The vibrator increased in speed Vanessa inhaled sharply, her head tilting back against the headrest as the low hum of the toy pulsed relentlessly between her thighs. Her breathing hitched, uneven, as her body fought for control it no longer had. The smooth hum wasn't just a distraction—it was a slow, insidious invasion of her composure. Every second that passed with that forbidden tremor vibrating against her soaked lace panties sent another wave of pleasure lapping at the edges of her restraint.
Her fingers clenched against the armrest.
She was slipping.
And he knew it.
Ethan sat beside her in the business-class seat, his legs relaxed, posture deceptively casual. To anyone else, he looked like the perfect travel companion—composed, unreadable, innocently sipping a glass of water. But Vanessa knew better. She felt the shadow of his intent every time the vibration beneath her intensified ever so slightly, as if responding to his unspoken command. The remote was somewhere—hidden, probably in his pocket or beneath the tray table—and he was playing her like a goddamn instrument.
She turned toward him, eyes burning. "You bastard," she hissed under her breath.
He didn't look at her. Just gave a lazy, satisfied smile and murmured, "You love this."
Her breath caught in her throat.
She hated how right he was.
The contradiction tore through her—anger and arousal twisting into something molten. Her nipples were already pebbled beneath her blanket, her skin hypersensitive, as if every inch of her body had become a live wire. She could feel how damp she was, the lace clinging uncomfortably to her swollen folds, made worse by the fact that she wasn't allowed to do a damn thing about it.
She tried to glare, but the effect was muted by the pink flush staining her cheeks. "I will get you back for this."
Ethan finally turned his head, his dark gaze sliding over her with infuriating calm. "I'd be disappointed if you didn't."
The air between them shimmered with unsaid promises and deviant electricity. Vanessa exhaled slowly, trying to focus—trying to think beyond the carnal haze clouding her thoughts. This flight was long. Hours long. And she would not spend the entire time riding waves of helpless need while he sat there, smug and untouchable.
No. If he wanted to play games, she'd play.
She shifted in her seat, pulling the airline blanket higher over her shoulders in a show of modesty. Her fingers moved beneath it with calculated grace, brushing against the firm muscle of his thigh. A featherlight stroke, casual to anyone watching.
But she felt it.
The twitch in his leg. The sudden tightening of his jaw.
Got you.
A wicked thrill bolted through her. Her fingers trailed upward, circling lazy patterns along the inside seam of his jeans. She didn't apply pressure. Didn't need to. The intent was enough.
Ethan's breath slowed, thickened, his eyelids lowering slightly as he stared forward. "Careful, sweetheart," he murmured, voice low, deliciously threatening. "You're playing a dangerous game."
Vanessa leaned in, letting her lips almost—but not quite—brush his earlobe. "Am I?"
He looked at her then, really looked. That unreadable calm had fractured, revealing a flicker of heat buried in his gaze. Controlled. Barely. But there.
Her heart thudded in triumph.
She let her fingers stray higher. Slow. Testing. And when her nail traced a teasing path just above the swell beneath his zipper, she felt him tense—just for a second. It was subtle, but it was there.
The vibration between her legs didn't stop. If anything, it felt sharper now—like her own body was mocking her restraint. Her thighs clenched around the sensation, a silent, desperate attempt to ground herself. But the heat was building. Licking at her from the inside out.
Then Ethan moved.
Before she could react, his hand shot under the blanket, catching her wrist in a grip that was firm, possessive, and impossible to ignore. Her breath caught. That look in his eyes—it wasn't playful anymore. It was dangerous.
He leaned in, voice husky, a delicious rasp brushing against her skin. "Oh, you're going to regret that."
The words sent a jolt of heat through her core.
Maybe she would.
But not yet.
She smirked, voice laced with wicked promise. "Looking forward to it."
Ethan's low chuckle reverberated through her body, dark and heavy. "You should be careful what you wish for, Vanessa."
But she wasn't careful.
Never had been.
And as her fingers traced his thigh again—testing, daring—he made his move.
Without warning, his palm slid between her thighs, fingers ghosting over the wet heat of her panties. The toy still thrummed mercilessly, and his touch, even light, was gasoline on the fire. She nearly arched off the seat.
Her breath stuttered, hips shifting toward him without thought. He hadn't even pushed—just pressed, slow and deliberate. But it was too much. And not enough. God, not enough.
Then—
"Excuse me, miss, would you like anything?"
Vanessa's blood iced.
She whipped her head up, heart thudding.
The flight attendant stood over them, pleasant and smiling. Blissfully unaware. But all Vanessa could think about was Ethan's hand still between her legs, his fingers curving just enough to apply pressure in precisely the worst—and most perfect—place.
She couldn't breathe.
"I'm—" Her voice cracked. She coughed, tried again. "I'm all good, thanks."
The attendant nodded.
Ethan, ever the composed devil, smiled easily. "A Red Bull, please."
She turned to him, eyes wide with disbelief. He was ordering a drink? Now? While she sat there trembling, soaked, strung tight with want?
He leaned back, casual, as if he weren't palm-deep between her thighs.
She gritted her teeth, grabbing his wrist under the blanket and digging her nails into his skin. His only response was the subtlest flex of his fingers, a calculated press against her clothed clit that made her thighs jerk.
"You—" she started, but the words died in her throat.
He circled once. Just once.
And her body betrayed her.
A low gasp slipped from her lips before she could stop it.
Ethan looked at her, that maddeningly smug curve returning to his mouth. "You were saying?"
The bastard.
The flight attendant returned, placing the can of Red Bull on Ethan's tray. Vanessa barely noticed—too focused on the coiled heat inside her, the way every nerve screamed for release.
"And you, miss?" the attendant asked again. "Are you sure I can't get you anything?"
Vanessa tried to speak.
Tried.
But Ethan's fingers flexed—pressing her soaked lace more firmly against her clit—and a sudden, sharp pulse of pleasure nearly shattered her.
She gasped, then coughed, eyes wide. "I—I'm fine, thanks."
The attendant gave a polite smile and walked off.
Vanessa exhaled, shaking, chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. Her skin felt too tight. Her muscles were a bowstring ready to snap. The throb between her legs was unbearable now.
She turned to Ethan, trembling with barely leashed fury and want. "You think this is funny?" she growled, leaning in close, lips brushing his ear.
Ethan sipped his Red Bull, then set the can down. His hand hadn't moved.
"I think it's entertaining," he murmured.
She dug her nails into his thigh again, harder this time. Her lips found the edge of his jaw, brushing just enough to make him still.
"Good," she whispered, voice velvet and venom. "Because the moment we land, I'm going to make sure you regret every second of this."
He chuckled, low and wicked, the sound vibrating through her like an illicit caress. "I'd like to see you try."
The moment the flight attendant disappeared down the aisle and back to her seat, Vanessa struck—fluid, merciless, electric with intent. Her fingers moved beneath the blanket with surgical precision, sliding down his zipper in one silent, practiced motion. There was no hesitation. She knew exactly what she was doing. And the sharp breath Ethan drew—barely audible, tightly controlled—told her he knew it too.
He was always calm. Always just out of reach, masking every reaction behind that maddening composure. But she felt it: the minute flicker of tension in his muscles, the almost imperceptible pause in his breath.
Yes. Good.
He'd had his turn.
Her hand dipped into the opening of his jeans, fingers curling around him, slow and deliberate. She didn't rush. No, that wasn't her style. Not now. Not after everything he'd done to her. This was retribution, soaked in the same torment he had inflicted on her minute by agonizing minute.
And yet—he didn't break.
His jaw flexed, a quiet exhale flaring his nostrils, but he remained silent. Still. As if daring her to do more.
But Vanessa wasn't the only one on the offensive.
Ethan's hand resumed its assault under the cover of the blanket, sliding over the smooth expanse of her thigh with maddening patience. His fingers traced the inside, barely skimming her skin, featherlight but devastating. She shivered, heat spiking low in her belly, already aching and tender from the toy still vibrating deep between her folds. It hadn't stopped once. Not since he first activated it.
Now, with her hand wrapped around his thick length, she stroked slowly, rhythmically, matching his pace. It was a silent war waged between their laps, masked behind composed expressions and innocuous movements. The air around them was thick, taut, as if the cabin itself had become complicit in their seduction.
Ethan's breathing grew heavier, just barely. The muscles in his thigh twitched under her touch. Her grip tightened subtly, a taunt in motion, daring him to react. But he didn't. He stayed maddeningly still, even as her palm slid up the velvet-steel of his cock, teasing the sensitive head with each pass.
Vanessa's body pulsed with need. Her panties were soaked, her clit overstimulated from the constant vibrations. It was maddening, exquisite, cruel. She wanted to scream. She wanted more. And yet she kept her expression composed, lips parted only slightly, breath coming in soft, shallow waves.
Ethan's fingers finally slipped beneath the damp fabric, parting her folds with a slowness that made her toes curl. He didn't push—not yet. He just grazed her, dragging his fingers along the slick, swollen edges of her sex, learning every contour as if mapping out her undoing.
Vanessa's breath caught. Her hand faltered.
No. No, don't let him win.
She picked up her pace slightly, stroking him with greater purpose, drawing tiny pulses from his hips. He shifted—just enough to tell her he wasn't unaffected. Just enough to feed her growing high.
They moved together, locked in a rhythm of torment and restraint. Neither spoke. Neither dared break the illusion that they weren't slowly falling apart.
And then—fifteen minutes passed. Maybe twenty.
Time blurred into a haze of pressure and sweat and heat.
And just when she thought she could hold on longer—Ethan's fingers slid inside her. Deep. Curling just right.
Her spine stiffened. Her entire body clamped down in a sudden, rolling orgasm so sharp she saw stars. It tore through her silently, every muscle locked as she came around his fingers, trembling under the weight of it. She bit her lip hard, teeth digging in, barely swallowing the moan that burned in her throat.
But she didn't stop moving.
Not her hand. Not her focus.
Ethan's cock throbbed in her grip, and she knew—knew—he was close. He stiffened, breath caught in his throat, jaw clenched tight.
She ducked beneath the blanket, her lips replacing her hand in one fluid, greedy motion.
He gasped—quiet, guttural, raw.
That single sound lit her up.
She took him deeper, her tongue working slowly, deliberately, tracing every vein, every twitch. He was hot and heavy on her tongue, his hips lifting subtly despite himself. His composure cracked. Only a little. Just enough for her to know she'd won—at least this round.
He came in near silence, hand fisting in the fabric of the blanket, the smallest shudder wracking his body as he emptied himself down her throat. She swallowed every drop, not because she had to—but because she wanted to. Because it was her victory, and she claimed it with pride.
But Ethan wasn't done.
Before she could settle back into her seat, he moved again.
Deliberate. Controlled.
And devastating.
His fingers slipped away from her core, but not without purpose. Something soft brushed her thigh—fabric.
Her panties.
Her eyes widened.
No. No, no—
He slid them off with criminal finesse, bundled the damp lace in his hand like a trophy, and without meeting her gaze, casually tucked them into his carry-on as if they were nothing more than a napkin.
And just like that—
The vibrations stopped.
Her sex clenched around nothing, empty and aching, the absence of sensation almost more unbearable than its presence.
Vanessa sat frozen, every nerve still ringing from her climax, every breath jagged and shallow. The silence between them was deafening. She turned to him, eyes wide with disbelief and something darker—fury edged with arousal.
"You—" The word died in her throat.
Ethan turned to her, his face the very picture of smug amusement. "Hm?"
The glint in his eyes was pure sin.
"You're evil," she whispered, trembling—not from anger, but from the unbearable knowledge that she still wanted more.
Ethan sipped his drink, perfectly at ease, and murmured, "Am I?"
She wanted to slap him.
She wanted to fuck him.
She wanted to destroy him.
And god, she wanted to win.
Her fingers clenched the blanket so tightly her knuckles turned white. She leaned closer, voice like velvet and venom. "You better pray I don't get my revenge."
He finally looked at her—really looked—and for the first time, something in his gaze shifted. Not amusement. Not triumph.
Challenge.
Dark. Intrigued. Ready.
"Oh?" he said, voice like silk-wrapped steel. "And what exactly do you plan to do, Vanessa?"
The way he said her name—low, slow, like a caress—sent a fresh tremor through her limbs.
She swallowed hard.
She was in dangerous territory .
The flight pressed on, the low, constant hum of the engines a dull murmur beneath the raw, crackling silence between them. The tension wasn't just thick—it was molten. Heavy. Saturated with lust and unsatisfied hunger. Vanessa sat stiffly in her seat, the blanket wrapped tightly around her like a shield, though it did little to contain the aftershocks still humming through her veins.
Her pulse was erratic, her thighs slick and aching, her body flushed from head to toe. Every breath she took felt too shallow, like it couldn't reach past the fire still simmering inside her. He'd unraveled her, effortlessly, deliberately, and the worst part—the part that made her burn with humiliation and arousal in equal measure—was that she'd let him.
He had touched her like he owned her. Made her come without a sound, trembling beneath the confines of a business-class blanket. And all the while, he sat there beside her, now fully clothed, still unreadable. Smug. Impossibly composed.
Bastard.
Vanessa's fingers clenched around the edge of the blanket, nails digging into the fabric as she fought the urge to lash out. She could still feel the ghost of his fingers inside her, the echo of that last precise curl that shattered her so completely. Her panties were gone. Her pride was frayed. And Ethan… Ethan looked like he hadn't even broken a sweat.
No. Not for long.
She inhaled slowly, pulling her expression into one of practiced disinterest. Her spine straightened, her shoulders relaxed, but inside, she was still vibrating with tension—sexual and otherwise. If she wanted to flip the game on him, she couldn't let him see the damage. She couldn't let him know how close she still was to the edge.
With a calm she didn't feel, Vanessa turned her head and looked at him. Cool. Collected. Dangerous.
"I need to go to the washroom," she said, her voice low and composed—velvet over steel. It wasn't a request. It was a declaration. And underneath it, the implication was unmistakable: Give me my fucking clothes.
Ethan's head turned, slow and deliberate. His gaze met hers, dark and unreadable. For a brief, maddening heartbeat, she almost thought he would yield. That maybe, maybe, he'd give her a break and return what he'd stolen.
His hand dipped into his bag.
Vanessa's face twisted into a smile. But as the sleeve came into view Dread bloomed.
No. Don't you fucking—
And then he pulled it out completely.
The sweatshirt.
That sweatshirt.
The soft, oversized XL monstrosity he teased her with. The one that would swallow her whole, make her feel small and cozy and his. He knew exactly what it would do to her. And he dared to hold it out like it was some casual gesture.
Her breath caught in her throat.
"Here," he said, like this was perfectly normal. Like he hadn't just fingered her into oblivion and stolen her panties mid-flight.
Her jaw dropped. Her entire body went rigid.
"Ethan," she hissed through clenched teeth, her voice a trembling blade of disbelief. "Give me my clothes."
He tilted his head, expression the picture of mock innocence. "I am."
"This is not my clothes."
His lips curved, a dangerous flicker of amusement dancing at the corners. "It's something to wear, isn't it?"
The heat that rose up her neck wasn't just from embarrassment—it was fury, thick with want. The urge to slap him warred violently with the urge to climb into his lap and grind herself against that calm, collected arrogance until he broke. But she couldn't. Not here. Not yet.
Not while she still had something to prove.
Vanessa inhaled sharply, chest heaving beneath the blanket as her fingers twitched with restrained rage. She lowered her voice, making it razor sharp. "Ethan. Give. Me. My. Clothes."
He didn't move. Just leaned back, eyes lazily dragging over her face, down the blanket covering her naked body. His fingers tapped against his thigh, slow and mocking. "You're the one who said you needed to go," he murmured. "I'm just helping you out."
That smug, infuriating bastard.
He knew. He knew she couldn't go to the washroom like this—bare beneath the blanket, still wet and swollen from the climax he'd forced from her. If she didn't take the sweatshirt, she'd have to stay put and stew in her humiliation, her desire, her need.
And if she did take it—if she wore his sweatshirt with nothing underneath—he would win again.
Her pride screamed at her to keep fighting. But her body, still too raw and responsive, begged for relief from the oppressive wet heat trapped between her thighs. Every second without friction was torture. Every second knowing he held her panties like a trophy made her blood boil.
She snatched the sweatshirt from his hands in one sharp motion, the fabric soft and warm against her skin.
"You're the worst," she muttered under her breath, her voice shaking with anger—and something darker.
Ethan's chuckle was low and rich, curling around her like smoke. His gaze followed her every movement as she pulled the sweatshirt over her head, the hem falling just barely past her ass. She was drowning in his scent, in the heat of his body clinging to the cotton, and she hated how it made her nipples tighten, how her thighs clenched instinctively around the emptiness he'd left behind.
"And yet," he said, voice dipping into something rough and intimate, "here you are, wearing my clothes."
The possessiveness in his tone wasn't lost on her. It wasn't casual. It wasn't teasing.
It was a claim.
And god help her—her body reacted. Shamefully. Wantonly.
Vanessa settled back into her seat, burning with quiet rage, thighs slick and pressed tight beneath the hem of his sweatshirt. She didn't say another word, but her mind was already spinning, plotting. Because this wasn't over. Not even close.
He had won this round.
But she was going to make him pay for it.
Slowly.
Thoroughly.
With interest.
Inside the airplane lavatory, Vanessa braced her palms against the sink, breathing hard through parted lips as she met her own reflection in the tiny mirror. Her pulse thudded in her ears. Her cheeks were flushed deep crimson, skin still glowing from the residue of orgasm and rage, her lips slightly swollen, kiss-bruised from biting down to muffle the sounds he'd dragged out of her.
Her thighs still trembled with the aftershocks. Her nipples rubbed shamelessly against the inside of Ethan's oversized sweatshirt with every breath—taut, hypersensitive, practically aching. She wasn't wearing a single thing underneath. And that knowledge pulsed between her legs like a second heartbeat.
She looked like she'd just been fucked.
Because she had—almost. And yet not enough.
Ethan is evil.
There was no other explanation. No logic. No escape from it. He had made it his mission to unravel her, to stretch her to the brink of insanity with that unbearable, infuriating control. And he did it all without ever once losing his composure. Not even when he'd stolen her panties like a trophy. Not when he made her come in silence, suffocated beneath a blanket and shame.
The sweatshirt clung to her like a brand—his. Oversized, heavy, and soft, it draped over her thighs just enough to keep her technically decent. Barely. One wrong movement, a slight bend, and everything would be on display. She wasn't just exposed—she was offered.
She exhaled slowly, trying to center herself, but then—
The door opened.
Her heart leapt into her throat.
Ethan.
He stepped into the washroom like he owned the space. Like it had been built for moments exactly like this. His broad frame filled the doorway, casual and terrifying, his hands buried in the pockets of his jeans. His dark eyes drank her in without shame, moving slow—slow enough that it felt like being peeled open layer by layer.
"You took your time," he murmured, lips curving. "Thought you might've tried to run."
She glared at him, though her knees weakened just from the sound of his voice in such a confined space. "I should have."
He only chuckled, rich and low, and stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind him with a soft finality that made her pulse spike.
"Ethan—" she began, but he silenced her with a look.
Not a touch. Just a look.
A subtle tilt of his head, eyes glittering with restrained hunger. He didn't have to move—his presence filled the room like gravity. Heavy. Suffocating. Inevitable.
"Careful," he said quietly, voice a low hum that vibrated straight through her. "Wouldn't want you bending too far."
The meaning hit her instantly, crashing through her in a wave of heat.
Because he was right.
She wasn't wearing anything under this fucking sweatshirt.
And now, boxed into this tiny space with him, every breath she took dragged his scent deeper into her lungs. Musk and skin and danger. The only thing separating them was a whisper of air, a few inches of nothing.
His hand lifted—slow, deliberate—and brushed a stray strand of hair from her cheek. His fingers lingered, grazing down to the curve of her jaw, his thumb stroking lightly over the corner of her mouth like he owned it.
"You should change," he murmured, gaze dropping to her legs, to the bare skin barely concealed. "Before someone else notices."
Vanessa swallowed thickly, her whole body reacting before her brain could catch up. Her skin prickled with goosebumps. Her thighs clenched instinctively. She was too aware of everything—the cool air under the hem of the sweatshirt, the absence of fabric between her legs, the slow ache pulsing at her core that had never really gone away.
But she refused to fold.
She lifted her chin, locked eyes with him, and crossed her arms. "Then give me my clothes."
Ethan's mouth curved into something wicked. "Say please."
Her jaw nearly dropped. The fucking audacity.
She clenched her fists against the fabric of the sweatshirt, her arousal now tinged with something far more dangerous—rage laced with want. That was the problem. Even now, even as he toyed with her like a predator circling its prey, her body wanted.
Worse: it obeyed him.
She didn't say please. She pushed past him instead, shouldering through the narrow doorframe. He let her, of course. Because this wasn't over. Not even close.
Back in her seat, Vanessa curled into the corner, legs tucked beneath her, the sweatshirt barely hiding the curve of her thighs. And Ethan?
He returned to his seat beside her like nothing had happened. Like he hadn't just cornered her in a lavatory with lust burning in his eyes.
He let her simmer.
For the next seven hours, he teased her mercilessly—but with maddening subtlety. No one else would have noticed. Not the crew. Not the other business-class passengers. Only her.
A brush of his knuckles against her inner thigh.
A casual press of his palm against the side of her knee.
A glance when she shifted too far and the sweatshirt threatened to ride up.
Each touch was deliberate. Each moment calculated to remind her who was in control.
By hour four, her thighs were sticky with arousal, her body so sensitive she jolted at every accidental nudge. Her nipples throbbed, painfully stiff beneath the fabric. She pressed her legs tighter, trying to find friction, trying to stay composed.
But Ethan never broke.
Not once.
And eventually, worn down by the constant heat and maddening restraint, Vanessa drifted into a restless, aching sleep—legs curled beneath her, sweatshirt clinging to every curve. Even unconscious, her breath stayed shallow, her dreams thick with tension.
And Ethan?
He watched her sleep.
Sipped his drink in silence.
And planned his next move.
~~~~~