What I Did on That Flight While He Slept

Marina and Adrián had been together for just over a year, a relationship born between final exams and empty afternoons in a provincial city. They were both around twenty-two, and that trip to Cartagena de Indias was the first serious madness they’d allowed themselves: a transoceanic flight, a hotel facing the sea, and two weeks with nobody asking them to account for anything. They’d paid for it half-and-half, with waiters’ tips and a silent loan their parents pretended not to remember.

In the boarding line, Marina couldn’t stop moving. She was wearing a white strappy top that hinted at the lace of her bra, a short denim skirt, and flat sandals, and she walked with that mixture of haste and dizziness of someone who still can’t believe what she’s about to do. Adrián looked at her as if she were a miracle.

—I can’t believe it —she said, hanging on his arm—. Fourteen days just for us.

—Fourteen days and not an alarm clock in sight —he replied, and kissed her temple.

They had three seats for the two of them: Adrián on the aisle, Marina in the middle, and the window seat free. A small luxury won by getting up early to check in. They settled in laughing, she resting her head on his shoulder while the plane taxied toward the runway. This is only the beginning, Marina thought, and she believed it completely.

Then, with the doors almost closed, the last passenger arrived. A man of about forty, tall, with his jaw shadowed by three days’ worth of beard and a blue shirt that clung to broad shoulders. He walked down the aisle without hurry, checking the numbers, and stopped right at their row.

—Excuse me, I think the window seat is mine —he said, in a deep voice that seemed to come from very far down.

Adrián stood to let him through. The man slipped between the seats with feline ease, and as he sat down his thigh brushed Marina’s for just a second too long.

—Sorry for the brush —he murmured, looking her straight in the eyes—. I’m Damián.

—Marina —she replied, and felt heat rise to her face for no reason.

***

Takeoff was smooth. The plane rose above the blanket of clouds and, with the constant hum of the engines turned into a lullaby, Adrián was out almost at once. He hadn’t slept the night before, too nervous, and within ten minutes his head was already resting on Marina’s shoulder, his breathing slow and deep. She stroked his hair tenderly and stayed very still so as not to wake him.

Still also meant exposed to the man by the window.

Damián had taken out a book, a paperback novel whose cover left no doubt about the genre. He held it in such a way that Marina, without meaning to, could read a line or two. She looked away, but it was too late: curiosity had already bitten her.

—Your boyfriend sleeps like there’s no tomorrow —he commented quietly, without lifting his eyes from the page.

—He was exhausted —Marina whispered—. We’ve been planning this for weeks.

—It’s obvious he loves you. —Damián closed the book and turned a little toward her—. What I don’t know is whether he knows what he has.

Marina should have said something sharp, should have turned back toward the window and pretended to sleep. Instead she stayed silent, her pulse beating in her neck, while the flight attendant passed by with the cart. Damián ordered a whiskey; she, a juice.

—Try it —he said, offering her the glass—. For the nerves of your first long flight.

Marina took a sip from where his lips had been. The alcohol slid down her throat like a coal and spread through her belly in a wave of heat that had nothing to do with altitude. She handed the glass back without looking at him.

—Better? —he asked.

—I don’t know what you’re trying to do —she answered, though she did.

—Nothing you don’t want —Damián said, and his voice was a whisper of black silk—. There’s something about airplanes, don’t you notice it? The confinement, the constant vibration in the seats that rises through the body… it makes people think about things they’d never dare think about standing up.

***

The cabin had sunk into half-darkness. Most of the passengers dozed or lost themselves in their screens, and only the blue floor lights broke the darkness. Adrián was still asleep against her shoulder, oblivious to everything, his hand loose on the aisle armrest.

Damián pulled the blanket from the seat pocket and spread it over both their legs, as if seeking warmth. Beneath that improvised canopy, his hand settled on Marina’s knee. The heat of his palm seeped through her skin.

—Damián, no —she murmured—. He’s right here.

—Exactly because of that —he replied—. Tell me to stop and I stop instantly. But you’re not going to say it, are you? A part of you has been wondering for a while how this would feel.

Marina said nothing. And saying nothing, she knew the moment she parted her knees a millimeter beneath the blanket, was an answer. His hand slid slowly up the inside of her thigh, tracing a torturous line, until it reached the hem of her skirt. Every centimeter was a small capitulation. She closed her eyes and bit her lip.

Damián’s fingers found the lace of her underwear, already wet, and pressed through the fabric. Marina stifled a gasp, covering her mouth with her free hand.

—Look at how you are —he whispered against her ear, his breath warm—. Your body doesn’t know how to lie, even if your mouth tries to.

The words inflamed her as much as his fingers. Damián moved the lace aside and touched her directly, slowly, drawing lazy circles that made her arch her back against the seat. When the plane crossed a patch of turbulence, she used the sway to move her hips, seeking more pressure, and hated and loved equally how easy it was to give in.

—Imagine what I’d do to you with time and a bed —he murmured, sinking one finger into her—. Here I can only give you a preview.

Marina turned her head toward Adrián. He slept with his mouth slightly open, serene, dreaming of beaches that she was already betraying. Guilt pierced her chest like a pin, but the pleasure growing in her belly was stronger, older, more honest. Damián added a second finger and set a slow, deep rhythm, his thumb working on the exact spot that made her tremble.

—I’m going to… —she began, and couldn’t finish.

—Do it silently —he ordered—. Don’t let anyone know you’re coming on the hands of a stranger ten thousand meters up.

The orgasm struck her like a wave that gives no warning. Marina buried her face in her own shoulder to stifle the moan, her legs trembling beneath the blanket, the walls of her sex clenching in spasms around Damián’s fingers. He didn’t stop until the last aftershock faded, and only then did he withdraw his hand and bring his fingers to his mouth with insulting calm.

—Sweet —he said—. As sweet as it is forbidden.

***

Marina should have felt ashamed. She did, yes, but beneath that something else was burning, a dark kind of arousal pushing her forward instead of holding her back. She adjusted her skirt with trembling hands and looked at Adrián: he was still asleep, now with one arm crossed over his chest. The clock on the screen said barely two hours had passed. There were many more left.

Damián shifted in his seat. Under the blanket, Marina heard him unfasten his belt with a click muffled by the drone of the engines.

—Now it’s my turn —he murmured—. And I want you to do it properly.

Panic and desire knotted in her throat. The space was tiny, Adrián was sleeping a hand’s span away, any sudden movement could give her away. And yet, with her heart pounding against her ribs, Marina slid out of her seat and crouched beneath the blanket stretched over his legs, huddled in the narrow gap between the rows. The carpeted floor scraped her knees. The darkness smelled like him: clean skin, an expensive cologne underneath, something deeply masculine.

She took him in her hand. He was hot and already hard, more than she’d expected, and the weight made her salivate despite herself. Above, Damián tangled his fingers in her hair, not pulling, only guiding.

—Slowly —he whispered from above—. And without making a sound.

Marina closed her lips around him and lowered her head centimeter by centimeter. The plane’s swaying rocked her back and forth, setting a rhythm that wasn’t hers, and that made it both more humiliating and more arousing. She worked with her tongue, going up and down, while Damián’s hand held her with a firmness that admitted no doubt. Every few seconds she went still, holding her breath, certain Adrián was going to wake; each time, her boyfriend’s calm breathing confirmed that the secret was still safe.

—Good girl —Damián murmured, and the words went through her whole body—. Keep going like that.

Beneath the blanket, in that suffocating darkness, Marina discovered herself touching herself with her free hand, lit up by her own submission more than anything else. The plane lurched again and shoved her forward; Damián cursed under his breath and tightened his grip on her hair. She felt him tense, felt his entire body preparing.

—Now —he gasped—. Swallow it all.

Damián’s climax was a groan trapped in his throat, his hips thrusting in short spasms. Marina took him in and swallowed, instinctively, while a second small, silent orgasm shook her alone at the sheer filth of the act. She licked him clean and returned to her seat with weak knees and her face burning, as if she’d just run a marathon in the middle of an ocean of sleeping strangers.

***

Damián covered her mouth for a moment with the blanket while she caught her breath, then leaned in to plant a fleeting kiss on her temple. His beard scraped her skin.

—You were perfect —he murmured.

Marina curled up in her seat, exhausted and electric at the same time. Adrián chose that moment to stir in his sleep, and his hand reached for hers in an innocent, tender gesture that split her chest in two. Clean love on one side; dirty desire on the other. She stayed very still, her boyfriend’s fingers entwined with hers and the taste of the other man still in her mouth.

—What time is it, love? —murmured Adrián, barely opening his eyes.

—Still a long way to go —she answered, her voice hoarse—. Go back to sleep.

He smiled, squeezed her hand, and closed his eyes again. By the window, Damián pretended to read his book. Without looking at her, beneath the blanket, his finger brushed the back of her hand one last time.

—This isn’t over yet —he whispered—. We still have hours left. And I’m a patient man.

Marina closed her eyes. She didn’t answer, but her body, that incorrigible traitor, was already beating for what was still to come, while the plane kept cutting through the night like a silent accomplice.