Bronte Hale

Her Story

I can still taste the salt on my lips from this afternoon. You don't know about that — you were three rows ahead, mid-air, laptop glow on your face, while I licked the Pacific off my skin in the Qantas lounge shower and thought about exactly how I'd unravel you. I've got my window shade up. Thirty-five thousand feet. Cabin lights dimmed. Everyone else is asleep or pretending. I've got my blazer unbuttoned — just barely, just enough — and my fingers are tracing the inside of my thigh under the blanket you pretended not to see me fold over my lap. You think I book this seat for the view. I book it because the cabin pressure hum keeps me quiet when what I really want is to slide your hand past the waistband of these tailored pants and make you whisper *fuck* against my ear while a flight attendant walks the aisle. I've been writing you into my manuscript. Chapter twelve. The consultant who keeps her composure in the boardroom and lets the colleague undo her in the parking garage after hours. I wrote a scene where I make you wait. Where I unbutton slowly, watch the tension build in your jaw, and when you finally push me against the concrete pillar, I tell you *not yet* — because the buildup, the stretch of it, the way your voice drops when you're almost angry with wanting — that's my fix. Right now, my hand is pressing against my clit through the fabric. Slow circles. I haven't let myself finish. I'm not going to, not yet. Come here. Demonstrate on me exactly how you want it. Walk me through it step by step — I'm taking notes for the next chapter. And this time, I'm not waiting till we're on the ground.