The Last Flight Out: CH. 2

CHAPTER TWO: HE WAS A FLIGHT RISK

The Unexpected Layover

His hands were on my thighs—not moving, just resting there. Warm. Solid. I was already sweating.

The House of ThorneR. Adrian Thorne

I woke up to the scrape of a key card and the soft thunk of Ian’s bag hitting the carpet. Sunlight bled weak through the curtains, thin and gray. Too early. Too airport. My phone buzzed on the nightstand: 6:12 AM.

I groaned, swung my legs over the side of the bed, and started pulling myself together. Jeans. Hoodie. Sneakers. The kind of armor you wear when you don’t want anyone looking too close. Ian was humming. Just low, tuneless, like he had extra oxygen I didn’t.

By the time we reached the terminal, I was awake enough to remember why I hated early flights. Stale air. Old coffee. Too many people trying not to touch each other in security lines. Gate B14 was already boarding when we arrived. Arcadia Air 182—Reagan National.

I slung my bag overhead, ducked into my row, and sank into the window seat with the relief of someone who had made it, finally, with no extra drama. Until the middle seat dipped beside me.

“Morning, sunshine,” Ian said, tossing his hoodie off his shoulders before settling in.

I blinked at him. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” He pointed at his boarding pass. “Gate agent must’ve thought we were together when she rebooked us. Two birds, one row.”

I rolled my eyes, but the corner of my mouth betrayed me. Annoyed. But not really. “Guess I should be grateful she didn’t give us the honeymoon suite.”

He smirked. “Don’t tempt me. I’ve always wanted the little cake.”

Takeoff was smooth. Seatbelt light pinged off after twenty minutes. The cabin hushed into that odd mix of too-quiet and too-loud, where whispers carry but engines swallow them.

Ian leaned back, eyes closed. I thought he was going to sleep. Then he spoke.

“So,” he said, voice low enough only I could hear. “You always this allergic to relationships, or am I special?”

The question punched air out of my lungs. I turned, ready to snap something cutting—except I didn’t. Because he wasn’t smirking. He was just… asking.

“I don’t do well with them,” I said finally, my voice clipped. “Doesn’t matter how they start. They all end the same.”

His head tilted toward me. “And how’s that?”

“With me,” I said, “picking up the pieces. Alone. Wondering why I thought I deserved anything else.”

It sounded harsher out loud than it had in my head. But it was true.

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t make a joke. Just nodded, slow, like he’d been there.

“I get that,” he said.

I squinted. “Do you?”

He opened his eyes then. Green, steady. No game.

“I was with someone,” he said. “Six years. We were planning a wedding. Rings picked out, invitations half-written, the whole cliché. And then—” His jaw twitched once. “I came home early one night. Walked in on him. With another guy.”

The air tightened between us. I wanted to say I was sorry, but the words felt flimsy, like they’d crumble before they reached him.

So I just said, “Who was he?”

Ian laughed once. No humor. “My best friend.”

My stomach dropped. He went quiet for a beat, then shrugged like he could shake the weight off. “So yeah. I’ve got my share of trust issues, too.”

I stared at him. At the way his voice didn’t shake when mine would have. At the way he admitted it like it was just fact—but I could see the bruise under it. And suddenly, the tattoos, the chaos, the cocky grin—it all felt like scaffolding. Not the house.

“Jesus,” I muttered.

“Yeah,” he said, leaning back again. “Tell me about it.”

The flight hummed around us. People dozed. A kid two rows up tapped on an iPad. Flight attendants rolled carts. And I sat there, half-turned toward him, seeing him differently now. Not as a hookup. Not as chaos wrapped in curls. But as someone cracked open in a way I recognized. Someone I didn’t want to stop listening to.

The plane had settled into that dull quiet—engines humming, most of the cabin pretending to sleep. The seatbelt sign was still off. Tray tables up. Lights dimmed. Ian had his eyes half-closed, like he might drift, but I knew better. His fingers tapped absently on his knee, restless even when his body stilled.

I leaned closer, voice low. “So. Be honest.”

He cracked one eye at me. “Always dangerous when someone says that.”

“Are you a member of the mile-high club?”

That pulled him all the way awake. His grin spread slow. “What, you?”

“Yes,” I said, letting it land like a secret.

He tilted his head, grin widening. “With who? Pilot or co-pilot?”

I shook my head. “Answer the question.”

He pressed his lips together like he was holding back a laugh. “No. Not me. I’m… kinda claustrophobic. Bathrooms at thirty thousand feet? Not exactly my thing.”

Something loosened in me then—the part that had been wound tight since the hotel. Since before the hotel. Since him.

“Well,” I said, casual, almost too casual. “Maybe you should try the mile-high-club-adjacent.”

He raised a brow. “What the hell is that?”

Before he could finish the question, my hand was already sliding under the hoodie draped across both our laps. Straight to his crotch.

He stiffened. Blinked. His voice came out a whisper-sharp laugh. “Why, Mr. Ellison.”

“Shh,” I murmured, my gaze forward, steady on the seatback in front of me.

His eyes darted around—across the aisle, behind us, a quick sweep of the cabin. Then they came back to me. And damned if he didn’t grin.

“You’re full of surprises,” he whispered, low and rough, shifting just slightly to give me more room.

I squeezed him through the fabric, deliberate, my pulse racing in my throat. And for the first time, I didn’t care who saw.

The cabin was dim, a soft blue glow from the ceiling lights washing everything in false calm. Most people had their eyes closed. A couple of kids whispering rows ahead. Nothing else.

Ian was hard under my hand now. No mistaking it. Thick, stiff, his cock pressing up against the joggers he’d carelessly thrown on. The same ones he’d pulled on last night, no underwear then, no underwear now.

I palmed him through the fabric, slow. Felt the length of him, the heat, the twitch that gave him away. He sucked in a breath, sharp, his leg tensing against mine. “Jesse,” he hissed. “Holy shit.”

Continue reading with full access to The House of Thorne.

UNLOCK FULL ACCESS