Chapter 18 - Flight Club

The departure hall at Charles de Gaulle was a chaos of rolling suitcases, crying children, and announcements in three languages echoing through the cavernous space. I gripped my boarding pass, glancing back at Emma every few seconds to make sure she was still there.

She looked exhausted. The Indian grandmother she was in was probably in her late sixties, her grey-streaked black hair pulled back in a tight bun, her sari a deep burgundy color that somehow still looked elegant despite the airport fluorescent lighting. She was juggling a screaming toddler on one hip while trying to keep track of two other kids, maybe eight and ten, who were bickering loudly in a mix of English and what I assumed was Hindi. Her husband, an old portly man with a thick mustache, was on his phone, completely oblivious to the chaos.

When our eyes met, Emma gave me a tired, exasperated smile. She shifted the toddler to her other hip, and the kid immediately started wailing louder.

"Beta, shh, please," she said, her accent thick, bouncing the child gently. The voice was raspy, worn.

It had been a whirlwind getting here. After those perfect days with Chloé, wandering through Belleville, making love in that tiny apartment, eating croissants on her fire escape while she tried to teach me French phrases I'd immediately forget, we'd switched her back to Luciana. Just long enough to handle the logistics. Book the flight. Transfer the money.

Hush money. Emma had crafted a twisted but apparently efficient story about Luciana paying me to avoid some sort of scandal involving the two of us. Some exaggerated existential threat that could threaten her reputation and, of course, by extension, her company.

Then back to Chloé for one last night, one last day of strong coffee and broken English and her freckled face on the pillow next to mine. We'd taken the RER to Charles de Gaulle in the evening. I'd kissed her "goodbye" in the train, tasting her tears mixed with her ChapStick, before she'd touched a harried businesswoman who was clearly heading to the airport herself. We both knew we weren't leaving each other at all, but letting that specific host go felt like a closure on magical vacations.

Then it had been a matter of finding someone on the same flight as me. Too much time spent shopping for a body, and we ended up settling for the less than ideal option of the grandmother. We had found her after I'd already checked in and was waiting at the gate, frantically searching for the right host. They were loudly discussing the details of their flight, arguing about passports. Emma's host at that point was about to miss her flight, so we didn't wait.

One touch. The old woman had stumbled slightly, her husband catching her elbow, and when she'd looked up, I'd seen Emma behind those dark brown eyes, looking overwhelmed as three children and a husband's worth of memories flooded in. The business woman had just blinked, looked at her watch, and continued on her way.

Now we were in the boarding queue, and I was acutely aware of needing to stay close to her. If we got separated before she could switch—

"Priority boarding for United Polaris business class, Star Alliance Gold members, and passengers requiring additional assistance," the gate agent announced.

Shit.

I looked back at Emma. She was several groups behind, economy boarding pass in hand, one of the kids now tugging on her sari and whining about being hungry. Her eyes met mine, widening slightly as we both realized the problem.

I hesitated at the front of the line. The gate agent was checking passes, people flowing through. Emma was too far. At least fifteen feet, with bodies between us, on the wrong side of the line. I watched her scan the women in my queue: a younger blonde in yoga pants, a middle-aged Asian woman in a business suit, a college-aged girl with headphones.

She shook her head almost imperceptibly. Too far. She'd have to jump multiple times to reach one of them and risk early exhaustion. Or the new host would have to awkwardly cut the line, drawing attention.

"Sir? Boarding pass?" The gate agent looked at me expectantly.

Emma gave me a small, reassuring smile and a subtle wave of her hand. Go. I'll figure it out.

I swallowed hard and handed over my pass.

The jet bridge seemed to stretch forever. I kept looking back, but the curve of the walkway soon hid the gate from view. My heart was pounding. This was a bad idea. We should have planned better. What if she couldn't find a way to me? What if she was stuck in economy with a screaming toddler for the next eight hours? I mean, I guess she could manage, but it certainly wasn't ideal. Not for me, not for her. Well, alright, mostly not for her. I hoped that she'd at least find another woman in a nearby seat who didn't have to take care of a herd of screaming monsters.

The aircraft door loomed ahead, and I stepped through into the warm, slightly stale air of the plane. A flight attendant greeted me immediately: tall, Black, stunning, with her hair in an elegant updo and a smile that showed perfect white teeth.

"Welcome aboard, sir. Seat?" Her voice was warm, professional, with a slight Southern lilt.

"6A," I managed.

"Right this way. Let me help you with that."

She gestured to my carry-on, but I shook my head. "I got it, thanks."

I passed through the galley where two more flight attendants were preparing for departure. One was petite and Asian, with delicate features and her hair in a sleek ponytail, moving with quick, efficient grace. The other was white, mid-thirties, clearly the senior attendant based on how the others deferred to her. She had auburn hair cut in a professional bob, sharp green eyes, and the kind of face that was handsome rather than pretty: strong jaw, high cheekbones. She glanced at me briefly, gave a polite nod, then returned to whatever checklist she was reviewing.

The Polaris cabin opened before me, and I actually stopped for a second, taking it in.

When Luciana had flown us to Paris, we'd been in regular first class: nice seats, sure, but still basically fancy recliners in rows. This was something else entirely. The seats were arranged in a 1-2-1 configuration, each one a private pod with high dividers. The color scheme was all navy blue and cream, subtle lighting, the seats themselves looking more like small beds than airplane chairs.

I found 6A, a window seat, and slid into it, my bag going into the surprisingly spacious storage compartment. The seat was massive, leather, with a console full of controls. I pressed a button experimentally, and the seat reclined smoothly, the footrest extending. Another button, and a privacy divider began to rise.

This was insane. I'd flown economy my entire life. Even the first-class seat to Paris had felt like a splurge. This felt like a hotel room.

I looked around. The cabin was barely filled. The pods near me were empty, thank God, except for the one directly next to mine, seat 6B. A man in his fifties sat there, already looking annoyed about something. He was wearing an expensive suit that didn't quite fit right anymore, probably because of the gut straining the buttons. Thinning hair combed over aggressively. He glanced at me, his expression sour, like I'd personally offended him by existing in his vicinity.

Great. Awesome seatmate.

I pulled out my phone, pretending to be absorbed in it, but really I was thinking about Emma. How long would it take for everyone to board? How would she get up here? The cabin crew would notice if an economy passenger tried to just wander into business class. Her only chance would probably be the flight attendants. But then what? It's not like she could just spend the rest of the flight seating next to me like a passenger could.

Another flight attendant passed by, a Latina woman, probably in her late twenties, with curves that even the uniform couldn't hide and a bright, genuine smile she flashed at the annoying guy next to me, who didn't bother to look up from his own phone. She had an accent when she spoke to someone in the galley—Mexican, maybe.

The senior attendant with the auburn hair appeared, doing a walk-through, her eyes scanning the cabin with the kind of attention that came from years of experience. She paused briefly at my row, making eye contact.

"Can I get you anything before we take off? Champagne? Water?"

"Water's fine, thanks," I said.

She nodded and moved on, all business.

I sank back into my seat, staring at the empty pod across the aisle. How was this going to work?

I thought about the past few days. Chloé's laughter echoing off the stone walls of her apartment. The way she'd looked at me in the métro, flushed and wanting. Her broken English that somehow made everything she said more endearing. "Je t'aime," whispered against my neck.

Then the switch back to Luciana, watching my wife's personality shift like changing channels. The hard-edged businesswoman returning, irritated but horny. I'd fucked the anchor back into her and Emma had emerged fully, clear-eyed and focused, planning. "We need her money," she'd said. "And we can take it without ruining her. She'll think she's buying your silence. Everybody wins."

Fifty thousand dollars. In my account. Real.

I could quit my job for now. We could figure out what came next. Emma could… shop. The thought made me feel guilty and excited in equal measure. She could try on lives like other people tried on clothes, and I'd get to enjoy each of them.

The Latina flight attendant came back with my water, her smile warm. "There you go, sir. Anything else?"

"I'm good, thanks."

She moved on to the asshole next to me, who grunted something about Scotch.

I sipped the water and waited, my eyes drifting to the cabin entrance every few seconds. The stream of passengers continued: a well-dressed couple, an older gentleman who moved slowly with a cane, a young guy in a hoodie who looked as out of place in business class as I felt.

The seats around me remained empty. No Emma.

Come on, I thought. Find a way.

The plane was nearly full now, the distant hum of conversation and the overhead bins slamming shut creating that familiar pre-flight atmosphere. But the seats around me remained empty.

My knee bounced anxiously. Where was she? Was she still trapped in that grandmother's body? The doors would close any minute. Maybe she'd just have to ride it out in economy. We could meet up during the flight somehow, or at Newark. It would be fine. It had to be fine.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we're preparing for departure. Please ensure your seatbelts are fastened and all carry-on items are properly stowed."

Shit.

I heard the heavy thunk of the cabin door sealing, that final sound that meant we were committed. My stomach dropped.

Then the lead flight attendant emerged from the back of the plane, moving through the cabin with the kind of confidence that came from doing this a thousand times. She walked with purpose, her posture perfect, her expression composed and professional. She glanced at passengers, did a quick visual check of seatbelts and bags, her sharp green eyes missing nothing.

She looked at me briefly as she passed, just long enough to register my presence, then continued forward. No recognition. No hint of anything.

My heart sank a little more.

She stopped astopped at a few feet ahead of me, checking something on her tablet, then turned and walked back, stopping right at my row. Her attention went to the businessman next to me, who was now aggressively typing on his laptop, ignoring the announcement about electronic devices.

"Excuse me, sir," she said, her voice crisp and authoritative. Not unfriendly, but the kind of voice that expected compliance. "I'm going to need to move you to another seat."

The man looked up, annoyed. "What? Why?"

"There's a weight distribution issue with the aircraft. We need to rebalance the cabin." She said it with such matter-of-fact confidence that it sounded completely plausible, even though I was pretty sure it was complete bullshit.

"That's ridiculous," he huffed. "I specifically chose this seat."

"I understand, sir, and I apologize for the inconvenience. I have you in 8K, also a window seat. It's just three rows back." She wasn't asking. She was telling.

The man grumbled, making a show of his irritation as he gathered his things. "This is unacceptable. I fly United every week, and I've never—"

"I'll be sure to note your feedback, sir. Right this way."

As he stood, hoisting his bag with an exaggerated grunt, the flight attendant's eyes flicked to me for just a fraction of a second.

And she winked.

My breath caught. Emma?

The businessman moved past her, still muttering complaints, and she gestured for him to follow her toward the back of the cabin. I watched her go, my mind racing. How? When?

A minute later, she returned, moving down the aisle with that same professional efficiency. She stopped at my row, and this time she looked directly at me, her expression neutral but something dancing behind those sharp green eyes.

"Is there anything I can get you before we take off, Mr…?" She glanced at her tablet. "Peterson?"

I opened my mouth, but she continued smoothly, not waiting for an answer.

"Water, juice, champagne? Perhaps some reading material? A pillow or blanket for the flight?" Her tone was perfectly modulated, the practiced cadence of someone who'd recited this list a thousand times. "A warm towel? Noise-canceling headphones? A blowjob?"

I choked on air.

She maintained that same professional expression, but I caught the tiny quirk at the corner of her mouth.

"Jesus Christ, Emma," I managed, my voice a strangled whisper. I looked around quickly, but no one was paying attention.

Her smile finally broke through, small but unmistakable. "Was getting worried there for a second. Thought maybe you didn't recognize me."

"I didn't. Not until the wink. Even then, I wasn't sure. Holy shit." I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. "I was so nervous about you being stuck in economy."

She snorted softly, glancing back toward the galley before leaning in slightly. "Yeah, that lasted about two minutes. As soon as we got on the plane and I saw a flight attendant pass by, I jumped. Then I found Caroline here." She touched her chest lightly, indicating the body she was in. "She's the lead attendant. I figured if I was going to be cabin crew, might as well be the one in charge."

She straightened up, her hand going to her hip, the gesture somewhere between professional and subtly flirtatious. She looked good. Caroline was probably mid-thirties, fit without being overly toned, the uniform flattering in all the right ways. The auburn hair was pulled back perfectly, not a strand out of place. She had the kind of face that commanded attention: strong features, sharp eyes, the slight lines around them suggesting someone who'd lived a little but took care of herself.

"You like?" she asked quietly, doing a subtle little turn, making it look like she was just shifting her weight. Her eyes scanned the cabin as she did, making sure no one was watching too closely.

"You look good," I admitted, my eyes probably lingering a little too long on the way the uniform fit her curves. "Professional."

"Caroline's very good at her job," Emma said with a small, satisfied smile. "Twelve years with United. She knows this plane inside and out. And she doesn't take shit from anyone." She glanced back toward where she'd sent the businessman. "As you just saw."

"So what do you do now?" I asked, keeping my voice low. "I mean, you jumped more times than we planned. You had to switch what, three times? Four? And we've still got eight hours on this flight, then the layover at Newark, then another two hours to home. Are you going to be okay?"

She considered that, her expression becoming a bit more serious. "I'll be alright," she said, but I could hear the slight uncertainty in her voice. "I'm getting better at this. I can last longer between… recharges." She looked down at me, and some of that confidence returned. "And if it becomes a problem…" She leaned in closer, her hand sliding along the armrest, then onto my thigh, her fingers trailing dangerously close to my crotch. "There are solutions."

My breath hitched. She smiled, clearly enjoying my reaction.

"Besides," she whispered, her lips very close to my ear now. "Don't you want to join the mile-high club?"

Heat shot straight through me. I glanced around quickly, but the other passengers were settling in, watching the safety video or absorbed in their phones. The other flight attendants were busy in the galley.

"Is that why you had that guy move?" I asked, unable to keep the smirk off my face.

She pulled back slightly, her eyes glinting with mischief. "The thought crossed my mind," she admitted. "I was genuinely planning to just stay close, keep an eye on you, maybe chat during the flight. But then I realized…" She gestured subtly to the empty seats around us. "If we're going to be naughty, it's a lot easier when there's no one sitting nearby to wonder what we're up to."

"You're terrible," I said, but I was grinning.

"You love it," she shot back, straightening up as another flight attendant appeared from the galley. Her whole demeanor shifted instantly—back to professional Caroline, competent and controlled.

"We're ready for final checks," the other attendant said, the pretty Latina woman from earlier.

"Perfect. I'll do the back, you take the front," Emma said smoothly, her voice carrying that natural authority. The other woman nodded and headed toward the forward galley.

Emma glanced down at me one more time, her expression innocent but her eyes anything but. "I'll be back once we're at cruising altitude," she said, just loud enough for anyone nearby to hear. Then, quieter, "Don't go anywhere."

"Where would I go?" I chuckled.

She winked again and moved away, heading toward the back of the plane with that confident stride, and I settled back into my seat, my heart racing and a stupid grin on my face.

The engines roared to life, that deep rumble you feel in your chest, and the plane began to taxi. I watched through the window as we made our way to the runway, the lights of Charles de Gaulle stretching out in the darkness. The cabin lights had been dimmed, that pre-takeoff ambiance that was supposed to be calming but always made me a little tense.

Emma appeared briefly, walking down the aisle doing final checks, her eyes meeting mine for just a second as she passed. Then we were accelerating, the **** pressing me back into the leather seat, and moments later we were airborne, Paris falling away beneath us.

Once we leveled off and the seatbelt sign dinged off, the cabin came alive with quiet activity. The Polaris service was immediately impressive. The petite Asian flight attendant came by first, offering drinks with a warm smile. I asked for a whiskey, and she returned moments later with it in an actual glass, not a plastic cup, along with a small bowl of warmed nuts.

"Would you like to see the dinner menu?" she asked.

I took it, scanning options that read like a restaurant: seared salmon, braised short rib, some kind of pasta dish. This was absurd. I ordered the salmon, and she nodded, promising it would be out shortly.

Emma passed by again, this time carrying a tray of drinks for passengers a few rows back. She glanced at me, smiled, and I saw her start to slow down, like she was going to stop. Then a call button chimed from somewhere in front of her, and her expression shifted: apologetic, frustrated. She gave me a small shrug and continued on.

It happened again a few minutes later. She approached, clearly trying to find a moment, and the Latina flight attendant appeared from the galley asking her something in a low voice. Emma listened, nodded, her jaw tightening slightly, then followed her back.

But it was different from Luciana. With Luciana, when work called, I'd just ceased to exist. She'd been consumed by it, unable to pull herself away. Emma, in Caroline, looked genuinely annoyed each time something pulled her attention. She kept glancing back at me, her expression saying "I'm trying."

My dinner arrived, beautifully plated, and I ate slowly, savoring it. The salmon was perfectly cooked. The wine pairing the flight attendant suggested was excellent. I could get used to this, I thought, and then immediately felt that familiar twist of guilt.

But it didn't last long.

I leaned back in my seat, sipping the wine, and thought about what came next. We'd land in Newark, make our connection, get home. And then what?

No more soul-crushing commute, no more pretending to care about quarterly reports and performance reviews. We could just… exist. Figure things out.

And when the money ran out? Well. We'd find another Luciana. Someone who could afford it. Someone who wouldn't even notice.

The guilt I'd felt in Paris, arguing with Emma about taking Luciana's money, felt distant now. Almost quaint. I'd seen how Luciana lived. The casual way she'd spend more on a dinner than most people spent on rent. The Porsche Cayenne rental. The suite at the hotel. Emma was right: for her, it was pocket change.

I'd become okay with this. More than okay. I was excited.

The cabin had grown quieter as the flight wore on. The lights were dimmed to near darkness, most passengers settling in to sleep or watch movies on their seatback screens, the glow illuminating their faces. I could hear the white noise of the engines, the occasional rustle of someone shifting in their seat.

I'd reclined my pod into the lie-flat position, not quite ready to sleep but enjoying the comfort, when Emma appeared from the shadows like a ghost. She stood at the edge of my pod, looking down at me with a small smile.

"Hey," she whispered.

"Hey yourself," I replied, glancing past her. "Where's the rest of the crew?"

"I sent them on a break," she said, kneeling down so she was at eye level with me. "They've been on their feet for hours. I told them I'd handle this section for a bit, let them eat, decompress in the crew rest area." Her smile turned mischievous. "We've got maybe ten, fifteen minutes before anyone comes back."

My heart rate picked up. "Oh yeah?"

She reached out, her hand sliding along my chest, down to my stomach, her fingers playing with the hem of my shirt. "Think I could milk you dry in that amount of time?" she murmured, her eyes locked on mine.

"Jesus, Emma," I breathed, already feeling myself getting hard.

She glanced around quickly, confirming no one was paying attention, then reached up and pressed the button to raise the privacy divider. It slid up silently, enclosing us in our own little cocoon. The only light came from the small reading lamp above, casting everything in a warm, intimate glow.

"Pants off," she whispered, her voice taking on that commanding tone that Caroline probably used when dealing with difficult passengers. "Now."

I didn't need to be told twice. I unbuckled my belt, popped the button on my jeans, and lifted my hips to slide them down along with my boxers. My cock sprang free, already half-hard just from the anticipation.

Emma's eyes went to it immediately, and she bit her lip. "Fuck, I've been thinking about this since we boarded," she admitted, her hand wrapping around my shaft, stroking slowly. "Caroline's been very distracted."

I groaned softly, my hips lifting into her touch. "We should be quiet," I managed.

"Mmm, probably," she agreed, but her smile was wicked. She stroked me a few more times, her grip firm and confident, then leaned forward, her tongue darting out to lick the tip.

"Fuck," I hissed, my hands gripping the armrests.

She looked up at me through her lashes, those sharp green eyes dark with lust, then took me into her mouth. Warm, wet, perfect. She worked me slowly at first, her tongue swirling around the head, her hand stroking what didn't fit in her mouth.

I watched her, mesmerized. She pulled back, a string of saliva connecting her lips to my cock, and reached up with her free hand to start unbuttoning her uniform blouse.

"What are you—" I started, but she cut me off.

"I want you to touch me," she whispered, her voice husky. "I need you to touch me."

She got the blouse open, revealing a simple white bra underneath. She reached behind her, unclasped it with practiced ease, and let it fall away. Her breasts spilled free, pale and perfect in the dim light, her nipples already hard.

"Touch them," she ordered, then took me back into her mouth, deeper this time.

I reached out, my hands cupping her breasts, my thumbs brushing over her nipples. She moaned around my cock, the vibration sending a jolt of pleasure through me. I squeezed gently, then harder when she moaned again, clearly liking it.

She was working me faster now, her head bobbing, her hand stroking in rhythm with her mouth. The wet sounds were obscene, and I was acutely aware that we were on a plane, that there were people just feet away separated only by a thin divider, but I couldn't bring myself to care.

I pinched her nipples, and she pulled off my cock with a gasp, her eyes fluttering closed. "Fuck, yes," she breathed, then dove back down, taking me even deeper, her throat opening up to accommodate me.

"Emma, Jesus, I'm—" I couldn't finish the sentence. My hands tightened on her breasts, my hips bucking up involuntarily.

She pulled back just enough to speak, her hand still working me. "Cum for me," she whispered, her voice thick with need. "I want to taste you. I need it."

That was all it took. I came hard, my whole body tensing, and she took me back into her mouth immediately, swallowing every pulse, her tongue working the underside of my shaft to milk every last drop.

When I finally stopped shaking, she pulled off slowly, licking her lips, her eyes meeting mine. She looked satisfied, almost smug, and so much more like Emma than she had all day. The frantic edge was gone. She was grounded. Anchored.

"Fuck," I breathed, my head falling back against the seat. "You're going to kill me."

She laughed softly, tucking herself back into her bra and buttoning up her blouse. "You'll survive," she said, leaning in to kiss me softly. I could taste myself on her tongue. "I should get back. Before someone comes looking."

"You good?" I asked, reaching up to touch her face. "For the rest of the flight?"

She nodded, her expression soft. "Yeah. I'm good. More than good." She straightened up, smoothing down her uniform, checking her hair. "Get some sleep. I'll come check on you later."

She lowered the privacy divider and slipped away, disappearing into the darkness of the cabin like she'd never been there.

I lay there, my heart still pounding, a stupid grin on my face. I pulled my pants back up, settled into the seat, and closed my eyes.