Two days.
Two days of watching Priscilla circle him like a shark that shops at Bergdorf's. Two days of her touching his arm, laughing at things that weren't remotely funny, playing the perfect almost-fiancée for anyone with functioning eyeballs.
Two days of me serving drinks with a professional smile while my insides twisted into configurations that would impress a yoga instructor.
But now the plane is empty, and Maverick's mouth is on my neck, and my back is pressed against the galley counter like it's the only solid thing in a world that keeps tilting sideways.
"We shouldn't—" I start, but the words dissolve when his teeth graze my pulse point.
"Tell me to stop." His voice is rough against my skin, hands already sliding beneath my uniform shirt. "Say the word and I will."
"That's the opposite of what I want, and you know it." I pull him closer instead, fingers fisting in his shirt. "You're insufferable. Has anyone ever told you that? Very presumptuous, showing up here expecting—"
He kisses me silent, and I let him, because apparently my self-preservation instincts have filed for permanent vacation. The relief is dizzying—after watching him perform with Priscilla, after maintaining my own careful distance, having him here feels like oxygen after drowning.
His hands find my waist, grip tightening. "I missed you," he murmurs between kisses. "Every second of those two days."
"Interesting way of showing it. Very subtle with all the Priscilla proximity." I gasp as he lifts me onto the counter, stepping between my thighs in one fluid motion. "I particularly enjoyed watching her laugh at your jokes. You don't make jokes, Maverick. What exactly was so funny?"
"Nothing. She was performing." His fingers work at my buttons with focused determination. "Just like I was performing. You know that."
"Do I?" The question comes out breathier than intended because his mouth has found that spot below my ear, the one that short-circuits rational thought.
"You do." His hands slide up my thighs, pushing my skirt higher. "This is real. Everything else is theater."
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, and something vulnerable flickers in that green gaze—something that looks like desperation and wanting and fear all tangled together. Then his mouth crashes into mine again, and I stop thinking about Priscilla entirely.
His fingers find the edge of my underwear, tugging impatiently. I lift my hips to help, and the scrap of fabric disappears somewhere into the galley's depths—a sacrifice to whatever deity governs ill-advised airplane encounters. His own clothes follow with similar urgency, just enough removed to matter.
When he pushes inside me, I have to bite my hand to stay quiet.
"That's it," he breathes against my skin, one hand gripping my hip while the other braces against the counter. "Just like that. You feel incredible."
I wrap my legs around him, pulling him deeper, and the angle makes stars burst behind my eyes. He moves with desperate urgency, each thrust drawing sounds from my throat that I muffle against his shoulder. His mouth finds my neck again, whispering praises against my skin—beautiful, perfect, mine.
"Maverick—" His name comes out strangled as the tension coils tighter.
"I know." He adjusts the angle slightly, and I nearly sob at the sensation. "I've got you. Let go."
The orgasm crashes through me in waves, my whole body clenching around him as I shatter. He follows moments later, groaning my name against my hair, his hips stuttering through his release. We stay tangled together afterward, breathing hard, my forehead pressed against his shoulder.
This is what matters, I tell myself. Priscilla can touch his arm at galas and laugh at nonexistent jokes. She can play the perfect fiancée for cameras and grandfathers. But he comes back to me. Always me. That has to mean something—even if he still hasn't said he loves me.
"We should probably..." I gesture vaguely at our disheveled state. "Before someone decides to board early and gets a very educational view of in-flight entertainment."
He laughs—actually laughs—and the sound loosens something in my chest. We separate reluctantly, rearranging clothes with the practiced efficiency of people who've gotten very good at pretending nothing happened.
I'm smoothing my skirt when recklessness seizes me.
"What if we went somewhere together?" The words tumble out before I can stop them. "Really together, I mean. In public. Somewhere no one knows us. Just once. We could be normal people who eat normal food and walk on normal streets without me having to pretend I don't know what your mouth tastes like."
His expression shutters immediately—that familiar closing off, the CEO mask sliding back into place over whatever softness existed moments ago. "Floris, we can't. You know why."
"Right. No, of course. I know." I wave my hand dismissively, forcing lightness into my voice. "I just forgot for a second. Temporary amnesia about our incredibly complicated situation. Making plans for the future, you know how it is. Ignore me—I'm clearly still oxygen-deprived from the... activities."
I laugh, but it sounds wrong. Hollow and brittle, like something that might shatter if you looked at it too hard.
He watches me with something pained in his eyes, mouth opening like he wants to say something—comfort, maybe, or another promise I shouldn't believe. Then his phone buzzes in his pocket, and the moment dissolves.
"I have to—" He gestures at the phone.
"Go. Obligations await. Very important billionaire things." I smile because that's what I do—smile through everything, sunshine girl to the bitter end. "I'll finish up here."
He hesitates at the galley entrance, looking back at me with an expression I can't read. Then he's gone, leaving first as always, and I'm alone with the ghost of his warmth and the faint scent of his cologne clinging to my skin.
I busy myself with mindless tasks—wiping down the counter we just defiled, checking inventory that doesn't need checking, pretending my hands aren't shaking. The routine helps. Gives me something to focus on besides the growing hollow in my chest.
Ten minutes pass before footsteps announce company.
Marina appears in the galley doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable. She doesn't ask what I'm still doing here, doesn't make small talk or pretend she hasn't noticed anything.
"I've seen enough," she says flatly. "I'm not blind, Floris. And I'm not judging—God knows I'm the last person who should judge anyone for complicated workplace entanglements."
My stomach tangles in very icy knots.
"Marina, I don't know what you think you—"
"I don't need confirmation." She cuts me off with the efficiency of someone who's had enough of dancing around difficult subjects. "I've worked for Maverick for five years. I know how this ends. I've seen the pattern before, even if I've never seen him quite this... invested."
She pauses, something almost like sympathy softening her features.
"You deserve someone who doesn't have to hide you," Marina says quietly. "Someone who holds your hand in daylight instead of sneaking around empty aircraft. I'm not telling you what to do. But you should think about whether waiting in shadows is really where you want to spend your life."
She leaves without waiting for a response, footsteps fading down the corridor.
I stand alone in the galley, surrounded by the smell of him, Marina's words settling like stones in my chest. Heavy. Permanent. Impossible to ignore no matter how hard I try.