Layover Friends with Benefits

Marcus stepped off the shuttle into the blast of Chicago wind, snow swirling around the automatic doors of the airport Hilton like it had a personal grudge. Twelve fucking hours to kill on a weather delay, and the lobby already smelled like stale coffee and wet wool. He rolled his carry-on past the check-in desk, black uniform shirt still crisp under his open coat, the gold wings on his chest catching the light. At twenty-eight he still looked every bit the sharp flight attendant—tall, broad-shouldered, dark skin glowing under the harsh fluorescents, smile ready even when he was bone-tired.

He almost missed her at the hotel bar.

Brooke sat perched on a stool like she owned the place, blonde hair loose over the shoulders of a tailored white blouse, black pencil skirt riding high on crossed thighs. Twenty-four, corporate lawyer, the kind of frequent flyer who always took the aisle and ordered vodka sodas with a twist. They’d traded looks and filthy little comments for months—her eyes dropping to the bulge in his slacks when he leaned in to take her drink order at thirty thousand feet, his voice dropping low when he asked if she needed anything else, anything at all. Tonight the snow had trapped them both.

He slid onto the stool beside her without asking. “Brooke. Fancy meeting the snowbunny who keeps stealing the armrest.”

She turned, blue eyes lighting up like Christmas morning. “Marcus. Still the hottest thing in a uniform this side of the jet bridge.” Her gaze dragged down his chest, lingering. “Twelve-hour layover, huh? Poor baby. All alone with that big dick and nowhere to put it.”

He laughed, low and rough, ordering a whiskey neat. “You keep talking like that and I’m gonna think you’ve been thinking about it.”

“Thinking?” She leaned in, perfume sharp and expensive, lips glossy. “I’ve been dripping on every flight you’ve worked since June. That thick Black cock outlined in your pants when you bend over to grab blankets? I finger myself in the first-class bathroom picturing it splitting me open.” She took a slow sip of her drink, tongue flicking the rim. “Tell me you’ve stroked it thinking about my tight white pussy choking it.”

Marcus’s cock twitched hard against his zipper. “Every goddamn layover. Imagined bending you over the jump seat, yanking that skirt up, and ruining you until you screamed for the whole cabin to hear. You’re not subtle, counselor. Those little moans when I brush past? Pure fucking invitation.”