Katerina
At first, I think he’ll not kiss me back.
For one terrifying second, Roman is completely still beneath my mouth. His hand is braced beside my seat, his body close enough to make the air feel warmer, but he doesn’t move.
Then something in him gives.
His mouth opens over mine, and the whole world narrows.
The cabin disappears.
The voices, the lights, the flight attendants moving through the aisle, the soft mechanical hum of the aircraft. All of it slips away until there is only the heat of his lips and the low sound he makes when I grip his jacket harder.
It should scare me, how fast I forget myself. But it doesn’t.
I kiss him like I’ve been starving for this exact kind of ruin.
He tastes like mint and whiskey and something darker, something that belongs only to him. His beard scrapes gently against my chin. His hand comes to the side of my face, not soft, not rough, just certain. Like he knows exactly how to hold a woman without asking permission from the room.
I make a sound against his mouth. I can’t help it.
Roman hears it. His fingers slide into my hair, and the kiss changes.
It stops being something foolish I started because I’m drunk and angry and desperate to feel like I still have power over my own body.
It becomes something else. Something deeper. Hungrier.
His mouth takes mine with a control that makes me weak everywhere.
I lean into him, my seatbelt tight across my hips, my hands fisting in the expensive fabric of his jacket.
He’s so much bigger than me like this, crouched in front of my seat, shoulders blocking out the rest of the cabin, his body a wall of warmth and restraint.
Then I feel him. Hard against me.
The unmistakable press of his cock through his trousers, firm and thick where my knee brushes him.
My breath catches.
Roman goes still for half a heartbeat. Then his mouth leaves mine. But not far, only enough that we’re breathing the same air.
His eyes are darker now. “Katerina,” he says, and my name sounds like a warning.
I should be embarrassed. I should apologize. Instead, I stare at his mouth and want it back.
My lips feel swollen. My chest rises and falls too quickly. Every inch of my skin seems awake beneath my clothes, hot and restless and painfully aware of him.
He stands slowly. The distance feels obscene.
I sit there, panting softly, my fingers still curled around nothing now that his jacket is out of reach.
Then the world rushes back in.
A man across the aisle is looking at us over the rim of his glass. An older woman has paused with her magazine open in her lap. Someone two rows ahead quickly looks away when I meet their eyes.
Oh God. Heat floods my face. I turn toward the window as if the darkness outside can rescue me.
Obviously, it cannot.
My reflection stares back at me in the glass. Flushed cheeks. Bright eyes. Mouth thoroughly kissed.
I look like a woman who has just made a spectacle of herself in first class before the plane has even taken off.
Behind me, near the galley, I hear a hushed voice.
“Should we stop them?”
Another voice answers, softer, amused.
“Oh, don’t worry. They’re newlyweds. I remember how that felt.”
My blush gets worse. It crawls down my neck, beneath my coat, all the way to the tips of my ears.
Newlyweds. Mrs. Sokolov. Roman’s wife.
The lie wraps around me in a way it has no right to. Warm. Ridiculous. Dangerous.
I glance at him.
He’s standing in the aisle now, calm again. His coat is open, one hand resting on the back of my seat, his face composed enough to make me wonder if I imagined the whole thing.
Except his mouth gives him away. Just barely. A faint redness there.
From me.
My stomach flips.
Roman looks down at me, and for once, I cannot read him. “What do you think we’re doing?”
I press my lips together. They’re still tingling. “I was repaying a debt.”
His eyes drop to my mouth. Only for a second, but enough to make my pulse trip. “That was not repayment,” he says, and then sighs. “You need to rest.”
I purse my lips, almost argue, but then tip my head back and give into the urge to close my eyes.
I wake to the smell of butter.
And for a few seconds, I have no idea where I am.
The world is dim and golden around me, humming softly beneath my body.
My seat is no longer a seat. It has been turned into something wide and soft, almost a bed, with a blanket tucked over my legs and a pillow behind my head.
The little lamp beside me glows warm against polished wood.
Beyond the oval window, there is only darkness and clouds, the wing light blinking red in the distance.
We are flying. I’m in the air.
For one horrifying second, my stomach drops.
Then I remember the vodka. The lounge. The kiss. Roman crouched between my knees, fastening my seatbelt. Roman’s mouth on mine.
My face heats so fast I almost pull the blanket over my head, but instead, I turn.
He’s sitting beside me, reading something on a tablet, one ankle crossed over the other, shirtsleeves rolled back beneath his jacket. Calm. Severe. Beautiful in a way that feels unfair at this hour.
A tray table is open in front of me.
And it’s covered in food. Not airplane snacks. Actual food.
There is warm bread in a linen basket. Butter curled into tiny roses. A bowl of berries. Smoked salmon arranged beside lemon and capers. A small plate of pasta glazed in cream. Roasted vegetables. A chocolate dessert in a glass cup. A silver pot of tea. Juice. Water. A little dish of nuts.
I stare at it.
Roman glances over. “You’re awake.”
“I think I died and became rich.”
His mouth does not quite smile. “Eat.”
I look at the food again, and suddenly I’m starving.
The nerves, the humiliation, the running away, the alcohol, all of it has left a hollow ache in my stomach. I sit up too quickly and regret it immediately.
Roman reaches for my water before I ask. “Slowly.”
“I’m fine.”
His eyes lift.
I take the glass. “Fine-ish.”
“That’s closer to the truth.”
I drink half the water, then reach for the bread.
It’s warm. Actually warm.
I make a small sound before I can stop myself.
Roman watches me tear it open and spread butter across it like I haven’t eaten in days.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I say.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m amusing.”
“Well… You are.”
“I’m hungry.”
“That too.”
I take a bite and close my eyes.
It’s ridiculous, how good it tastes. Soft bread, salted butter, something warm settling into my blood. I had been nervous about flying before all this. I had imagined every bump, every terrible sound, every awful second of leaving the ground.
Then I got drunk, kissed a stranger, and apparently forgot fear existed.
Now I’m awake above the clouds, eating like a woman who has survived both heartbreak and takeoff.
Roman slides the pasta closer.
The dish is rich and creamy. The salmon tastes of smoke and salt. The berries are cold and sweet enough to make me sigh. Every few bites, Roman shifts something closer to me without making a show of it.
The first-class suite is enormous. There’s enough room between us for another person. A small table. Two wide seats. Privacy panels. Space to stretch. Space to pretend we’re not aware of each other.
And still, somehow, we keep touching.
My elbow brushes his when I reach for the tea.
His knee grazes mine when he turns slightly.
The back of his hand touches my wrist as he moves the bread basket.
Each accidental contact feels larger than it should. And by the third time it happens, neither of us pretends not to notice.
I reach for the chocolate dessert at the same moment he reaches for the water.
Our fingers meet. A tiny touch. Nothing. Except my whole body answers.
Roman goes still. So do I.
The hum of the plane seems to deepen around us.
His hand moves away.
I try to focus on the dessert. It’s impossible. My skin keeps remembering his mouth.
“You’re quieter now,” he says.
“I’m eating.”
“You were eating before.”
“I’m thinking.”
“That seems dangerous.” His gaze drops briefly to my lips.
I feel it like a touch. My breath catches, and I hate that he hears it.
Roman closes the cover on his tablet. “I need a moment.”
I blink. “For what?”
He stands, buttoning his jacket with controlled movements. “A moment.”
Then he walks away, and I’m left watching him go.
He moves through the cabin like it belongs to him. Past the glowing aisles, past sleeping passengers wrapped in blankets, past the flight attendant arranging glasses near the galley.
At first, I tell myself he has gone to make a call.
Then I remember we are on a plane.
Fine. The bathroom then.
I eat another spoonful of chocolate. Then another. I wait. The minutes stretch.
I look out the window. Clouds pass like pale smoke beneath the wing. My reflection stares back at me, hair loose around my face, cheeks flushed again, mouth softer than I remember it being.
Still no Roman. Something restless moves under my skin.
Maybe it’s the alcohol fading.
Maybe it’s the food bringing me back to myself.
Maybe it’s the fact that for the first time in my life, no one knows where I am except the man who bought my ticket and called me his wife.
I stand to my feet before I let my mind wander anymore.
The plane shifts gently beneath my feet, but I’m steady enough now. My head is clear, though my body is not.
That’s the problem.
I walk toward the washroom at the front, one hand trailing lightly over the seat backs. The cabin is quiet, private, full of sleeping strangers pretending not to exist.
The door is locked. I lift my hand. For one second, I almost turn back.
Good girls do not follow men to airplane washrooms. Good girls do not kiss strangers in first class. Good girls do not run from home with one small bag and a passport.
I knock.
Then silence.
Then the lock clicks, and the door opens.
Roman fills the doorway. His hair is slightly disturbed. His jacket is off. The first two buttons of his shirt are open at his throat, and his sleeves are pushed up his forearms. His expression is composed, but barely.
Something about him looks different.
He looks down at me. “Katerina.”
The way he says my name makes my stomach pull low and tight.
“What were you doing?” I ask.
His eyes narrow. “You followed me to ask that?”
“Yes.”
“You should be in your seat.”
“You were gone a long time.”
“Concerned?”
“Curious.”
“That’s worse.”
I look past him into the small washroom. Nothing to see. Clean mirror. Folded towels. Soft light. His jacket hanging from a hook.
Then I look back at his face. His mouth. His hands. The tension in his body.
“What were you doing?” I ask again, softer this time.
Roman leans one shoulder against the doorframe. For a moment, I think he will lie. Then his eyes move over me. “You don’t want me to answer that.”
My breath catches. I swallow. “What does that mean?”
“It means sitting next to you is becoming difficult.”
My pulse jumps.
He looks down the empty aisle, then back at me. “Your knee touches mine, and you look at me like you have no idea what it does. Your perfume is all over my shirt. You make little sounds when you eat, then blush as if no one heard them.” His jaw tightens. “I’m trying very hard to behave.”
My skin burns. “What happens if you don’t?”
His gaze drops to my mouth. “I get hard enough to need privacy.”
The air leaves my lungs.
For a second, I do not understand. Then I do.
I understand the closed door. The disturbed hair. The control in his face. The way he’s standing between me and the tiny room behind him, as if hiding evidence of a weakness he does not want me to see.
He touched himself.
Because of me.
The realization moves through me like heat poured straight into my bloodstream.
All my life, I have been taught to be careful with men. Smile, but not too much. Dress beautifully, but not desperately. Be desired, but never caught wanting. Be the woman who does not make a scene even when her life is taken apart in front of her.
But something about Roman standing in this doorway, looking at me like restraint is causing him actual pain, breaks a lock inside me.
I’m tired of being good for people who don’t even care if I’m happy.
I step closer.
Roman straightens immediately. “Katerina.”
“I’m not drunk anymore.”
His eyes darken. “Go back to your seat.”
“No.” I step into the narrow space between him and the wall, close enough that the front of my sweater brushes his shirt.
He doesn’t touch me.
That restraint, more than anything, makes me bold.
My voice drops. “All my life, I have done what I was told.”
Roman’s gaze holds mine.
I place my hand against his chest.
“But not tonight,” I whisper.