"Goddamn cramped airplane bathroom," he mutters through gritted teeth, working frantically at the zipper at the back of her skirt. "How is anyone supposed to do it in here?"
"Just pull it up," she urges, taking his hand and placing it at her thigh, sliding their entwined hands upwards and bringing the hem with them.
"Yes, ma'am," he says with a grin that widens when he reaches her delicately pale blue lacy panties and she gasps softly at the feather-light brush of his fingers.
She works at the buckle of his belt, but he's not making it easy for her, mouth at her ear, nipping sharply, hand sliding up under the matching blue lacy cups to rub quick frantic circles over one rosy velvet-soft nipple. Long, slim fingers wrap firmly around the source of his willingness to put up with cramped conditions , and with a carefully quiet groan, he presses into her touch.
And soon enough, their clothes are pushed aside bunched uncomfortably but totally irrelevant, pushed haphazardly into the tiny sink, and the rest of the world outside of sweat-damp skin and whispered incoherent pleas, becomes likewise irrelevant, even when the ominous click of carelessly unlocked washroom door and a horrified cry sound behind them.
He flashes her a charmingly innocent smile with just a hint of mischief as she makes her way back down the aisle of the plane and slides into the seat next to him, as composed and impeccable as to give no sign of the rendezvous of fifteen minutes ago.
"Hey, did an old lady walk in on us?" he asks in a hushed voice.
She quickly withdraws a handkerchief and promptly has a coughing fit, but he caught a tiny quirk of a smile a second before her mouth became completely obscured.
"I think so." She clears her throat, and then grins impishly. "Welcome to the Mile-High Club."
He shakes his head.
"Freakin' weird tradition."
End Notes: Hehehe...please excuse the rampaging lemons. I can only hold them in check for so long. XD