Flying High by Rachel Kramer Bussel Page A

softly. Stealthily, I roll my head to check on my second companion.
    Only to find myself staring straight into Paul’s lovely—and wide-awake—brown eyes.
    I freeze.
    He smiles, with just a hint of mischief, and bends close to whisper, “I’d like to help, if I can.”
    I wince, as if someone’s poured a glass of ice water between my legs. Of course, the only proper reply is a huffy “Whatever do you mean, sir?” But as he continues to gaze at me with that knowing look, the chill in my secret place melts back into a pulsing warmth. Paul’s obviously guessed what I’m up to. And since I so brazenly borrowed his fantasy hands for my pleasure, why not see what the real one can do for me?
    I nod, just once, but Paul needs no further encouragement. With admirable smoothness, he raises the armrest between us
and slides his hand under my blanket. Flashing me one last bad-boy grin, he closes his eyes to assume a mask of innocent slumber. Except, under the blanket, his hand is massaging my leg in a most indecent way.
    Instinctively, my knees ease open.
    His fingers wander higher, to the crease of my thigh, which he strokes lightly through my pants.
    I grit my teeth. The hot, tickling sensation radiates through my vulva and my cunt muscles contract deliciously.
    The fingers shift to the right, circling my mons with a steady .pressure. I rock my hips discreetly up into his hand. It’s so forbidden and exciting, I probably could come this way, but suddenly I crave his touch on my naked flesh. I ease down my waistband and Paul takes his cue to burrow inside. His middle finger immediately finds my clit, which probably isn’t too difficult, given how hard and swollen it gets when I’m this turned on.
    He begins to strum.
    Each stroke of his finger sends sparks sizzling through my pussy. My cheeks burn and I’m trying so hard not to moan, my ribs ache. I squeeze Paul’s wrist to steady myself but—devilishly—he only quickens the pace. There’s no turning back now, because I’m a slave to that jiggling finger. I’m a horny slut who wants it so bad, she’ll let a stranger finger her twat on an airplane, yes, she’ll let him rub her wet, swollen pussy until she comes, which is just what I’m doing right now, yes, I’m coming all over Paul’s hand. I grit my teeth to hold back the scream rising from my belly, ricocheting through my body, as my ass jerks rhythmically into the cushion.
    When I open my eyes, Paul’s watching me, a faint smile playing at his lips.
    I smile back. “Thanks.”
    â€œMy pleasure.”

    He squeezes my hand sweetly before he retreats to his own blanket, and I’m considering ways I might safely return the favor when suddenly he stands. “Excuse me, I’ll be right back.”
    I blink in confusion. Where’s he going? To take a leak at a time like this? But I’m too befuddled by that rocketing orgasm to think clearly and before I know it, Paul’s back beside me, giving my hand another squeeze. “And now I have to thank you.”
    â€œFor what? I didn’t get a chance to do anything.”
    â€œBelieve me, you did. I think we’re both going to sleep well now.”
    That’s when I finally get it. Paul and I might not know each other well, but he’s clearly on intimate terms with my nasty little habit.
    So we do have something in common.
    Breakfast could have been strained, but we’re too busy talking for any awkward moments. Paul seems genuinely sorry I’m flying on to Frankfurt, and when they announce our descent into Heathrow, he pulls out a business card and writes a number on the back. “This is my personal cell number. I’ll be back in San Francisco on the twelfth and I hope you’ll consider giving me a call.”
    I slip the card in my purse with a noncommittal smile, but after he’s gone I take it out again and hold it to my nose