By hour ten, I hated how badly I wanted him again.
My thighs still stuck together from the memory of his mouth. My skin still tingled where his fingers had bruised me in the lavatory. And yet, somehow, the ache wasn’t enough. I needed more. Needed it louder, dirtier, riskier. He hadn’t looked at me once since he walked out. But I felt him. Every time he adjusted in his seat. Every time he exhaled slowly like he was trying not to think about what he did to me.
We were two strangers drowning in the same unspoken filth.
The cabin lights were dimmed for sleep. Most passengers were tucked under blankets, watching films or pretending to rest. He stood first, without glancing at me, and walked toward the front of the plane.
I waited a full minute before following.
He didn’t go to the bathroo
