Mile high club

The cabin was a cocoon of shadows as the red-eye from New York to London stretched into its hushed, endless hours. The air hummed with the drone of engines, a low vibration that pulsed through the floor and up my legs as I glided down the aisle. My navy skirt hugged my hips, the crisp blouse clinging to my curves, and my heels whispered against the carpet with each measured step. Most passengers were lost to sleep, their breaths soft beneath blankets, but not him. Row 12, Seat A. His presence was a magnet, pulling my gaze despite myself.

I stopped beside him, tray in hand, and met his eyes—silvered and piercing, like moonlight caught in a blade. They traced me, slow and deliberate, from the curve of my calves to the swell of my chest beneath the silk scarf knotted at my throat. My skin prickled, a shiver that wasn’t from the chilled cabin air. “Anything I can get for you, sir?” I asked, my voice a practiced purr, honed by years of soothing restless travelers.

He leaned forward, his lips parting in a smile that was all predator—slow, sensual, revealing the faintest glint of teeth too sharp to be human. “Only you,” he murmured, his voice a caress, dark and rich as aged wine. I laughed, a reflex to brush off the heat creeping up my neck, but his hand grazed mine as I adjusted his tray. His skin was ice, a stark contrast to the sudden fire that flared where we touched. My breath caught, my pulse quickening beneath the thin fabric of my blouse.

I don’t know how I ended up in the galley with him. One moment, I was pouring ruby liquid into his glass, the scent of it thick and heady; the next, the curtain was drawn, sealing us in a pocket of intimacy. The world beyond faded to a distant hum. He rose, towering over me, his frame lean and commanding in the tailored suit that clung to him like a second skin. His fingers found my chin, tilting my head back with a touch that was both tender and unyielding. My lips parted, a protest dying unspoken as his breath—cool, spiced with something ancient—brushed my neck.

Then came the bite. A sharp, exquisite sting as his fangs pierced my flesh, just below the curve of my jaw. I gasped, my body arching against the galley counter, the edge digging into my hips. The pain melted into a molten wave, spreading through me like honeyed fire. I felt him draw from me, each pull a slow, deliberate sip that tugged at my core, unraveling me. My hands clutched his shoulders, fingers sinking into the fabric of his jacket, and a low moan escaped me—unbidden, shameful, intoxicating. His tongue swept over the wound, sealing it with a languid stroke, and I trembled, caught in the web of his will.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered, his lips brushing my ear, his words sinking into my soul like ink into parchment. My mind clouded, heavy with a velvet fog, and my body surrendered, pliant under his command. The rest of the flight was a dreamlike dance. I moved through my duties—pouring coffee, adjusting blankets—while his presence thrummed in my veins, a dark melody I couldn’t shake. He’d summon me with a glance, a quiet “A sip,” and I’d drift to him, offering my wrist. The sleeve of my blouse slid back, revealing the pale skin beneath, and he’d drink, his lips cool and firm, his tongue a fleeting tease against my pulse. Each time, my knees weakened, my breath hitched, a flush blooming across my chest that I hid behind my scarf.

As the plane descended into Heathrow, he leaned close, his hand resting on my thigh beneath the tray table, fingers tracing lazy circles that sent shivers racing up my spine. “Long flights bore me,” he said, his voice a low growl, dripping with promise. “You’ll be my sustenance. And when we land…” His gaze darkened, a hunger there that wasn’t just for blood. “You’ll quench me in other ways.”

The airport blurred past, a haze of lights and motion, until we were in his hotel room—opulent, shadowed, the air thick with the scent of leather and musk. He shed his jacket, revealing the taut lines of his body, and his hands were on me, peeling away my uniform with a reverence that belied his dominance. The blouse fell open, buttons yielding to his touch, and my skirt pooled at my feet, leaving me bare save for the lace clinging to my skin. His fingers were ice against my warmth, tracing the curve of my waist, the dip of my spine, igniting a fire that warred with his chill.

He pressed me to the bed, the silk sheets cool against my back, and his mouth found mine—not to bite, but to claim. His kiss was slow, deep, a dance of tongues that left me dizzy, tasting the faint copper of my own blood on him. His hands roamed, possessive, kneading the softness of my thighs, parting them with a gentle insistence. I arched into him, helpless, my body a symphony of need under his command. He took me then, his movements deliberate, a rhythm that built like a storm—each thrust a wave crashing through me, each graze of his teeth against my shoulder a spark of danger that heightened the pleasure. I unraveled beneath him, a cry swallowed by the dark, my world narrowing to the cold fire of his touch.

When I woke, I was in my own bed, the morning light soft through the curtains. My uniform hung pristine in the closet, my skin unmarred, the mirror showing no trace of his claim. The flight, the night, him—it was all gone, a void in my memory. My fingers brushed my neck, lingering where I swore I felt an echo of heat, but there was nothing. I glanced at my schedule: another long haul tomorrow. A faint ache stirred deep within me, a pull I couldn’t name, and somewhere, in a place I couldn’t reach, his voice lingered: You’re mine.