This has to happen to me of all people. Me, who is always on time, who has the plan in my head, who doesn’t let even a traffic jam throw me off. And then this flight. Three hours delayed, the gate changes twice, my battery dies exactly when I want to text my sister that it’s taking longer. Perfect.
Next to me, a man. Not conspicuous, but the exact opposite of invisible. Mid-thirties, dark hair that curls slightly at the temples, a chin with a fine scar that almost disappears under his beard. He’s reading a worn-out book – some crime novel – and drinking still mineral water. I watch him from the corner of my eye as he turns the pages, marks the spot with his finger when he puts the book down briefly to check his phone. His hands are slender, his fingers long, on one hand a simple silver ring that looks like it wasn’t bought, but found.
I sigh, lean back, close my eyes. The flight is delayed another two hours. My stomach growls. I only have a dry granola bar in my backpack.
“Hungry?” His voice is deeper than I expected.
I open my eyes. He holds out a pack of almonds.
“Thanks.” I take a handful. “I’m usually better prepared. Today’s not my day.”
He smiles, a smile that accentuates the wrinkles around his eyes. “Mine either. I was supposed to be in Hamburg at six. Now it’ll be midnight.”
“Hamburg? I’m flying to Berlin.”
“Then we’re fellow sufferers. The plane goes to Berlin, but I was connecting. Or was connecting. Now I’ll miss my connection.” He shrugs, calm. “The company will pay.”
We talk as the minutes turn into hours. His name is Jannis, he works in software development, travels a lot. I tell him about my job as a graphic designer, about a project that’s been driving me crazy for weeks. He listens, asks questions that are intelligent, not just polite. His attention is something you can feel, like a light touch on the back of your neck.
At some point, we’re sitting side by side, our elbows touching when we both shift forward at the same time. I smell his aftershave, something with cedarwood and orange, and the fresh linen of his shirt. My pulse quickens, but I keep talking as if nothing’s happening.
The flight is short, barely more than an hour. Most of the time we’re silent, and the silence isn’t heavy, but light, like a blanket you can stretch out under. When the plane touches down, it’s after eleven.
“And now?” I ask, as we stand in the terminal, our luggage not yet there.
“Now I’m looking for a hotel. You too?”
I nod. “My apartment is occupied. Friends are on vacation, I was actually supposed to travel on tonight.”
“Then let’s find one together. Saves time.” His gaze is direct, without ulterior motives, or at least without any that show.
In the taxi, we sit next to each other, and I feel the warmth of his thigh through the fabric of my pants. I don’t pull away. Maybe I even lean in a little. He says nothing, but his hand rests on the seat between us, his fingers loose, as if waiting for something.
The hotel clerk gives us a brief once-over when we ask for a double room. Jannis handled the booking, I stand beside him, feeling like an accomplice. On the way to the elevator, our shoulders brush. The lift is small, we stand close together. I see the pulse in his neck, just above his collar.
In the room: a wide bed with a light bedspread, a desk, a window overlooking a lit street. I put down my suitcase, turn around. He’s still at the door, the key card in his hand, looking at me.
“I don’t know how this works now,” I say, and the words sound foreign, as if I’d stolen them.
“Me neither. But I’d like to find out if this is more than just a hotel room.”
He takes a step toward me, then another. I stay still, breathing shallowly. His hand lifts, brushes a strand of hair from my cheek. The touch is feather-light, but it burns on my skin.
“It took me five minutes to realize I don’t want to let you go,” he says, his voice now rough.
I place my hand on his, feel the ring on his finger. “Then let’s make use of the night.”
His mouth is on mine before I finish the sentence. The kiss is soft but demanding, a prelude of tongue and teeth that sets my blood boiling. I wrap my arms around his neck, pull him closer. His body is firm, warm, and I smell the cedarwood again, now mixed with the salt of his skin.
He pulls back briefly, looks at me. “Sure?”
I answer by opening his belt.
We let our clothes fall, one after the other, without haste. My dress slides to the floor, he kneels before me, kisses my hips, my stomach, the inside of my thighs. I tremble, holding onto his shoulders. His tongue finds me through the thin fabric of my panties, and I gasp. He pushes the fabric aside, dives in, and a moan escapes me that I can’t control.
“You taste of salt and sweetness,” he murmurs against my skin.
I make him stand up, kiss him again while my hands push his shirt off his shoulders. His chest is smooth, the muscles faintly defined. I press my upper body against him, feel the warmth radiating from him. His cock presses against my stomach, hard, demanding.
We fall onto the bed, a tangle of limbs. He lies on top of me, his weight just right, not crushing but calming. I spread my legs, and he slides between them, his hips pressing against mine. He kisses my neck, sucks gently at a spot that makes me shiver. My hands roam over his back, feeling his vertebrae, the curve of his ass.
“I want to feel you,” I whisper.
He sits up, reaches for a condom from his jacket pocket – he was prepared, the clever one. I watch as he rolls it on, the movement practiced and yet tender. Then he leans over me again, his tip brushing against me, wet, ready.
He enters me, slowly, inch by inch. I close my eyes, focus on the feeling of fullness, of stretching. He stops when he’s fully inside me, gives me time. I open my eyes, look at him. His face is tense, his jaw muscles prominent.
“Move,” I say.
He begins, a rhythm that starts gentle, then becomes more demanding. I lift my hips, meeting his thrusts. His hand finds my neck, presses me gently into the
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