1. Crash Landing

Transcript

I'd thrown myself into flying the way normal men throw themselves into relationships. The sky was my bed. And with all this single-minded passion, I'd become a pilot of some small renown.

Jack Howards, International Man of Aviation. At the young age of 29, I'd already flown every celebrity from your favorite gossip rags around the world several times over. When I touched down, which was rare, my fellow pilots joked that I owed all of this good luck to more than just hard work.

Their eyebrows raising at my fine jaw, sandy blonde hair, and bright blue eyes. According to them, I was more top gun than Black Hawk Down. But whether I'd risen through sheer skill or with the helping hand of my looks, I didn't care.

I had my sights set higher than their locker room joshing. By 35, I hoped to open my own private jet company. All I needed was a small fleet, a good team, and drive.

Satisfied that my pre-flight checklist had been completed to a T, I glanced down at the manifesto and saw a single name. Elena Bosny. It didn't ring a bell.

But then, I rarely recognized any of my clients' names, only later learning that they were VIP when friends and family lost their minds over my passenger lists. Maybe that's part of why folks kept hiring me. I was too much of a country bumpkin to know and fawn over them.

I offered privacy and peace. I imagined Elena, probably some middle-aged socialite, maybe Russian, with a small dog and a diamond-encrusted phone. I knew the type well.

She'd make small talk for the first half hour of our flight, and before long, she'd be sliding long, manicured nails across my neck as I tried to focus on the clouds before me. That's when I caught sight of someone moving in the distance, strutting down the tarmac. As the figure resolved in my view, I made out a pair of legs which seemed to stretch longer than the runway itself.

The legs started in a pair of black pumps and were cut off by a fitted black skirt, short enough to make you suck in breath. This was no aging matron. Whoever she was, Miss Bosney knew that she had the kind of body that was both a threat and a promise.

I swallowed hard, willing my pulse into submission. I would not, could not, show how weak she made me. A pilot's job, first and foremost, is to be in command.

I followed the dangerous curve of hips and waist to a white silk blouse, and then, wow. I rocked back on my heels, momentarily rendered speechless. Could it be? No.

As she approached at a clip, any doubt in my mind disappeared. It was Elle Timbers. But I didn't have time to register my surprise before the so-called Elena Bosney was squealing and throwing her lithe arms around me, pulling me in for a crushing hug.

The scent of her shampoo, unchanged after all these years, yanked me back into the past. I loaded her luggage into the plane as she gushed about how lovely it was to see me, how it was like being back in another lifetime to before she married George and entered high society. Though she'd grown more elegant with time and acquired a kind of impossible grace.

Through all the subtle jewels and tailored clothing, I could see the girl I'd once known. She lifted one heel-clad foot onto the first step of the stairs, and I held out a palm to balance her. Her hand squeezed mine, red nails lingering just a moment too long atop my tanned skin.

She walked up the stairs with a slow swivel of her hips, ass bouncing from side to side as I watched her climb. Was she doing a sultry figure-eight for my benefit, or was I reading too much into it? I boarded shortly behind her, closing the door behind me as guys on the tarmac raced to move the jet bridge.

She linkered in the small aisle, back arched against a seat as I squeezed past her to get into the cockpit, apologizing as I promised to chat later. Elle pursed her lips, a familiar muscle twitch of agitation. She was right to be huffy.

I was decidedly ignoring her, racing to do my duties with hardly so much as an acknowledgement of her presence. But I knew that if I stayed in that aisle, leaning in close to reminisce over stories of the past, we might never make it to our destination. A small aisle in the middle of the Caribbean.

As it was, I shut the cockpit door behind me, and in record time, I was taxiing down the runway, as though I could put those miles between me and Elle. A small light blipped to the side, but I zoned it out, anxious to put up horse blinders between myself and the world. Just like that, we were airborne, and I'd reached a high enough elevation that I could take one hand away from the machinery and slide it down my pants, the seams straining against my hard cock.

I needed to take care of my growing desire before I spent so much as another second with Elle, with those red lips and smoky brown eyes. I unzipped and took my swollen dick into my hand. I stroked up and down, traveling those seven inches back and forth as I thought of her not ten feet away from this locked door.

Maybe if I opened it, I'd find her back there, legs spread, playing with a wet, swollen pussy. That thought alone was enough to push me over the edge. With a sudden gasp, I spurted seed over the controls.

The white droplets splashed and dripped. That's when every light in the cockpit went red. Error warnings flashed, and the plane began to stutter.

I tried to wrest back control, hands still sticky with semen, but the damage was already done. In my haste to jack off to the image of Elle, I'd ignored the earlier blip of a light that indicated my fuel system was malfunctioning. We were going to have a crash landing.

We'd gone down in shallow water, which was some small mercy. I only had to swim a few meters before I could comfortably walk on the sandbanks, and within minutes, I laid Elle's cold, wet body onto the white shore, hoping against hope that the sun would warm her limbs and bring her around. My meager first-aid training kicked in, and I immediately began CPR, wide palms pressing down on her chest in time with my chanted whisper of her name, Elle, Elle.

Tilting her head back, I closed her nose and put my mouth to hers, blowing life down her throat. With a hoarse gasp, she sucked in air. Elle's eyes flew open, her ringed irises focusing on me.

I sat back, silently thanking the universe. I knew she would hate me forever. After all, I'd nearly ended her life with my momentary lapse in judgment, but by God, at least she was alive.

A few long breaths later, she sat up, sand shaking from her back. She looked around and joked that the only thing we were missing was an illustrated beach volleyball. Holy shit.

Not only has she just survived a near-death experience, but she was already cracking wise about it. That was the Elle I remembered from our school days. Back then, she'd been the popular girl.

We were childhood best friends in elementary school. We frolicked in the hills, watched cartoons till the wee hours, and told one another ghost stories. Then she grew breasts, and I didn't know how to handle my newfound desire for her.

Rather than admit my attraction, I pushed her away, scared of facing my feelings and chancing rejection. Perhaps that was why I'd never had a serious relationship. From the very beginning, I was always running away from the hard shit.

She began walking toward the treeline as I called after her. Where did you think she was going? Shouldn't we stay on the beach until some help arrived? Without looking back, she replied that she knew exactly where to go.

A small hut not too deep into the jungle. There we could find a phone, food, and if we were lucky, some wine. It might take security a while to send someone over.

Between the impending storm and the current lack of staff, we could be twiddling our thumbs in sight for hours, maybe even a whole day. My brows furrowed in confusion. How did she know all of this about an abandoned island? With a laugh, Elle explained that the island wasn't abandoned.

It was one of several that belonged to her husband. Great. I was standing on her husband's beach, nearly naked, and contemplating all the ways in which I wanted to fuck his wife.

This should be fun.