8. Vadim
VADIM
I know following her into the galley again, after the cabin lights go down, is a bad idea before I even stand. But I can’t help myself.
Sloane has spent most of the flight behaving as though nothing has changed between us, which would be easier to believe if I hadn’t caught her looking at me three times since takeoff, each glance lasting a fraction too long before she turned away.
I have done the same. Probably more often.
Marek notices, naturally. He notices everything that might eventually become useful against me.
He’s stretched across the seat opposite mine with one arm along the backrest, watching Sloane disappear behind the galley curtain after collecting the last of the glasses.
Then he looks at me.
“No,” I tell him.
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You are about to.”
“I was going to suggest something practical.”
“That is already concerning.”
His mouth curves. “Get her out of your system. You have spent three flights looking at that woman like you are personally offended by the existence of clothing.”
Anton doesn’t look up, but I know he’s listening.
I sit back down for half a second simply because I refuse to give Marek the satisfaction of thinking he has influenced me.
Then I stand again.
He smiles wider. “Very convincing.”
“She is not something to get out of my system.” The words leave my mouth before I decide to say them.
Marek’s amusement fades slightly.
That silence tells me I have admitted too much. Except Sloane has been under my skin for weeks now, and every flight has somehow made it worse rather than better.
“She is working,” I say.
“So?”
“So I’m not going to corner a woman employed on my aircraft because I cannot control myself.”
Marek raises his eyebrows. “That sounded remarkably noble.”
“Shut up,” I say, and miraculously he does.
The cabin is mostly dark now, illuminated only by the low amber strips along the floor and the muted lights above the side tables. Iosef has been asleep for nearly an hour. Anton still pretends not to have heard any of this. Marek looks pleased with himself.
I leave them behind.
The moment I reach the galley, regret settles in.
Not because I don’t want to see her. Because I suddenly understand exactly how this must look from her side. The last thing I want is for her to feel cornered.
She’s standing with her back to me, rinsing a cup beneath the narrow sink.
I stop at the entrance instead of stepping inside.
“Sloane.”
She turns. For a second, surprise flashes across her face. Then something warmer. “Do you need water again?”
“No.”
“That’s progress.”
I almost smile. “I wanted to speak to you.”
Her hands slow. “About?”
I look at the cramped space between us. “Not here.”
She lifts one eyebrow. “That sounds ominous.”
“I meant because I don’t want you to think I followed you in here for another excuse to stand too close.”
She studies me. There’s enough intelligence in her face to make lying useless.
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
That makes her smile. It’s small but dangerous.
I should leave. Instead, I step inside.
She doesn’t move back. The space immediately feels smaller.
“You have been avoiding me,” I say.
“So have you.”
“That is not true.”
“You ignored me for an entire flight.”
“I was attempting to behave.”
Her mouth twitches. “That must have been exhausting.”
“It was.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
Then Sloane reaches past me for a towel. Her shoulder brushes my chest.
The contact is barely anything. Still, it changes the air between us.
She feels it too. I know because she stops before moving away.
My hand settles at her waist. I do it slowly enough that she can step back if she wants, but she doesn’t.
I lower my head.
She kisses me first.
That destroys whatever remained of the conversation I intended to have.
My hand slides around the back of her neck while the other tightens at her waist, pulling her closer as her fingers grip the front of my shirt. The kiss deepens immediately, no hesitation this time, none of the interrupted restraint we’ve been dragging across three flights.
She opens for me. I taste her.
She makes a quiet sound against my mouth.
Fuck.
I push her gently against the counter. She goes willingly.
My mouth moves down her jaw and along her neck while my hands travel over her waist, then higher, feeling the shape of her beneath the uniform I have imagined removing far too many times.
She exhales when my palm closes over one breast.
Her nipple hardens beneath the fabric, and I rub my thumb over it.
Her head tips back.
Fuck, she’s so responsive like this.
My hand slides lower, moving from the curve of her waist across the soft plane of her stomach before settling at the hem of her skirt, and the moment my fingers disappear beneath the fabric I feel her entire body change against me, not pulling away, not resisting, but becoming suddenly more aware of every inch of space between us.
Her thighs part by the smallest amount, almost unconsciously, and that tiny movement is enough to send a hard pulse of need through me because it is not practiced or calculated; it is simply her body answering mine before either of us has said what this has become.
I pause there, my hand warm against the inside of her thigh, and lift my head from her neck so I can see her face.
“Sloane.”
Her eyes meet mine. There’s heat in them, but there’s also something more uncertain beneath that, and that’s the only reason I don’t keep going immediately.
“Tell me if you want me to stop.”
For a second she only looks at me, her breathing shallow, her fingers still twisted in the front of my shirt.
Then she shakes her head. “No.”
The word is quiet. Certain enough.
I slide my hand higher. Her breath catches when my fingers brush over the outside of her underwear, and the reaction is so immediate that I have to clench my jaw to keep from doing everything at once.
Instead, I touch her slowly.
Once. Then again.
The fabric is already damp beneath my fingers.
I look at her. She notices where my attention has gone and closes her eyes for half a second as though embarrassed by how obvious her body has made this.
My hand settles more securely against her thigh while I keep touching her, slow enough that she has time to react to every movement, and with each pass I feel the tension in her shift from restraint into need. She leans back against the counter, her fingers tightening around my sleeve.
I move the fabric aside. The first touch of my fingers directly against her makes her inhale so sharply that I stop again, not because she asked me to, but because I want to know whether that sound came from surprise or something else.
Her eyes open. “Don’t stop.”
That’s all I need.
I run one finger slowly through her wetness, then over her clit, and her whole body shivers in response. She looks away.
I lean closer. “Look at me.”
Her gaze returns to mine.
I touch her again, more deliberately this time. “Sloane.”
She shudders when I say her name, like she hates the effect it has on both of us.
I kiss her while my fingers keep moving, swallowing the small sounds that escape her as the rhythm between us changes, becoming less tentative and more certain because she is no longer pretending she wants distance.
The galley is quiet around us. The cabin beyond it is mostly dark.
There’s something reckless about being here, something I should probably understand as a warning, but all I can think about is the way she’s pressing closer, the way her body softens every time my fingers circle her clit, the way her composure keeps breaking in small, beautiful pieces.
She grips my shoulders. “I’m going to—”
“I know.”
Her eyes flash at the interruption.
I almost smile. Then I keep touching her until the tension finally snaps.
Her body tightens against mine. She turns her face into my shoulder to muffle the sound, and I hold her through it while she shakes, one hand at her waist and the other moving more slowly now because I can feel how sensitive she has become.
When it passes, she stays where she is for several seconds. Neither of us speaks. I can still feel her breathing against my neck.
Then something in her changes.
She steps back, and I release her at once.
Sloane fixes her skirt with hands that are suddenly unsteady, smoothing the fabric down as though the act of putting herself back together has become urgently important.
I watch her. “Sloane.”
“I’m fine.” She turns toward the counter.
The words come too quickly. And I know that tone now. It’s the one she uses when she wants to make something disappear.
I stay where I’m instead of moving closer. “What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“That is not true.”
She presses both hands against the edge of the counter and lowers her head. For several seconds, the only sound between us is the faint hum of the aircraft.
Then she whispers, so quietly I almost think I imagined it, “What am I even doing?”
The question is not meant for me. That makes it worse.
I look at her more carefully. Her eyes are bright. She’s not crying yet, but she’s close, a whisper away from a drop trickling down her perfect cheeks.
Something inside my chest tightens.
“Sloane.”
She shakes her head. “I barely know you.”
“I know.”
“And every time we’re alone, this happens.” Her voice trembles slightly on the last word.
I don’t answer because I’m beginning to understand that anything defensive will make this worse.
She turns to face me. There’s anger there now, but it’s tangled with embarrassment and something that looks painfully close to regret.
“You follow me when everyone is asleep, you touch me, and I let you, and then suddenly I’m standing here wondering when exactly I became the kind of woman who does this with a man she barely knows. ”
“You are not that kind of woman.”
Her expression hardens. “You don’t know what kind of woman I am.”
“That is fair.”
The answer makes her pause.
I keep my voice low. “I’m not judging you.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m not judging myself.”
For the first time since I came into the galley, I have nothing useful to say.
She looks away again. “I need this job.”
“I know.”
“I actually need it, Vadim. I can’t afford to blur everything until I don’t even know whether I’m working or whether I’m just waiting for you to corner me somewhere.”
I take a step back.
Not because I want distance, but because I suddenly need her to see that she has it.
“I won’t touch you again unless you ask me to.”
Her eyes lift. Something in them changes, but not enough. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Then tell me what you meant.”
She stares at me for a long moment, and when she speaks again her voice is quieter, but the accusation in it is much worse.
“You think I’m so easy you can have me anywhere?”