Chapter 5 Miles #2
Getting his jeans open is harder than it should be because I'm shaking and he won't stop stroking me, but I manage, and then I've got my fist around his cock and the first thing I think is that he's big.
Really big. My fingers don't close all the way around him and something hot and stupid floods through me, this primal omega part of my brain that I've spent years suppressing going yes, this, him.
I grip him tighter and he bites down on my shoulder to keep quiet.
"Fuck," he whispers into my neck, his hips jerking into my hold. "Your fingers. I've thought about your fingers."
"You've thought about my fingers?"
"Every day. Every fucking day. Watching you type, watching you hold a pen, watching you button your cuffs. I've thought about you touching my cock so many times I should be embarrassed about it."
I stroke him the way he's stroking me — slow, tight, thumb over the head on every upstroke — and he shudders against me and makes a sound that I want to record and play back on a loop.
We find a rhythm, his fist on me and mine on him, not coordinated or graceful, just two people jerking each other off under a blanket on an airplane.
It's messy and desperate and his precome is slick over my fingers and mine over his and the blanket is obvious and I don't care.
"You're so fucking hot," he says into my neck, his voice wrecked. "Walking around in your suits acting like you don't want to be touched, and the whole time you were this. Fuck, Miles."
I'm close and the sounds we're making — wet skin, ragged breathing, the tiny broken noises I can't hold back — are filling the space around us. I stroke him faster and feel him throb in my grip, feel his hips push up off the seat.
"I'm close," he whispers. "Are you?"
"Yes." It's barely a word.
"Come for me," he says, and his fist twists on the upstroke, his thumb pressing against the spot just under the head, and I come so hard my vision whites out.
I turn my face into his shoulder and bite down, my whole body jerking, spilling over his fingers in hot pulses while he strokes me through it, slowing but not stopping, pulling every last shudder out of me until I'm shaking and oversensitive and gripping his wrist to make him stop.
He comes a few seconds later, his cock pulsing in my fist, his teeth sinking into the collar of my sweater to muffle the groan. He spills over my fingers, wet and warm, and he grips my thigh while his hips stutter and then go still.
We sit there. His face is in my neck and my fingers are still wrapped around his softening cock and we are both disgusting and covered in each other's come under an airline blanket, and I have never in my life felt this good and this terrified at the same time.
His breath is warm against my throat. I can feel his heartbeat through his chest where it's pressed against my arm, slowing down from whatever insane rate it was at.
My own pulse is going and I feel wrung out and shaky and like I might cry, which would be mortifying, so I focus on the physical instead — the sticky mess on my fingers, the soreness in my jaw from clenching it, the dull throb on my shoulder where he bit me.
Ray lifts his head. He grabs a handful of napkins from the seat pocket — Kyle's number is probably in there somewhere, I think, and the absurdity of that almost makes me laugh — and cleans his fingers, then gently, carefully, cleans me up and tucks me back into my boxers and buttons my jeans.
He does it like it matters. Like I matter.
His touch is steady. Mine is still shaking.
"You okay?" he asks, and his voice is soft in a way that hollows me out.
"Don't," I say. I don't know what I'm telling him not to do. Don't be gentle. Don't ask me if I'm okay. Don't look at me like that, like you just saw something real and you want more of it. Don't make this into something it can't be.
"Okay," he says. He settles back into his seat. He pulls the blanket up. He closes his eyes.
I stare at the ceiling of the cabin and listen to his breathing slow down and try to put myself back together.
I can't. The pieces don't fit the way they used to.
Something has shifted, and I can feel it in the throb between my legs and the ghost of his touch on my skin and the place on my shoulder where he bit down that's going to bruise under my sweater for days.
I'll feel it when I'm giving my presentation.
I'll feel it when I'm shaking hands with partners and making small talk at the gala.
I'll feel Ray Garcia's teeth on my shoulder while I'm trying to make partner, and the worst part is that right now, with the lights down, with his come drying on my fingers, that thought makes me want to smile.
I don't sleep. I don't think he does either. At some point his fingers find mine between our seats, just resting there, loose against my palm. I let it stay. I let myself have this one thing where nobody can see and it doesn't have to mean anything.
Neither of us says another word for the rest of the flight, and when the cabin lights come back on and the captain announces our descent, Ray pulls away and straightens up and stretches and gives me a perfectly normal smile, like nothing happened.
Like he didn't just crack me open and look at everything inside.
I don't smile back. I look out the window at the mountains below us and press my thumbnail into the pad of my index finger until it hurts, and I think about how I'm going to survive three days in a hotel room with a man who just took me apart with one hand.