The first time I challenged altitude

The flight from Bangkok to Dubai had been a slow burn of stolen glances and deliberate touches—Liam’s fingers brushing mine as we handed out headphones, the way his body pressed against mine in the cramped galley, his breath warm against my ear as he murmured instructions. By the time we landed, my skin was electric, every nerve alight with the promise of what had simmered between us for months.

“Drinks in my room,” he said, not a question but a command disguised as an invitation. His voice was low, rough from hours of announcements, but the edge in it made my stomach tighten. I nodded, my pulse throbbing in my throat.

The hotel was all sleek marble and hushed luxury, the kind of place where discretion was woven into the walls. The elevator ride up was torture—his body a deliberate inch from mine, the heat of him searing through my uniform. I could smell the faint musk of his cologne, the salt of sweat beneath it. When the doors slid open, he didn’t touch me. Just walked ahead, knowing I’d follow.

His room was dim, the curtains drawn against the desert skyline. A single lamp cast long shadows, and the air hummed with the quiet tension of two people who’d waited too long. He turned to me, eyes dark, and in that moment, I knew there would be no teasing, no slow seduction. The time for that had passed somewhere over the Indian Ocean.

“Take off your scarf,” he said.

I obeyed, the silk sliding from my neck like a surrender. His fingers traced the exposed line of my throat, down to the first button of my blouse. One by one, he undid them, his touch deliberate, almost clinical—until his palm brushed my nipple through the thin fabric of my bra. A gasp escaped me, and his mouth curled into a smirk.

“You’ve been thinking about this,” he murmured. “Haven’t you, Kika?”

I didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. He could see it in the way my breath hitched, the way my hips tilted toward him. With a rough sound, he yanked me against him, his mouth crashing onto mine. There was nothing gentle in it—just hunger, raw and consuming. His teeth scraped my lip, his tongue claiming mine as his hands shoved my blouse off my shoulders. The fabric pooled at my feet, and then his fingers were at the waistband of my skirt, unzipping it with a sharp tug.

“Turn around,” he ordered.

I did, facing the floor-to-ceiling mirror beside the bed. Behind me, Liam’s hands slid up my thighs, pushing the skirt higher, his thumbs hooking into the lace of my panties. He dragged them down slowly, his breath hot against the small of my back.

“Look at yourself,” he said, gripping my hips. “Look at how fucking ready you are.”

And I was. The mirror showed it all—the flush spreading across my chest, the wetness glistening between my thighs, the desperate ache in my own eyes. His fingers traced my folds, teasing, and I whimpered, my knees buckling.

“Please—”

“Please what?” His voice was a growl, his fingers circling my clit with torturous precision.

“Fuck me.”

He didn’t make me beg twice. One hand fisted in my hair, yanking my head back as the other guided himself to my entrance. Then he was inside me in one brutal thrust, filling me so completely I saw stars. The mirror rattled as he drove into me, his hips slamming against mine with a force that left me breathless.

“Dios—” I choked, my nails scraping the glass.

He laughed, low and dark, his grip tightening on my hair. “Knew you’d be a mess for me.”

Every movement was calculated to unravel me—the way his thumb found my clit again, the way his teeth sank into my shoulder when my moans grew too loud. The pleasure built in waves, each one higher, more overwhelming, until I was shaking, my orgasm tearing through me with a violence that left me gasping.

But he didn’t stop.

He flipped me onto the bed, my back arching as he dragged me to the edge, his hands possessive on my hips. “Again,” he demanded, thrusting harder.

And I did. Again. And again.

By the time he finally spilled inside me, my body was limp, my skin slick with sweat. He collapsed beside me, his breath ragged, his fingers tracing idle patterns on my stomach. The room was silent except for our breathing, the weight of what we’d done settling over us like a second skin.

I turned my head to look at him. His eyes were already on me, dark with satisfaction.

“Detention tomorrow,” he said, his voice rough. “1900 hours. Don’t be late.”

I smiled.

**