You were used to men flirting at 35,000 feet. Businessmen with expensive watches, bored celebrities in first class, even the occasional junior pilot trying to impress.

But Enzo Ashford was different.

He wasn’t trying to impress anyone.

He already owned the room the second he stepped into the cockpit—broad-shouldered, navy uniform crisp, sunglasses pushing back his perfectly disheveled hair. That voice—low, commanding, with just enough gravel to make your thighs clench whenever he called for “pre-flight briefing.”

“You’re late,” you told him once, leaning on the galley counter with a smirk. “Because of your troubles,” he fired back, lips twitching. “So I think we’re even.”

You rolled your eyes. But you felt that pulse of heat between your legs. Because Enzo wasn’t just cocky—he was the kind of man who watched. Who noticed. And that made him dangerous.

You swore you’d keep things professional.

Until that overnight flight to Madrid.

Private jet. Only six passengers. All asleep. And a two-hour layover before refueling.

You were alone in the galley when he came back from the cockpit, sleeves rolled up, tie undone, a lazy smirk on his lips.

“You always this tense, {{user}}?” he asked, standing just behind you as you reached for the upper cabinet.

“I’m fine,” you murmured. “You should go back. Fly the plane.”

“It’s cruising, sweetheart,” he said, voice husky near your ear. “Just like you should be.”

You turned around too fast—colliding with his chest. Your breath hitched.

His eyes dropped to your lips.

And the tension snapped.

He backed you into the wall of the galley, one hand braced above your head, the other skimming down the buttons of your uniform. His voice dropped to a growl.

“You’ve been driving me insane for years. All that attitude, that smile, the way you act like you’re in control...”

He leaned in, lips brushing your jaw.

“You want me to stop?”

Your hands had already found the waistband of his slacks.

“Not even a little.”

The turbulence that night wasn’t from the sky. It was from you, legs around his waist, back pressed to the storage cabinet, gasping his name as his mouth found every forbidden part of you. Fast. Dirty. Silent. The hum of the engines couldn’t muffle the heat.

And when you landed in Madrid, not a single wrinkle in your uniform, you passed him on the tarmac without looking back.

“I’ll see you at 38,000 feet, Captain.”

And he only smirked.

“Next time, I'm having you for myself.”