32. Amie
thirty-two
Amie
A week before Christmas is not my favourite time to visit New York, but crew control called and dutifully, I answered. So here I am, on the jump seat, sharing my life story with a colleague—a complete stranger, someone I met for the first time just a few hours ago when we walked into the same pre-flight briefing room. We’ve worked side by side throughout the flight so far, and now the meal service is over, we’re taking a few minutes to relax before preparing for the pre-landing service.
“Any plans for the city?” she asks. She tugs at the scarf around her neck, bringing the knot back to the centre of her collar, then stands to pour a glass of water for a passenger who enters the galley.
“I, um…” I trail off, unsure of what to say. I’m meeting Cam, but how do I tell people? Who is he to me? He’s the face in my dreams, the man in my every fantasy, the man I just told a boldfaced lie to. He’s the man I want desperately. The man I never dared to hope might want me too. The man who all but offered himself to me on a silver fucking platter.
But he’s the man I can’t let myself have. It’s better this way. For all of us. That’s what I tell myself when I miss him so much it feels like my chest might cave in, like I can’t get enough air. When I miss him so much it feels like I might die.
But more than all of that, he’s Maisy’s dad, and she’s my whole world. Eventually, I settle for “I’m meeting my baby-daddy.”
She sits hard on her own seat opposite mine, eyes pinning me with a mischievous grin.
“Oh, girl, I need to hear this whole story.”
I launch into the cliff-notes version: we met four years ago on New Year’s Eve, had the best sex of my life and then I snuck out of his room. But, the condom broke, so now we have a three-year-old who he’s only just met for the first time. She’s been missing him so fiercely since we left Phoenix after Thanksgiving, and we’ve already planned to return for Christmas. What she doesn’t know is that he’s meeting me when I land in New York and flying home with me to surprise her.
“Oh my god, it’s like something out of a book,” she says, wide-eyed. “Is he fit? Who is he? What does he do? Does he have a brother?”
“He’s a pilot,” I say, ducking my head shyly against her barrage of questions. I know the reputation pilots have, and I’m all too familiar with the reputation of flight attendants who sleep with pilots. “He’s fucking gorgeous—and no, he’s an only child.”
“Oh my god,” she repeats. “Who is he? Do I know him?”
“Fuck no,” I laugh. “He’s not one of ours. I don’t shit where I eat.”
We laugh a little longer and then fall into a comfortable silence, occasionally pouring drinks and grabbing snacks for passengers who wander into the galley, and soon enough we’re on the ground. It’s a long, slow drive into the city and daylight is fading fast by the time we arrive at our hotel in Manhattan .
About an hour after I’ve showered off eau de Boeing and settled down with a book, my phone buzzes with a text. Cam is here. His airline usually puts him up in a different hotel, but as he’s done with work for the next couple of weeks and he’s flown into New York as a deadhead, he’s crashing here with me.
My spacious—albeit cold and clinical—room has two queen beds, a chaise by the window, and plenty of spare towels. Perfect for us to avoid getting too close. I rush down to the lobby to greet him, and despite every instinct screaming at me to stop, I fall straight into him, releasing a heavy breath as his arms come up to embrace me. Desire floods my veins as I’m surrounded by his cedar cologne. My face is buried in his chest as he presses his lips to the top of my head, letting them linger a little longer than they ought to.
We break apart eventually, and make it to my room.
“How’ve you been, Amie? How was your flight?” he asks, pushing his luggage into a corner and beginning to undress. He kicks off his shoes first, and then the tie comes off. I swallow hard, watching his thick fingers work at the knot around his neck.
“Good,” I say, my mouth dry. He’s gorgeous. Even after a day of flying, crossing time zones and wearing a uniform for hours on end, he’s stunning. The mere sight of him makes me ache and I clench my thighs. “I’m good. Flight was fine, unremarkable, you know…” I trail off, watching him unfasten the buttons on his shirt. Steadily, his bare chest comes into view, firm golden skin stretching taut across hard muscle. I realise a second too late that he’s watching me watching him.
Something flickers in his eyes, the colour shifting from ocean to emerald to something darker. If midnight were green, it would be the shade of Cam’s eyes right now. His pupils dilate, green melting to black, and his throat works steadily as he swallows, watching me intently.
“See something you like?” he asks, finishing with the final button and pulling his shirt open slowly, sliding it off his shoulders. My own personal striptease. Time stands still.
“Yes,” I whisper. My tongue darts out to lick my lips. My mouth is dry; all the moisture in my body is currently pooling between my legs.
I’m done with this lie, with pretending I don’t want him to devour me. I’ve thought of him every day since Singapore, and I’ve touched myself to those thoughts more times than I can count. Every day since we reconnected in Santiago I’ve fallen closer and closer to something that might be love, watching him love our daughter like the daddy I always dreamt she’d have. Like the dad I always wanted for myself, but never had. He loves her tenderly and fiercely all at once, soft and sweet and playful. He encourages her wild side but keeps her grounded; he allows her the freedom to make mistakes and learn but never lets her run toward danger. He roars like a dinosaur with her and kisses her curls as she sleeps. He throws her in the air as she laughs and he holds her with such gentle reverence, I think my heart could explode for a second time.
I lied to him when I told him I didn’t want him. Because I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anything, and being so close—having him within reach—terrifies and excites me more than anything I’ve ever known.
The look in his eyes when he looks at Maisy, and the way he’s looking at me right now, tell me everything I need to know. He’s told me everything I need to know. He’s shown me every day for the last few months. Maybe I’ve always been afraid of people leaving me. But with him, I don’t need to be.
“Amie,” he whispers my name like a plea. His shirt falls to the floor. His eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen them, a lush jungle I could lose my way in and never be found.
Fuck it. I’m done being afraid. I’m done pretending.
Just like that, I’m in his arms, our lips colliding with simultaneous moans and whimpers. He tastes just the way I remember, minus the whisky. Like peppermint, with just a hint of coffee; his citrus and cedar scent filling the rest of my senses like the sweetest aphrodisiac.
I want to climb this man like a damn tree, but he brings his hands up to cradle my face and he’s kissing me soft and slow, exploring my mouth like it’s the first time again. It’s sweet and gentle and tears burn behind my eyelids as I open my mouth for him, holding the nape of his neck and pulling him impossibly closer.
I can’t get enough of this man. It will never be enough.
His cock is hard, pressing between us as we kiss like the world might end if we don’t. The ridge of it presses against my belly and I shift, gasping into his mouth at the gentle friction as he nudges a thick thigh between my legs. He smiles against my lips and I move a hand down, ghosting over the buckle of his belt to stroke him through his trousers.
He doesn’t remove his lips from mine, just moans into my mouth as my hand presses against him, and I’m the first to break the kiss. I tear my lips away from his, kissing down his jaw to his throat, nipping and sucking at the stubbled skin as he swallows hard and tips his head back.
“Amie.” My name is a strangled whisper. “Amie.”
“Shh,” I tell him, swiping my tongue across his Adam’s apple. His skin is warm, salty and rough with stubble and I can’t get enough. I nip with my teeth and soothe with my lips. The way his throat works when he’s trying to keep it together drives me wild. I grasp his belt buckle and unfasten it, popping the button on his trousers and pushing them and his boxers together down his hips to release his erection.
He’s even bigger than I remember.
I take him in my hand and he gasps, a soft hiss falling from his lips as I swirl my thumb over the tip, spreading the bead of moisture and stroking my fingers all the way along the thick vein to his base, before cupping his balls lightly. God, he’s an absolute masterpiece.
And he’s hard as a rock. I did that .
I stroke him once, twice, and he moans, growing even thicker even my hand. Getting him hard is making me wet. Fuck, I can’t wait to take him in my mouth and taste him again. I can’t wait to have him inside me, stretching me, filling me so completely.
He tugs at the hem of my shirt, clumsy hands fisting at the soft cotton until I pull away, creating enough space for him to lift the tee over my head and reveal my chest. I’m not wearing a bra and his eyes widen as my breasts appear, bare and begging for attention.
He crushes his lips to mine again, just for a moment, then bends to close his lips around one of my nipples. I arch my back, pushing my chest into him, and cry out, the sensation almost too much to bear. He’s hardly touched me and I’m wound tight enough to snap already. His teeth graze the sensitive flesh and I gasp.
I need him. I pull his face to mine again and kiss him hard. I can’t get enough of his full lips, the way he tastes, so warm and masculine and Cam. He tastes like coming home. His cock presses into my belly, skin on skin, and we both gasp, pressing our bodies as close as they can get. He kicks his pants off his ankles and tears my leggings down my hips, relieving us of the final barriers between us. Then, I grasp him in my hand again and drop to my knees.