Mile High Society: CH. 6

CHAPTER SIX: NOW YOU SEE ME

I'm pretty sure the entire plane can sense the tension. And I don't mean the people on the plane—I mean the actual aircraft itself. The fuselage, the wings, the very rivets holding this thing together seem to vibrate with awkward energy.

Ever since the other night, the entire vibe has been off. Every conversation stops mid-sentence when I walk into a room. The guys watch Mitch, Mitch watches me, and nobody knows what to say anymore. It's like we're all trapped in some uncomfortable limbo, waiting for someone to break first.

Mitch thought he could save me from myself like some holy roller fresh out of the Billy Graham Training Center, armed with good intentions and a savior complex the size of Texas. What he didn't—or doesn't—realize is that my life, however flawed it is, is just fine. I don't need some rich playboy to make me into their next rags-to-riches story. I'm not a project. I'm not broken. And I sure as hell don't need fixing by someone who thinks money and status are the answer to everything.

I go to the back of the plane and pull out one of the thongs Daddy picked out—the red one with the little aviation wings embroidered on it, because of course he thought that was hilarious. I hold it up for a moment, considering. Then I decide: they don't get sexy Flight Attendant Neil today. Mitch ruined it for everyone. His judgmental eyes and disappointed sighs have officially killed the fun for the entire crew.

I toss the thong back into my bag and pull out slacks and a crisp white shirt instead. I button up, tuck everything in properly, and check myself in the small mirror. Professional. Boring. Exactly what they deserve right now.

When I step out to perform my duties as the fully clothed and tucked-in flight attendant, I'm surprised that the guys don't give me any trouble at all. No lewd comments, no wandering hands, no requests for me to bend over just a little bit more when reaching for something. They drink their champagne, congratulate themselves on being the captains of industry, slap each other on the back while talking about quarterly earnings and market shares, and for the most part, relax into their leather seats like the kings they believe themselves to be.

After making my rounds through the cabin, I grab a seat in the back next to Daddy, settling into the plush leather that probably costs more than my car. The cabin has finally quieted down, the earlier tension dissipating into the hum of the engines.

"Well, you look nice," he says, glancing up from his phone with an approving nod.

"Well, I feel like a nun," I say, tugging at my collar.

"But a hot nun," he says, flashing that mischievous smile that makes it impossible to stay annoyed with him. It's the same smile that got me into this whole arrangement in the first place.

"I really don't know where you find the time to be amused by everything."

I fasten the seatbelt out of habit even though no one else is wearing theirs. Old habits die hard, I guess. My mom drilled that into me when I was like five, back when she still gave a shit about my safety.

"Everything is gonna work itself out, Neil," he says, putting his phone down and giving me his full attention now. It's one of the things I appreciate about him—when he focuses on you, you're the only person in the world.

"How can you be so sure?" I ask, genuinely wanting to know what gives him such unshakeable confidence. I wish I could bottle whatever it is and take a shot of it every morning.

The plane shudders violently, and I grip the armrest instinctively. The captain comes over the intercom to apologize on behalf of the wind, as if the wind gives a shit about his apology. A few of the guys up front shift in their seats, but no one seems particularly concerned.

A moment later, Mitch gets up from his seat near the front and walks towards the back, weaving slightly as the plane continues to shake. He steadies himself with one hand on the overhead compartments. He doesn't look at me until he gets right up to where I'm sitting, standing there awkwardly in the aisle with his hands shoved in his pockets.

"Hey, can we talk?" he asks, his voice tight and strained.

I look at Daddy, raising an eyebrow. The all-knowing Daddy who seems to predict everything before it happens.

"Just call me Cleo," he says in the worst Jamaican accent I've ever heard, doing some ridiculous hand gesture like he's reading a crystal ball.

"Ya know, if she was really psychic, she would have seen that cancer before it metastasized all over her body," I say flatly.

Daddy winces but doesn't lose the smile. "Dark, Neil. Very dark."

I look back over at Mitch, who's still standing there waiting, looking more uncomfortable by the second. "Sure."

I unfasten the belt with a click and stand up, brushing past Mitch as I head to the very back of the plane. He follows me to the tiny galley area where we can have some semblance of privacy, away from the others and their champagne-fueled conversations.

"Do you need another glass of champagne?" I ask, because that seems like the most logical reason he'd want to talk to me. It's certainly not to continue our earlier argument.

"No, it's not that," he says, clearly nervous, shifting his weight from foot to foot. His hands keep moving—from his pockets to his sides and back again.

"What? You wanna send me to a 12-step program for sluts?" The words come out harsher than I intended, but I'm tired of being judged. Tired of people acting like they know what's best for me.

"Fuck—man—no," he says, half pacing in the small space and biting his lower lip, a nervous habit I've noticed he does when he's stressed. The galley is barely big enough for two people, so his pacing is more like swaying back and forth.

Whatever it is, it's eating at him. I can see it in the way his jaw clenches and his eyes won't meet mine, darting everywhere except my face. Then he stops. He just goes completely still, like he's made some kind of decision, steeling himself for whatever comes next.

"I owe you a huge fucking apology," he says, finally looking me straight in the eyes.

Well, I certainly wasn't expecting that. Of all the things I thought he might say—another lecture, maybe, or some condescending advice—this wasn't on the list. I start to agree with him, opening my mouth to say something sarcastic, but then he speaks again before I can get a word out.

"I had no fucking right to tell you how to live your life. None. Zero."

"No, you didn't," I say, crossing my arms and leaning back against the counter, waiting to see where this is going. Part of me wants to make him squirm a little longer, but another part is curious about what prompted this sudden change of heart.

"Where is all this coming from?" I ask, studying his face for any sign that this is some kind of setup.

"Hell if I know," he says, running a hand through his hair in that way that makes it stick up at odd angles. "I just know I hurt you and that doesn't sit well with me. I really do respect you."

I let that sink in for a moment, watching him shift his weight from one foot to the other. The sincerity in his voice catches me off guard—there's no trace of the condescension from before, no hint of superiority. Just genuine regret.

"Well, I'm glad to hear you say that," I say, and I mean it. The tension in my shoulders eases just a fraction.

We stand there in silence, the hum of the plane's engines filling the space between us. It's not uncomfortable exactly, but there's a weight to it—the kind that comes after something important has been said and neither person knows quite how to move forward.

"Now what?" I finally ask.

"You know that awkward moment after someone apologizes and the other person accepts but then they don't know what to do?" he asks, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Yeah—"

"This is that part," I say, and despite everything, I feel my own lips quirk upward.

"Well, there's gotta be a way I can make it up to you," he says, his eyes meeting mine with an earnestness that makes my pulse quicken.

I smile menacingly, standing there as thoughts bounce around my head, each one more devious than the last.

"Maybe there is."

About ten minutes later, I emerge from the back of the plane and make my way down the narrow aisle to take my seat. My heart is still racing a little from the conversation, from the shift in energy between us.

"Everything okay?" Daddy asks, glancing up from his tablet with that concerned look he gets when he's trying to read me.

"I will be," I say, settling into the leather seat and buckling myself in. I can feel the anticipation building in my chest, a mixture of satisfaction and something else I can't quite name.

A minute or so later, Mitch emerges from the back. He's sporting nothing but a harness and white thong that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination, his muscled frame on full display as he walks down the aisle with as much dignity as a man in his position can muster.

I lean back in my seat, unable to suppress the grin spreading across my face as I watch him approach. The fabric—what little there is of it—clings to him in ways that make it impossible to look away. "Looks like we've got new inflight entertainment."

The other five guys immediately erupt. They hoot and holler, their cat calls echoing through the cabin as Mitch makes his way forward, his jaw tight but his stride steady.

"Now what?" he asks, stopping in front of me. There's a challenge in his eyes despite the flush creeping up his neck.

"Why are you asking me?" I keep my tone innocent, enjoying every second of this.

"You're the one who made me put on this ridiculous getup," he says, gesturing down at himself with barely restrained frustration.

"I don't recall you saying that a couple of days ago." I let the words hang there, watching his expression shift as the memory hits him.

His eyes narrow. "Can I take this off now?"

"Mitch—I can't imagine anyone here stopping you," I say flatly, though we both know that's not entirely true. He could walk away right now if he really wanted to. But he won't. Not yet.

"I look like—"

Trace cuts him off with a low whistle. "A hot piece of man meat?"

I nod appreciatively, letting my gaze travel over him slowly. "I mean, check out that package. You're gonna give UPS a run for their money."

He gives me a look—half exasperation, half something darker that makes my stomach flip.

"Why don't you give Sully a little lap dance," I suggest, my voice casual despite the heat building in the cabin.

Daddy, still on his tablet, deploys music across the cabin.

I unbuckle myself and stand, moving toward the wall as the moment unfolds. There's one thing to watch from over the heads of the people in front of you, but it's something else entirely when you watch the way it was meant to be watched—up close and personal. The same way they all watched me the other day.

"Oh hell yeah," Sully shouts from his seat, already spreading his legs in anticipation.

Mitch stands there for a second, and I can see the exact moment he decides to commit. His jaw sets, his shoulders drop, and something shifts in his posture—from resistant to resigned to something else entirely. Something that looks almost like defiance.

"Fine," he says, and walks over to Sully.

The cabin goes quiet. Everyone's watching.

Mitch positions himself between Sully's legs, hands on the armrests, and starts moving his hips in a slow grind to the beat of the music. It's awkward at first—he's clearly never done this before—but then he finds a rhythm, and fuck, it's hot. The harness straps across his chest catch the light. The thong leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination.

"Jesus Christ," Bobby mutters from across the cabin.

Sully's grinning like he just won the lottery, hands hovering near Mitch's hips but not quite touching. "You're a natural, man."

"Shut up," Mitch says, but there's no heat in it.

I'm leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching the whole thing unfold. This is what I needed—not the apology, not the explanation. This. Mitch participating instead of trying to save me from myself. Mitch in the same position I was in, being watched, being objectified, being part of the show.

He turns around, grinding his ass against Sully's lap, and Sully's hands finally make contact—gripping Mitch's hips, pulling him closer. The bulge in that thong is getting more pronounced by the second.

"Fuck," Evan breathes.

Mitch glances over his shoulder at me, and there's something in his eyes—challenge, maybe. Or permission. Like he's asking if this is what I wanted.

I nod once.

He turns back to Sully, drops lower, grinds harder. Sully's hands slide up Mitch's torso, fingers tracing the leather straps of the harness, and Mitch's breathing is getting heavier. The cabin smells like sweat and arousal and expensive cologne.

"Alright," I say, pushing off the wall. "That's enough of a warm-up."

Mitch reaches for the straps of the thong, hooking his thumbs under the elastic and pulling them out slightly. His cock is clearly hard, straining against the thin fabric, and we can all see the wet spot where his precum has soaked through. Sully's been massaging himself through his pants, and just like in the sauna, all the guys are touching themselves now. I think, why the fuck not?

I reach my hand down the front of my pants and squeeze my cock, giving it a slow stroke. The pressure feels good, grounding. Mitch still hasn't fully committed—he's teasing Sully with every deliberate roll of his hips, drawing it out. He plays with the straps, pulling them down inch by inch, just enough that we can see the dark trail of hair below his navel now.

Audible moans drift through the cabin as the guys slowly pull their cocks free and start stroking them, no longer pretending this is anything other than what it is.

Fuck.

Sully has one hand down his pants now, stroking himself, and the other hand is firmly gripping Mitch's ass, fingers digging into the muscle.

Mitch reaches for the thong again, hooking his thumbs fully into the waistband and slides the thong down—slowly, deliberately—until his cock springs free. He's thick, uncut, and leaking. The thong drops to his ankles, and he steps out of it, completely naked except for the leather harness across his chest.

Continue reading with full access to The House of Thorne.

UNLOCK FULL ACCESS