Chapter 36
The vibration drags me out of sleep—soft, insistent, a warning bell in the quiet belly of the plane.
My senses snap awake, pulse quickening. I keep my breathing steady, careful not to shift too fast. Saint is behind me, her breathing slow, deep, oblivious.
Still sleeping or faking it better than anyone I’ve ever met.
I move slow. Inch by inch, I lift my pants, fish out the phone buried beneath a layer of clothes. The message glows on the screen, stark and final:
That’s it. No signature, no trace. The moment I darken the screen, it’ll erase itself. I slide it back, take a long breath, let it settle in my chest before I roll over to face her.
She’s fucking gorgeous like this—face relaxed, freckles dark as cocoa against her skin.
Her hair, usually big and wild and taking up all the space it wants, is flattened, and mussed from sleep, making her look softer, almost innocent.
The sheet’s slipped down, baring her back, the sweet curve of her waist. My gaze drifts lower—her breasts, the rise and fall with every breath, nipples dark and peaked, begging for my mouth.
My hand skims down her body, slow—along her waist, over her hip, tracing the line of her thigh. It’s torture, having her here. Wanting her this bad. Knowing every touch is a lie, every soft moment a crack in the armor that’s supposed to keep us both alive.
I wish it didn’t have to be this way. Wish I didn’t have to lie to her. But I do. She knows it, even if she hasn’t put all the pieces together yet. That’s probably the only reason I’m still breathing—because not knowing is killing her just as much as the truth would.
Still, I can’t help the way my cock aches for her, the way my body wants her all over again. I tell myself I’m only going to wake her. That anything more is just begging for trouble—one of us will end up dead, and the odds are on me.
But hell if I can make myself care, not when she’s this close. When I can still smell the taste of her on me.
I slide down her body, mouth pressed to her hip, letting my lips linger there. She makes a small sound, still deep in sleep, but it sends a jolt through me. Another kiss, closer to where I want to bury myself, and she shifts, just enough that it feels like invitation.
I press a kiss to the soft mound above her pussy, then lower, breathing her in.
She smells like sweat and sex and Saint—undeniable, addictive.
My hand glides down her thigh, finds her knee, and gently pulls, lifting her leg to rest on my shoulder.
She’s on her side, pliant in sleep, and I nestle in, taking my time.
My tongue parts her, slow and savoring, tasting her, feeling her moan vibrate right through me.
We’re both needy, both starving, but I want to draw this out.
I work her with my mouth, steady, letting her stay wherever her dreams have taken her while I worship her body.
I listen for the subtle change in her breathing, the way her hips start to rock, the small gasps as she melts under my tongue.
She opens for me, wetter with every flick, her dream bleeding into something hotter, her moans coming quicker, hips pushing up to meet my mouth.
I want her to stay lost in that peace as long as she can, but I feel her starting to twitch, her thigh tensing around my head as I focus on her clit.
My tongue moves faster, lips sealing around her, sucking gently.
She’s waking now, hips moving, hand tangling in my hair, pulling me closer, grinding her pussy into my mouth.
Her voice is wrecked, groggy and wild—
“Oh, Alejandro,” she groans, her fingers tightening, nails biting into my scalp. “Fuck—my god—”
She’s fucking my face, breath breaking into ragged, muffled noises as she tries to stifle herself in the pillow.
“Oh my god, Alejandro—fuck, just like that—just like that—” Her hips buck, thighs shaking around my head.
I don’t let up, licking her through every pulse of her orgasm, refusing to stop even when she cries out, voice breaking, trying to shove me off, thighs trembling around my head.
Only then do I let her go. I push myself up, hands strong on her hips, turning her over onto her stomach. I want more—need more—of her, even if it destroys me.
I straddle her, my knees planted on either side of her thighs.
She keeps her legs together—defiant, even now, making me work for every inch as I slide into her.
She’s still pulsing, slick and hot from the orgasm I just gave her.
I fuck her slow at first, feeling her shudder around me, then pick up the pace, chasing my own edge.
She’s quiet, stubborn, her face turned away from me.
I know she’s not going to come like this.
I want more from her—need her mouth, her eyes, her surrender when I break.
“Turn over,” I murmur, voice thick. She does—mouth parted, face flushed, eyes wild with the afterglow. I hook her leg into the crook of my elbow, drive into her deep, my lips crashing into hers, swallowing her gasp.
I fuck her hard, steady, letting her ride the high. Forehead to forehead, I watch her—won’t let her look away. “Eyes on me,” I whisper. “Don’t look away. Not now.”
She holds my gaze as her pleasure builds, body tensing beneath me, the line between us burning bright and raw. I want her to see it—all the things I can’t say. That I didn’t want this, didn’t choose it, but it’s what we have now. It’s all there is.
She comes, eyes locked with mine, and I let myself fall with her, hips stuttering, spilling into her as I press our foreheads together, never breaking the connection. For a moment, I almost believe in something softer—almost believe it’s enough.
But I see it—the exact second she shuts herself off. The fire in her eyes snuffs out, replaced by cold calculation. Her hands, which a moment ago were clinging to my shoulders, go flat and hard, pushing at my chest.
I slide out of her, breathless and aching. She rolls away, stands up, and pulls on yesterday’s panties and tank top without meeting my eyes.
“I’m going to find some fresh clothes before we land,” she says, her voice steady, already halfway gone.
The luggage turns into our department store.
Saint rifles through a high-roller’s roller bag, tossing me a disgusted look at a stack of monogrammed boxers, while I dig through garment bags for anything passably discreet.
Its Saint who finds the motherlode—a cabinet packed with flight crew uniforms, pressed and ready, the airline’s signature red hats and white scarves lined up like soldiers.
We both pause, catch each other’s eye, and don’t need to say a word. This is our ticket off the plane, and if we’re lucky, through the airport without turning it into another Die Hard set.
She claims the bathroom first, carrying a stewardess uniform over her arm and her backpack at her hip.
I hear the water start. I strip down, shower quick and brutal in the second stall—no time to linger.
She finger-coils her hair in the mirror and I suit up in the captain’s getup.
Epaulettes. Gold stripes. Feels ridiculous, but if it gets us out, I’ll wear a clown suit.
Saint emerges with her hair freshly twisted, the hat perched at a confident tilt, lips painted a vivid, fuck-you red. I look away, focusing on my gun case. The urge to see that lipstick smeared on my cock is not helpful right now.
She packs two water bottles, a few snacks, and her boots into her bag. Everything else gets left behind. We feel the plane drop lower, the pitch and whine of engines changing, the faint sense of pressure in our ears as we begin to descend.
We brace ourselves at the rails near the stairs—bags on our backs, knees flexed. Landing is a hell of a lot rougher when you’re not buckled in like a good passenger, but we manage, knuckles white on steel, adrenaline settling in cold and steady.
I lean against the railing, arms crossed, eyes on the hatch as the plane taxis to its terminal. Patience has never been Saint’s strong suit, but right now, it’s our only choice. She walks up the steps, pauses, listening. Looks at me—something in her eyes, sharp and alert. I join her, quiet.
The voices beyond the hatch are speaking French. I catch fragments—my French is serviceable, but not perfect.
She turns to me, voice pitched low. “They’ve been warned. Authorities are waiting at the gate for two passengers.”
My stomach drops. She slides her bag off, sets it between her feet.
She continues, voice calm, “The captain told them the crew needs to transfer to another flight immediately after landing.”
I breathe a little easier.
She nods toward the door. “Crew will exit through the rear. Every passenger’s being id’ed before they can deplane.”
I nod, grateful for the uniform, the hat, the cover. For once, being wrapped in polyester feels like a stroke of luck.
I make a last-minute rummage through the bags and snag two pair of aviator sunglasses.
Saint kneels, works her multitool to quietly unjam the maintenance hatch we rigged. We hear the main cabin doors open—voices, footsteps, the hush of orderly crew filing out.
She cracks the door, watches. Then, with a small gesture, she motions me forward, hand wrapped around her backpack’s handle.
Time to go.
She opens the door like she owns the place, stride unhurried. I fall in behind her, matching her energy and sliding the glasses onto my face. We join the end of the crew, blending in behind a flight attendant with a pixie cut and the runway walk of a model.
The Emirates staff at the rear door—suits and official clipboards—nod at each crew member as they pass. Saint and I nod back, eyes forward, following the line through a separate gate and straight into the freedom of the Dubai airport.
I nudge her with the sunglasses, and she puts them. Eyes forward and shoulders back as looks like any other steward.
For now, at least, we’ve pulled off the impossible again. But if I know Saint, she’s already plotting three moves ahead—and so am I.
Tonight is the night two years in exile have been leading toward.
Whatever happens next, there’s no turning back.