1. Addy #3
He doesn’t bother removing anything properly, just bunches the dress at my hips and pulls me back against him, forcing me onto my toes. Air shrieks under the fuselage and in my ears, and I almost think we’re both about to explode into a million oblivious pieces.
I catch my reflection in the scratched chrome faucet: mascara streaked, hair tangled, mouth open around a moan I’d never admit belonged to me.
He turns me to face him once more, palms crushing my jaw, and the click of his belt unbuckling is louder than the air system or my own pulse. My back knocks into the paper towel dispenser, cold bite of stainless, and his hands are everywhere, thumbs at my ribs, mouth devouring my cheek and ear.
I lose track of what part of me he reaches for next… all of it, I think, like we’re both on a timer.
He’s already hard, greedy, and slick, and he pushes against me, lining us up with a desperate, clumsy force. I shift against him, closing the distance without thinking; I want every inch of the ruin he brings.
The first push takes me by surprise. How reckless it is, how he holds back absolutely nothing. I muffle a strangled sound against his shoulder, closing my teeth over the rough wool of his jacket. If I bite down any harder, I’ll draw blood.
He thrusts again, harder, and pain jolts through me, threaded with dark silver pleasure. Some small, distant conscience says this is unwise and possibly illegal; every other part of me wants him to treat me worse.
He braces my hips and sets a brutal pace, fucking me like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.
The edge of the sink presses into my hips, shuddering with each impact. I choke out a laugh and instantly lose the sound in his shoulder, lips mashed to his neck, breathing him in like it might save me.
His cologne is worn thin by sweat and travel and animalistic, all honesty and intent. I've no idea what time it is, but I know he’s gritting his teeth, fighting for self-control.
He groans like he hates me, like he hates himself, and that’s the only reason I let him take and take and take.
The stall shudders with our impact, little plastic latch rattling, and the plane must have hit some turbulence or something because my legs go hot and numb.
He meets my gaze, his own expression shredded up and jagged, and I think he might say something, some end-of-the-world confession, but all he does is split open a muttered curse and bury his mouth against my throat.
The ache burns through me, good and cruel, every thrust driving me harder into the mirror until my skin squeaks against the glass.
My wrists throb where he cages them, and there’s a fresh bruise blooming on my thigh where his hip grinds me to the edge of the sink. I want to say his name, say yes or fuck or anything that means I surrender, but the words jam up behind my teeth.
I brace myself for impact, I brace myself for everything and nothing, and when it hits, when I come undone so hard I nearly black out, he clamps a hand over my mouth and stifles my howl against his palm.
My hips stutter, legs folding, and all I can do is shake and shudder and ride it until the noise in my brain is just white, roaring static.
He’s not far behind, pace slamming into wild, staccato bedlam, and he wraps his arms around me tight enough to leave fingerprints in my bones. I feel the shudder crack through his chest, a growl in his throat that’s half threat, half plea. It’s final, absolute.
When it’s over, he holds me there for a long, shaking second, crushed up into the bend of his arm, my pulse an aftershock under his palm. The air is sour with sweat and ozone. Neither of us says anything.
Our breathing’s too loud, ragged inside the humming shell of the lavatory.
This is over, and both of us already know it… knew it before he ever touched me.
My hands fall, boneless, to the counter. I smooth my dress back down and force myself upright, back together, but my knees are rubber. I splash cold water on my face.
At the edges of my vision, I see him zipping and buttoning, ruthlessly efficient with the cleanup, like a soldier at the end of a bad campaign.
Our eyes meet in the burnished, warped mirror. His face tight, jaw set, a warning not to expect anything gentle from here.
Not that I ever did.
He shifts his weight from foot to foot, wipes himself down with the single square of toilet paper the dispenser manages to surrender, and gives me a look as cold and clean as vodka.
We’re strangers again, except for the fingerprints burned into my ass and the hoarse echo of his breath still rattling my ribs.
I take a moment to calm my pulse, to smooth my hair just enough not to draw attention when we walk out one after the other, and then he’s gone, vanishing into the corridor in a blur of wool and aftershave.
I’d follow just to see if he bothers looking back, but I already know the answer.
I wait until at least two minutes have passed, running the tap until my wrists lose their red. My thighs sticky, my lip still bleeding, I compose a face that can pass through public air with plausible deniability.
When I finally crack the door, the corridor is empty.
There’s a faint, illicit tang in the recycled air.
My own after-image, raw and salt bright.
I slip into my seat, still unstable, as if the world’s shifted on its axis and only gravity is keeping me from flying apart.
The old woman on the aisle scans me over the rim of her neck pillow, eyes sharp behind bifocals.
I smile, lopsided, like it was turbulence that left me flushed and glowing.