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Out of the Clear Blue Sky: Vignettes

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“They called it the ship of dreams,” Jamie warbled in his best old-Rose impression, “and it was… it really was.”

Grinning, I smacked his backside as I climbed up into the crew rest area after him. The Boeing 787 Dreamliners were aptly named, and while Virgin Atlantic boasted a fleet of the massive planes, Delta hadn’t yet purchased any.  

“Jealous much?” 

“Och, aye.” He glanced around in open admiration before reaching down for my hand to help me up the last couple of steps. “This is bigger than some of the flats I’ve rented in Manhattan.”

I snorted in amusement. “Hopefully the ceilings were a bit higher.” Jamie had several inches on me, and even I had to stoop to avoid hitting my head; he was practically folded in half as he made a beeline for one of the two beds that occupied the space. 

“Doesnae matter.” With a smirk at me over his shoulder, he dropped to his knees on the mattress and bounced a few times for effect. “I dinna plan to spend much time standing, Sassenach.”

“Oh, neither do I,” I deadpanned as I flopped down next to him. Arching an arm up over my head in an exaggerated stretch, I faux-yawned, “I’ve only got four hours, so I’d best get straight to sleep if I’m going t—”

Whatever cheeky remark I was going to make was smothered into a giggling hum as his lips crashed against mine, hungry and insistent. Any pretense of disinterest crumbled when his tongue swept over the seam of my lips, begging entrance; I opened for him on a panting breath, tasted him like a woman starved. Neither one of us could get our clothes off fast enough, or even decide who was undressing whom — lips locked, we clawed and writhed and kicked our way out of my pristine uniform, his leather jacket and jeans and henley. Jamie didn’t even have the patience to get me out of my bra; once I was wearing nothing else, he finally detached from our kiss to latch onto my breast instead, licking and biting at the nipple through the delicate red lace, then scooping it out from the cup so he could suck  the full areola deep into his mouth.

I must have been making a fair amount of noise — I couldn’t bloody well think, let alone hear myself — because he released my breast with a wet popping sound and returned his grinning lips to mine. 

“We’re going to have to do something about yer wee noises, Sassenach, if we mean tae do this wi’out getting caught.” His eyes swept over my heaving torso darkly. “I havena even begun.”

“I do not,” I insisted, raising my chin loftily, “make wee noises.” 

His eyebrows twitched and his smile lines deepened. “Do ye not?”


There was no warning whatsoever: in one swift movement, he took his shaft in hand, kneed my thighs apart, and rammed into me so hard and so deep that he immediately made a liar out of me. 

Technically speaking, though, I was right; the noises I made were not particularly wee.

Jamie’s calloused hand clamped over my mouth to stifle a long, low, guttural moan as he began to roll his hips, pushing up and in, exactly where I needed him. Lips smeared against his palm, I panted hard through my nose as I began to buck against him, giving as good as I got. Our eyes locked, black and glittering, and then we were off — two competitors in our favorite sport: fucking one another mercilessly in a race to see who could finish the other first.

Granted, Jamie had a decent head start on me, and by mid-game the odds were stacked overwhelmingly in his favor. He had me glistening with sweat before he’d even broken one himself, having found just the right angle to graze my clit with every thrust. Arching higher off the bed each time, I sunk my bottom teeth into the fleshy part of his palm as I choked out a muffled string of obscenities.

“That’s it,” he murmured against the curve of my neck. “That’s it, a nighean. Fuck, ye’re so tight when ye’re about to come, do ye know that?” 

His hand was so slippery with sweat that I was able to wrench my mouth away with ease. “So are you,” I shot back breathlessly.

Jamie barely had time to furrow his brow in question before I’d snaked a hand around him to cup the heavy weight of his balls. All at once he froze, his whole body going rigid as a board. He held his breath, his face flushed almost purple, his tendons straining and his veins standing out like cords.

Smirking like the cat who got the canary, I moved the pads of my fingers gently — very, very gently — like I was rolling dice. 

“That’s it,” I echoed hoarsely. “There’s a good lad.” Twining my free hand in his hair, I tugged his open mouth down to mine and whispered against his lips, “Let go, Jamie. I want to feel you come inside me.”

“Fuck,” he sobbed brokenly. I slid my tongue over his in a quick kiss like the excellent sportswoman I was, knowing full well I’d won; I could already feel his bollocks contracting in my hand. Fortunately, he’d done an admirable job of getting me right to the edge, and as he began to thrust erratically, I slipped my fingers between my thighs to finish myself in a frenzy right behind him. 

Neither one of us had the wherewithal to smother the noises we made as we broke one right after the other, cursing and trembling and spent.

Flopped over onto our backs, side by side, chests heaving, we both grinned at the ceiling for a while before Jamie wheezed, “Is it… just me or… does the thinner air… make it feel more…” He paused to swallow, wetting his dry lips and gesticulating as he looked for the right word. “Euphoric, somehow?”

I hummed, dropping my head to the side so I could kiss the cap of his shoulder. “Well, they do call it the Mile High Club.”

His whole body shook with a belly laugh as he rolled over to face me. “I… I think I need an… oxygen mask. A Dhia...” Still panting out little huffs of laughter, he threaded his fingers into the hair at my nape and drew me in until our foreheads touched. 

“I do believe that makes it eighteen to sixteen, soldier,” I murmured, beaming as I nuzzled the tip of his nose with mine. 

“Sixteen? I have seventeen, ye wee cheat!”

“No. We called Dubai a draw, remember?”

He paused for a moment, considering, then relaxed against me again. “Alright, sixteen.”

Sighing contentedly, I twined our fingers together, then brought his fingertips to my lips. “Not such a terrible game to lose anyway.”

“No,” he whispered against my hairline. I could feel my eyes growing heavy, my body going slack against his as the sweat cooled on our skin. “No, mo chridhe, it isn’t.”