"I think you do," he says, and his voice is lower now. "I think you've wanted me for a while. I think that's why you're so pissed off all the time."
"I'm pissed off because you're bad at your job."
"I'm great at my job. You just don't want to admit it because that would mean you like something about me, and you can't handle that." His thumb drags, slow and deliberate, and I feel my hips shift toward him before I can stop them. "You can't handle wanting something you didn't plan for."
"You don't know anything about what I can handle."
"Then show me."
His pinky finger grazes the line of my cock, and I suck in a breath. He freezes.
"Sorry," he whispers. "Too much?"
"No." I swallow hard. "No, it's not too much."
"Tell me what you want." His mouth is right next to my ear, his breath warm on my skin. "I'll do whatever you want, Miles. Just tell me."
Nobody has ever asked me that. And the answer is so big and so terrifying that I can't say any of it —I want to let go, I want someone to take over— so I say the only thing I can get out.
"Touch me."
His fingers move. He unbuttons my jeans under the blanket, and it's clumsy with the lights down, his knuckles bumping against my stomach, and I'd laugh if I could breathe. He gets the zipper down and slides his palm inside, over my boxers, and wraps around me through the cotton, and I almost come right there.
"Fuck," he breathes against my ear. "You're so hard."
I can't respond because he's gripping my cock and my brain has gone completely offline. He strokes me, slow and firm, his thumb rubbing over the head, and I seize the armrest until my knuckles go white. A sound tries to escape my throat and I trap it behind my teeth.
"You gotta be quiet," he murmurs, and there's something in his voice — this low, focused steadiness — that's nothing like the Ray I know from the office. The goofball is gone. This is someone else. Someone who knows exactly what he's doing. "Can you do that?"
I nod because I don't trust my voice.
He strokes me slow, learning the shape of me through the cotton, and I'm already leaking, a damp spot spreading under his thumb that makes me want to die of embarrassment. He doesn't seem embarrassed. He makes a low sound in his throat, almost a growl, and rubs his thumb right over the wet spot, pressing the fabric against my slit.
"Fuck, you're wet," he breathes. "Already dripping."
My teeth lock together. Nobody has ever talked to me like this. I've never let anyone close enough. And the filthy, direct way he says it makes my cock pulse against his palm.
He slips under the waistband of my boxers and wraps his fingers around me skin to skin, and the noise I make is barely human. He covers my mouth with his free hand, fast, pressing my head back against the headrest. "Shh. I've got you. Just breathe."
I'm not breathing. I'm dying. His grip is big and sure on my cock and he's stroking me with this steady, unhurried rhythm like we have all the time in the world, like we're not surrounded by sleeping strangers, like this is just something he does — takes people apart in the low light with one fist and a low voice.
"That's it," he whispers against my ear. "God, you feel good. I've been thinking about this. About what you'd feel like." He tightens his stroke and his thumb swipes over the head, spreading the wetness, and my hips buck up. He presses down on my thigh with his forearm to hold me still. "Steady. I've got you. Let me do this."
I turn my head and his face is right there, his lips almost touching mine, and I can see the glint of his eyes in the dimness. He's watching me come undone and he looks focused and hungry and like this is the most important thing he's ever done.
"Has anyone ever made you come like this?" he asks, low and filthy. "In public, trying not to scream?"
I shake my head.
"Good." His fist speeds up, just slightly, and I grab his wrist. Not to stop him, just to hold on. "I want to be the first. I want you to think about this every time you sit next to someone on a plane."
My hips are moving now, pushing up into his grip, and I can't stop them. The wet sounds of skin on skin are obscene in the quiet cabin and I should care but I don't, I can't make myselfcare about anything except the pressure building low in my stomach and the heat of his breath on my neck.
"Your turn," I manage, and my fingers fumble under the blanket between us until I find him. He's stiff, and when I press my palm against him he groans into my shoulder, muffling the sound against my sweater.
Getting his jeans open is harder than it should be because I'm shaking and he won't stop stroking me, but I manage, and then I've got my fist around his cock and the first thing I think is that he's big. Really big. My fingers don't close all the way around him and something hot and stupid floods through me, this primal omega part of my brain that I've spent years suppressing goingyes, this, him. I grip him tighter and he bites down on my shoulder to keep quiet.
"Fuck," he whispers into my neck, his hips jerking into my hold. "Your fingers. I've thought about your fingers."