Page 14 of Love is a Game

“Of course,” I mumble as I consider the logistics of my approach, bending to a half-squat to fit in behind her. “Fuck this is tight.”

“Hmm, must be so hard for you,” she says with false pity. “Flying regional when you’re so used to business class, having to slum it with the masses.”

“Oh yeah, keep talking dirty, Pen. It always turns me on,” I joke.

A bout of turbulence hits and we almost unbalance, my shin banging the side of the bowl, my cock bouncing off Pen’s thigh.

“Wait—” I recalibrate my feet as she leans into the sink.

I grab hold of her hips, lifting her weight so that her ankle boots swing clear off the floor. The side of her head grazes the mirror.

“Shit—are you okay?”

“Yes!” she whispers. “Keep going!”

Somehow, our bodies come together like a contorted puzzle. I plunge into her heat, her tight cunt contracting around my cock. Then I brace again, gripping her ass, pulling her down onto me as I forcefully thrust my entry deeper.

Her skirt fabric falls over my forearm, and her cropped blouse rides up her waist, exposing the arch of her spine and expanse of her hips.

I pound faster, Pen’s breath fogging the mirror, the vanity unit moving dangerously against her superwoman grip. She bends her knees, spreading wider, giving a ragged gasp.

Her spasms vibrate against my dick. I pick up the rhythm.

Another round of gasps and curses, then Pen throws her head back. Her legs splay dangerously, and I get a hard boot to the inside of my elbow before her body sags with release.

The loudspeaker crackles, a disjointed voice talking of more turbulence. No shit—the turbulance is everywhere—inside me, climbing and rolling, every muscle trembling with exertion as the wave breaks.

I stagger a little as I lower Pen to the floor. Then, I get my bearings, discard the condom, and pull my pants up. Pen spins to kiss me hard on the lips, then immediately adjusts her clothing, smooths her hair, and checks her face.

I slip out first—and bonus—the announcement means everyone’s in their seats and there’s no line up to witness our bathroom hookup.

But just as I start down the aisle, I get wedged between the returning drink cart and a passenger’s rogue knee.

Pen steps out a moment later, polished as ever, and gives me a wicked little wink.

Then a voice, two rows down, pipes up—dry and amused.

“Ah, in my country, we do not say ‘to floss,’” he informs me gleefully. “We say: ‘to chase the squirrel.’” He flashes a knowing smile.

Pen frowns. “What does that even mean?”

“Just a cultural misunderstanding,” I say quickly, placing my hands on her shoulders and steering her toward our seats. “Best not to Google it.”

I’m grinning—not because of that bizarre squirrel comment, but because endorphins are still thrumming through my body like a natural high. One thing I can’t deny—Pen brings out an animal instinct in me that can’t be ignored.

In other parts of my life, my decisions are calculated and considered. But my compelling need to be around her? That’s compulsive, addictive, unshakable.

Anywhere, anytime, damn the consequences.

I can only assume we have that in common. It’s not like we ever talk about it. Why would I even try? I’ve seen how quickly she can retreat. Pen’s more cunning and resourceful than an alley cat when it comes to escaping what she doesn’t want to deal with.

Still, some things about her are hilariously predictable…

After we disembark and collect our bags, my one carry-on and her mountain of luggage, she volunteers to arrange the rental car. I get assigned coffee duty.

I grab sandwiches and a couple bottles of water from the chiller, and as I wait five deep in line to order the actual caffeine, my phone buzzes.

Pen:Help! I need your driver’s license. Send a pic?

---