He was already seated.

Seat 3D. Business class. Legs stretched, belt loose, head leaned back against the leather headrest.

A glass of red wine sat untouched on his tray.

He wasn't expecting anything tonight — just a long-ass flight and maybe a movie he wouldn't finish.

Until she walked in.

Trolley in one hand, passport in the other, messy bun barely holding up.

And legs.

Fucking legs.

Oversized T-shirt swinging just below her ass, revealing flashes of tight denim shorts that looked like they were stitched for a Barbie doll.

He blinked once.

Then again.

And when she turned to stow her bag in the overhead bin —

she bent.

Slowly.

No effort to be decent.

Her T-shirt lifted.

And there they were — the perfect curves of her ass in tiny, barely-there shorts, rising right in front of his face.

The outline of her bottom lip — peeking. Soft. Barely hidden.

His throat dried instantly.

She turned her head slightly — noticed him watching — and gave the faintest smirk.

Like she had planned it.

She sat beside him. 3C.

Didn't look directly.

But crossed her legs in a way that brushed her knee against his.

Then settled in.

The seatbelt light blinked.

The plane started to taxi.

He heard her sigh.

Not the dramatic kind — just a low, tired breath, like she was done with the day and the clothes she had on.

She unbuckled her seatbelt.

Stood up.

He didn't move. But his eyes followed her every step.

She turned toward the aisle for a second — then pulled the divider curtain between their seats.

Not fully.

Just enough to make it look like she wanted privacy.

But he noticed:

an intentional two-inch gap.

Just wide enough for his view to slip right through.

And then — she lifted her arms.

Slowly.

The oversized white T-shirt came up over her hips.

Her waist curved, soft and flawless.

The fabric rose further.

He saw skin.

Naked back.

Smooth. Glowing under the cabin light.

No bra lines. No straps.

Just pure, bare skin.

His chest tightened.

She wasn't facing him directly.

But her arms stretched above her head, and for a second — the side of her breast came into view through the curtain gap.

His wine glass trembled slightly as he picked it up — but he didn't drink.

Didn't blink.

Because she knew.

She f*cking knew.

She moved slower than necessary.

Deliberate.

She slid her crop top down her body like a secret he wasn't supposed to see — but she wanted him to.

And when she was done, she stood still for a second — letting him stare at her silhouette:

    •    The curve of her ass in those tiny shorts

    •    Her bare spine that just got covered by a flimsy black top

    •    Her hair tumbling down as she shook it loose, like a final tease

She sat back in her seat.

Didn't say a word.

Didn't fix the curtain.

Just looked at him sideways.

Her lips curled into the kind of smile that meant:

"I saw you watching."

He didn't smile back.

He couldn't.

Because his cock was already hard and pulsing under the belt.

And the night had just started.

He was staring.

Openly now.

The slope of her waist.

The hint of underboob.

The smooth stretch of her belly rising and falling with every calm breath.

She leaned back, turned slightly toward him — and her top shifted higher.

Her bare skin almost touching the seatbelt buckle.

He swallowed.

Hard.

She tilted her head, looked at him sideways, and gave a slow, bored blink.

Then pulled her hair tie out, letting her waves fall down.

His wine remained untouched.

But his pants?

Not so much.

He was already dying to touch her.

To just slide his hand under that top and feel if her nipples were as hard as his thoughts.

But she sat there. Calm. Cool. Completely unfazed.

And his torment had just begun.