now. Mine to protect."
"You can't always be there," he whispered, but his hands clutched at my jacket. "You can't fight every customs agent, every TSA officer, every-"
"Watch me."
The raw conviction in my voice made him shiver. I caught his chin, tilting his face up to mine. "I know you're used to handling this alone. To smiling through their bullshit because fighting back only makes it worse. But that stops now. Because anyone who threatens what's mine?" I let my voice drop to that register that always made him melt. "They answer to me."
His pupils dilated, breath catching. For a moment, I thought he might kiss me right there in the terminal. Instead, he pressed his face into my chest, letting me shield him from curious glances.
"I hate that it affected me," they admitted, voice steady despite the tension in their shoulders. "After all the times I've handled this, you'd think..." They met my eyes, anger and determination flashing beneath the professional mask. "When they threatened that search, I was ready to file every human rights complaint in existence. But for a second, that old fear..." They squared their shoulders. "Well. Good thing I've gotten better at handling bullies."
I'd seen cavity searches used as weapons before, had read documented cases of "enhanced screening" being used to humiliate and assault vulnerable people. The thought of Xander facing that threat alone, of him having to stay calm and composed while strange men threatened to violate him...
"Never again," I growled, low enough for privacy. "I don't care what documentation they demand or what 'procedures' they claim are necessary. We'll handle it together, and if they want to try anything, they'll have both of us to deal with."
"Mm, promises," they murmured, a dangerous edge to their smile. "Though I have to admit, the idea of you cleaning the floor with a couple of security guards? Seriously hot."
The deliberate lightness was a defense mechanism, I knew. But I also caught the truth beneath it. We'd have to discuss that later, in private. For now, I just squeezed his hip in warning.
"Behave," I murmured, though my cock was already hardening at the memory of this morning. "We need to get our luggage."
"Yes, Daddy," he breathed, just quiet enough that no one else could hear. But I felt him press closer, felt the slight tremor that ran through him at using that title.
The rest of our transit through the airport passed in a blur of coordinated performance. Xander maintained his cover flawlessly. But I caught the way he stayed closer than strictly necessary, the way his hands sought contact at every opportunity. Seeking reassurance through touch that I was still there, still protecting him.
Only in the privacy of our hired car did Xander's professional mask slip slightly. They leaned into me, our cover as newlyweds providing convenient excuse for the contact.
Paris sprawled around us as we drove, the evening lights painting everything in soft focus. But all I could think about was the person in my arms, and all the ways I intended to prove exactly how thoroughly they belonged to me.
Later, I'd make him tell me about every time he'd faced this kind of threat alone. I'd channel this protective rage into something productive—legal resources, international contacts, whatever it took to make sure he never had to endure that kind of violation again.
But for now, I just held him close as the city of lights welcomed us with deceptive beauty. Let Roche and their preserved dolls wait. Let the mission take a back seat for just a moment.
Right now, the only thing that mattered was proving to Xander that he wasn't alone anymore. That he had someone in his corner. That he was mine to protect, to possess, to keep safe.
The rest could wait until tomorrow.