Tequila Turbulence

The moment the plane hit a patch of rough air, I knew I was screwed. Not just because turbulence makes my job a nightmare but because my hand slipped, and the entire glass of top shelf tequila splashed right onto the lap of the guy in 12B.

Fuck.

He was American, mid-thirties, with that effortlessly confident look sharp jaw, rolled up sleeves, and an amused smirk that said he’d seen worse.

“I’m so sorry,” I murmured, already reaching for a cloth. My cheeks burned. This wasn’t just professional embarrassment this was me, Kika Grey, usually flawless in my Emirates Airline uniform, suddenly flustered.

“No worries,” he said, voice low. “Accidents happen.”

I knelt beside his seat, dabbing at the dark stain spreading over his slacks. The cabin hummed around us, passengers oblivious. Then—oh.

The cloth brushed something firm. Very firm.

My fingers froze.

Even through the fabric, I could tell it was thick. And he wasn’t even fully hard.

I glanced up. His smirk had deepened, eyes locked on mine. A silent challenge.

I should’ve pulled away. But my pulse pounded, and my panties were already damp. Instead, I pressed the cloth down just once, deliberately and felt him twitch.

His breath hitched. “Efficient service.”

I stood fast, clutching the tray. “Let me know if you need… anything else.”

The way he looked at me? I knew he would.

Two days later, I spotted him at JFK’s baggage claim.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he drawled.

I should’ve walked away. But my layover stretched empty ahead of me, and his gaze was hungry.

“Need a ride?” he asked.

I bit my lip. “Depends. Where to?”

His place was a penthouse with a view of Manhattan. Classy, like him. But the second the door shut, his hands were on me rough, urgent. My uniform buttons flew, his mouth hot on my neck.

“Thought about this since the plane,” he growled, squeezing my ass.

I moaned, arching into him. “Prove it.”

He did.

Pushed me against the floor-to-ceiling window, skirt hiked, his cock grinding against me through his pants. I was soaked.

Then—reality check.

When he finally freed himself, it wasn’t the monster I’d imagined. Thick, yes, but average length. And when he got fully hard? Not much growth.

Oh well.

Didn’t stop him from wrecking me.

He ate me out like a man starved, fingers curling inside me until I came with a scream. Then he fucked me doggystyle, one hand fisted in my hair, the other spanking me hard.

“Louder,” he ordered.

I obeyed.

By the third round, my thighs trembled. He came on my back, breath ragged.

Later, sprawled on his sheets, I laughed. “Not bad for a guy who needed a tequila bath.”

He nipped my shoulder. “Not bad for a girl who likes cleaning up messes.”

I left at dawn, my uniform wrinkled, my body sore.

Worth it.