Chapter 41 Cruising Altitude & No Panties #2
“I’m wearing patience,” he counters, eyes darkening as he leans in, lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Let’s see who loses theirs first.”
He doesn’t rush. That’s what kills me. Every inch he closes is deliberate, like he’s savoring the anticipation as much as I am. His hand ghosts down my side, fingers teasing the hem of my hoodie before slipping underneath, palm meeting bare skin.
“Still no panties?” he asks, voice drenched in smug.
“You know damn well,” I bite back, but it comes out breathy.
“Mmm. Good.” His lips find the curve of my jaw, dragging slow kisses that send sparks skittering down my spine. His other hand slides to my waist, holding me in place—not to trap, but to ground. It’s always grounding with him.
Time suspends itself as August's body presses mine against the cabin wall, the vibration of the jet engine humming through our bodies like a shared secret. His fingertips trace a deliberate path along my jawline, each touch a whispered promise that makes my breath catch in my throat.
“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that resonates in the private sanctuary of our airborne chamber.
My response dissolves into a gasp as his lips find the sensitive hollow beneath my ear, his breath warm and intoxicating against my skin. The gentle rocking of the plane seems to match the rhythm of my quickening pulse, as if the very aircraft conspires with his seduction.
“You,” I whisper, the single syllable carrying the weight of twenty days of building desire. “Just you.”
His smile—that infuriatingly confident smile—curves against my neck as his hands slide beneath my hoodie with reverent slowness.
The contrast between the cool air of the cabin and the burning heat of his palms sends shivers cascading down my spine, each point of contact igniting nerve endings I never knew existed.
“Patience,” he breathe, his fingers splaying across my ribcage, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts with maddening restraint. “We've got the whole sky to ourselves.”
The luxury suite envelops us in its amber glow, the soft lighting casting golden shadows across August's features as he studies me with that intense gaze—the one that makes me feel simultaneously exposed and cherished.
Outside our window, clouds drift by in ethereal wisps, an audience of vapor and sunlight to our ascending passion.
With deliberate grace, August peels my hoodie upward, his movements unhurried as if unwrapping a precious gift.
The fabric whispers against my skin, and I raise my arms in surrender, allowing him to reveal me inch by tantalizing inch.
The cool air kisses my bare torso, hardening my nipples into eager peaks that draw his darkening gaze.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, the single word carrying the weight of worship.
His hands—those capable, commanding hands—cup my breasts with a gentleness that belies his strength. I arch into his touch, seeking more, but he maintains his torturous pace, thumbs circling my nipples with feather-light precision that has me biting my lower lip to stifle a moan.
“No,” August commands softly, his thumb releasing my lip from between my teeth. “I want to hear you. Every sound. Every breath.” His eyes hold mine, intensity burning behind them. “No one can hear us up here but the clouds.”
As if to punctuate his point, the plane encounters a pocket of turbulence, the gentle jostle pushing us closer together, his hardness pressing insistently against my hip. The synchronicity of it pulls a laugh from me, breathy and intimate.
“Even the air wants us together,” I whisper, and his answering smile is both tender and predatory.
His hand slides down my stomach, fingers playing at the waistband of my leggings with tantalizing patience.
The anticipation coils within me, tightening with each passing second until I am nearly vibrating with need.
When his fingertips finally dip beneath the fabric, skimming over my bare mound to discover the wetness waiting for him, his sharp intake of breath is a victory I savored.
“Always ready for me,” he growls, voice dropping an octave as his middle finger parts my folds with devastating precision.
My head falls back against the wall with a soft thud, eyes fluttering closed as he begins a slow, circular exploration that had my knees threatening to buckle.
The darkness of the night sky surrounds us.
His other hand wraps around my throat—not squeezing, merely claiming—his thumb resting against my pulse point as if monitoring the effect of his ministrations.
“Así. Buena,” he commands, the pressure on my throat increasing just enough to demand my attention.
I force my heavy lids open, meeting his gaze as his fingers continue their relentless rhythm between my thighs.
The intimacy of that eye contact, coupled with the increasing pressure of his palm against my throat, sends a current of electric pleasure surging through my body.
My breathing grows shallow, not from restriction but from the overwhelming sensation of being utterly possessed.
The jet engines hum their steady soundtrack as August guides me backward toward the bed, his movements fluid and controlled.
My leggings disappear somewhere between the wall and the edge of the mattress, his clothing following in a trail of abandoned restraint.
When we finally reach the bed, he turns me to face away from him, his hands firm on my hips.
“Hands on the bed,” he instructs, voice thick with commanding authority that makes my knees buckle.
I comply, palms pressing into the luxurious sheets as I bend forward, completely exposed to his hungry gaze. The position should make me feel vulnerable, but with August, vulnerability becomes a form of power—a gift I give willingly, knowing he would cherish it.
His fingers trace the curve of my spine with exquisite attention, each vertebra receiving its own moment of worship.
When he reaches the small of my back, his touch transforms, palms kneading the flesh of my buttocks with increasing pressure.
The contrast between his earlier gentleness and this newfound intensity sends a shudder of anticipation through me.
“You're trembling,” he observes, his voice a mixture of concern and pride.
“I'm waiting,” I manage to reply, the word barely audible over the ambient hum of the aircraft.
His chuckle is dark velvet against my skin as he leans forward, chest pressing against my back as his lips find my shoulder. “Then wait no more.”
His fingers return to my center, two of them sliding inside with deliberate slowness that has me pressing back against him, seeking more.
His other hand winds into my hair, gathering it at the nape of my neck before tightening his grip—not painfully, but with enough authority to hold me in place as he establishes a rhythm that matches the steady vibration of the jet beneath us.
The dual sensation of his fingers curling inside me while his grip on my hair keeps me anchored creates a delicious tension that builds with each passing moment. When his thumb finds my clit, circling with precise pressure, a moan escapes me that seems to fill the cabin.
“That's it,” he encourages, his breath hot against my ear. “Let me hear how good I make you feel.”
"AHHHHH" The pressure builds within me, a gathering storm of sensation that threatens to break at any moment.
August senses my approaching climax, his movements becoming more focused, more determined.
Just as I teeter on the edge, he withdraws his fingers, leaving me gasping at the sudden emptiness.
Before I can protest, he spins me around, lifting me effortlessly onto the bed.
Our eyes lock as he positions himself between my thighs, his expression a study in controlled desire.
His hands grip my hips with newfound intensity, fingers digging into my flesh with a possessiveness that surely leaves marks—a thought that only heightens my arousal.
“Mine,” he states simply, the single word carrying the weight of a vow.
When he finally enters me, the world narrows to the exquisite fullness, the perfect friction, the complete connection.
My body yields to his, accepting him entirely as he establishes a rhythm that starts slow and deliberate before building in intensity.
His hand returns to my throat, palm flat against my windpipe, applying just enough pressure to remind me of his control without restricting my breath.
The jet hits another pocket of turbulence, the momentary drop sending him deeper inside me, pulling a gasp from my lips that he captures with his own. Our kiss is a storm of tongues and teeth, a perfect counterpoint to the increasingly urgent movement of our bodies.
“Baby,” I breathe against his mouth, his name a prayer and a plea wrapped in a single exhalation.
His response is to increase his pace, hips driving forward with a newfound urgency that push me further up the bed with each thrust. One hand remains at my throat while the other grips my thigh, hiking it higher around his waist to change the angle of his penetration.
The new position allows him to hit that perfect spot within me, sending sparks of pleasure radiating outward with each precise stroke.
"Shit."
"Ooh."
I gasp inhaling sharply. The sound of skin against skin mingles with our labored breathing and the steady drone of the engines, creating a symphony of intimacy that seemed to cocoon us in our private paradise above the clouds.
August's expression is a study in contradictions—fierce concentration warring with barely restrained pleasure, dominance tempered by adoration.
“Come for me,” he commands, voice strained with the effort of his own control. “I want to feel you come apart around me. Dios…”
As if my body is wired to him, the tension building inside me snaps all at once—sharp, blinding, impossible to hold back.
My back lifts off the bed, a broken sound ripping out of me before I can catch it, my fingers gripping whatever I can reach as everything tightens, pulses, releases.
Too much.
It’s too much and not enough at the same time.
My vision goes soft at the edges, heat rushing through me in waves that don’t feel like they’re ever going to stop, my body chasing something it’s already found.
August doesn’t look away.
He watches me—really watches me—like he’s learning something, like he’s memorizing it.
And somehow that makes it worse.
Better.
I don’t even know anymore.
His rhythm stays steady, controlled, dragging it out, pulling me through every aftershock until I’m shaking, breath catching on nothing.
Only when I start to come back down does something in him finally break.
I feel it.
The shift.
That control he holds onto so tight slipping just enough for his rhythm to lose its precision—messier now, heavier, like he’s chasing something instead of guiding it.
When he comes, it is with my name on his lips—not a shout, but a hoarse whisper that somehow carries more weight than any declaration.
His body tenses above mine, hips pressed flush against me as he shudders through his climax, his grip on my throat relaxing to a gentle caress as we fall into the mattress.
For several heartbeats, we remain connected, our ragged breathing gradually synchronizing as reality slowly reasserts itself around us. The gentle rocking of the plane reminds us of our extraordinary circumstance—lovers suspended in the sky, existing in a realm between earth and heaven.
August lowers himself to my side, gathering me against his chest with a tenderness that contrasted beautifully with the intensity of moments before. His fingertips trace lazy patterns on my damp skin, each touch a silent affirmation of connection beyond the physical. “Descansa, mi vida.”
“Still hate me?” he murmurs against my temple, the smile evident in his voice.
I turn in his arms, meeting his gaze with my own smile—sated, serene, and utterly captivated. “Absolutely,” I whisper, pressing my lips to the corner of his mouth. “With everything I am.”
His answering laugh rumbles through his chest and into mine, a shared vibration as intimate as our lovemaking had been.
Outside our window, the night sky paints ink with specks of stars and clouds.
The clouds in shades of gold and amber, the world below continuing its rotation while we exist in our perfect, timeless sanctuary among the stars.
Down there, he is their God, but up here, in the clouds, I am the only absolution he needs.