Altitude & desire

The first-class cabin was a cathedral of silence at 40,000 feet, bathed in the dim blue glow of night-flight lighting. I adjusted my emerald-green neck scarf—Emirates’ signature touch—and smoothed my skirt before stepping into the aisle. Seat 4A had been watching me all evening. I’d felt it: the weight of his gaze as I served champagne, the way his fingers lingered when taking his glass. A British executive, mid-30s, with a Rolex loose on his wrist and a smile that didn’t apologize for staring.

Professionalism, Kika. Always.

But professionalism frayed when he caught my elbow as I passed. “Another Scotch,” he said, voice low. “Neat. And… join me?”

I should’ve refused. Instead, I glanced at the empty seat beside him. “Five minutes. Crew rules.”

He swirled his drink. “Rules exist to be bent.”

The ice in his glass clinked like a dare.

By hour eight, the cabin slept. Even the other attendants had retreated to the galley. I lingered near his row, pretending to check overhead bins. His hand grazed my hip as I leaned over—accidental, but the heat in his eyes wasn’t.

“You’re relentless,” I whispered.

“You’re unforgettable.” His thumb traced my inner wrist. “Tell me you don’t want this.”

I inhaled sharply. The truth? My thighs were already slick. The way he commanded without demanding, the arrogance of assuming I’d break protocol… It unraveled me.

In the rear lavatory, my back hit the folding door as his mouth crashed onto mine. My cap tumbled to the floor, hair spilling loose. “Fuck your discipline,” he growled, yanking my blouse open. Buttons pinged against the sink.

I gasped as his teeth scraped my collarbone. “We have twelve minutes,” I warned, even as I clawed at his belt.

“Then scream quietly.”

The thrust was brutal—no pretense, no tenderness. Just the raw, glorious friction of him filling me, my uniform skirt shoved up around my waist. The mirror fogged with our breath; my moans muffled against his shoulder. Every jolt of turbulence drove him deeper.

“Dios…” I choked, nails raking his neck.

He laughed darkly, gripping my hips. “Knew you’d be a mess for me.”

I straightened my scarf at landing, lips still swollen. He handed me his card with a smirk. “Next layover.”

I tucked it into my pocket—and tossed it in the jetway trash an hour later. Some fires aren’t meant to last. But oh, how they burn.