Emily Feels Guilty

Emily stared at the damp napkins in her hand, the cooling stickiness between her fingers suddenly feeling like a brand. The adrenaline that had fueled her recklessness drained away, leaving behind a sharp, sobering clarity. *What the hell did I just do?* Her pulse pounded in her ears, louder than the plane's engines. She'd crossed a line—no, she'd vaulted over it with both hands and a running start.

Kevin shifted beside her, his breathing still uneven. The silence between them was thick enough to **** on. Emily chanced a glance at him—his jaw was set so tight she could see the muscle twitching, his fingers gripping his own napkin like he wanted to strangle it. The euphoric thrill of power evaporated, replaced by a sinking dread in her stomach. She'd gambled with his career, his marriage, their professional dynamic—all for what? A fleeting rush of control?

The flight attendant's cart rattled past again, the cheerful clink of ice cubes a grotesque contrast to the tension in their row. Emily scrubbed at her fingers with the napkin, the rough paper scraping her skin. She could still smell him on her—salt and musk under the sharp lemon of the disinfectant wipe. Her throat tightened.

Kevin cleared his throat, the sound like gravel. "Emily." Just her name, but it carried the weight of an entire conversation. Disbelief. Anger. Maybe even betrayal.

She couldn't look at him. "I—" Her voice cracked. What could she possibly say? *Sorry I jerked you off on a commercial flight?* The absurdity of it curdled in her chest.

The plane dipped sharply, pressing Emily against her seat as the descent began. Her stomach lurched—whether from the altitude change or the weight of what she'd just done, she couldn't tell. The captain announced their final approach over the PA system, his cheerful tone absurd against the charged silence between them.

The plane's wheels screeched against the tarmac with a jolt that made Emily's teeth clack together. Outside the window, the Atlanta skyline blurred past in streaks of glass and steel, the late afternoon sun glinting off skyscrapers like knife edges. Kevin shifted beside her—a careful, deliberate movement that put an extra inch of space between their thighs. Emily focused on peeling the damp cocktail napkin from her palm, the paper sticking to her skin in stubborn flakes.

"We should—" Kevin's voice cracked. He cleared his throat, fingers drumming once against his knee before stilling. "Hotel first. Dinner. Then rest." Each word was clipped, as if he'd rehearsed them during their silent descent. His gaze stayed fixed on the seatback in front of him, where the emergency procedures card protruded slightly from its pocket—the same one he'd fiddled with hours ago when this flight still felt innocent.

Emily nodded, her throat too tight to speak. She folded the soiled napkin into precise quarters, then quarters again, until it was a tiny, damp square between her fingers. The scent of bourbon and salt still clung to her skin despite her frantic scrubbing. She wondered if Kevin could smell it too—if every breath he took reminded him of her fingers wrapped around him, his release slick between them.

The plane taxied toward the gate with jerky stops and starts. A flight attendant's voice chirped over the PA system, welcoming them to Atlanta with rehearsed cheer. Emily watched Kevin's reflection in the window as he checked his phone—three rapid swipes across the screen before locking it again. No new notifications. No angry texts from a wife who couldn't possibly know what had happened at 30,000 feet. Yet.

"Car's booked," Kevin said abruptly. His thumb hovered over his screen before he shoved the phone into his jacket pocket. "Corporate account. They'll meet us at arrivals." He still hadn't looked at her.