The plane from Ibiza touches down late at CDG. Gérard crashes early in his room, jet-lagged. I can’t sleep. Heart pounding from our beach confession. Michel haunts me. I grab my keycard, suitcase wheels rumbling down the sterile corridor. Airport hotel hums with transit ghosts. Elevators ding, strangers shuffle. I hit the lounge bar, neon lights flickering over runways. Jet engines roar outside, promising escape tomorrow.
Dim seats, ice clinking. I order a gin tonic, fingers trembling. Then, eyes lock. Michel. Here? Training conference, he says, sipping soda. Coincidence? Fate. His green eyes pierce, same as the fumoir kiss. No names whispered. We’re ghosts in transit. No prison walls, no Gérard upstairs. Tomorrow, I’m gone. Back to Bois-d’Arcy routine. Urgency ignites. We talk fast. Work, strikes, that dropped file. Cheeks brush memory floods. His hand grazes mine. Electric. ‘One night,’ I whisper. Anonymity shields us. Room 417. Keycard beeps green.
The Layover
Door clicks shut. Suitcase unzips half-forgotten. City lights pulse through curtains, runways glow. He pins me against the wall, mouth crashing. Hungry. Crude. My blouse rips open, buttons ping. ‘Fuck, Catherine,’ he growls. Hands everywhere. Skirt hikes, panties yanked. His cock hard, straining jeans. I drop to knees, airport hum vibrating. Taste him. Salty, urgent. He groans, fingers tangle my hair. Pulls me up, throws me on bed. Sheets crisp, impersonal. Legs spread wide. He dives in, tongue lashing pussy. Wet, throbbing. I buck, nails rake his back. ‘Now,’ I beg.
The Transit
He thrusts deep. Raw, pounding. No rubber—risky thrill. Body slams slap against mine. Sweat slicks skin. Corridor voices murmur past door. Adrenaline spikes. Flip me doggy, view runways blurring. Cock stretches, hits spots Gérard never finds. I scream into pillow, orgasms rip. He grunts, fills me hot. Collapse tangled. Breaths sync. No words. Just skin, heat, transit pulse.
Dawn cracks. Runway lights fade. He dresses quick. Last kiss, lingering. ‘Back to reality,’ I murmur. Keycard slides at desk. Wheels roll to gate. Gérard waits, clueless or not. Plane roars. Michel’s scent clings. One-night scar. Perfect detour.