The airport buzzed—announcements blaring, suitcases clattering, the air thick with coffee, stress, and jet fuel. Mia, 30, leaned against a steel pillar in Terminal C, her Denver flight delayed two hours. Her navy dress hugged her curves, drawing glances she barely registered. Her mind was elsewhere—restless, wound tight. A new city. A new job. A future she wasn’t sure she wanted.

She wasn’t in the mood for polite.

Then she saw him.

He stood at a smoothie stand, white shirt rolled to the elbows, strong hands wrapped around a plastic cup. His mouth closed around a straw in a way that made her feel indecent. Tall. Tanned. Unbothered by the world’s noise. When his gaze met hers—calm, direct, hungry without apology—something in her belly lit like a warning flare.

She drifted closer, slow and deliberate. When she brushed his arm, it wasn’t an accident. A bead of mango smoothie slipped down his wrist.

“My bad,” she said, smiling as if the day had finally become interesting. “I’ll make it up to you”.

He looked her over like he was already imagining how she tasted. “You got a plan?”

She nodded toward the nursing pod across the concourse. Discreet. Clean. Just private enough. “Three minutes,” she said. “Don’t chicken out.”

He didn’t ask her name. She didn’t ask his. But the cup said Allan.

She slipped inside the pod, the hush closing around her. The air was cold, buzzing faintly with recycled oxygen and faint antiseptic. A cushioned bench. A folding table. The smallest kind of room, and exactly enough. She sat, crossed her legs, and waited.

The lock clicked. The door opened.

He stepped in, collar loose, chest warm and tan beneath white cotton. The space shrank with him in it.

“Bold move,” he said.

“I don’t do tame.”

She pulled him in by the shirt. Their mouths met with heat, no ceremony—tasting of mango and tension. She pushed him down onto the bench, her knees bracketing his hips. Her dress slid up her thighs as she straddled him. Beneath her, he was hard already, and her body ached with the relief of it.

She undid his belt, the clink startling in the quiet.

“You always this dangerous before takeoff?” he murmured.

She didn’t answer. She just rocked her hips against him, slow and taunting.

A knock cracked the moment.

“Anyone in there?” A woman’s voice—sharp, institutional.

Mia stilled.

Ethan didn’t. His hand slid beneath her dress, fingers skimming the soaked silk of her thong. He mouthed: Answer.

“Occupied,” she called, voice tight, nearly breathless.

The footsteps faded.

She bit his lip. “You’re bad.”

“Worse than that.”

She reached into her bag, pulled out a condom. Tore it open with her teeth and rolled it down his shaft, slow and sure, her eyes locked on his. Then she sank onto him—inch by inch—stretching, filling, her breath catching in her throat.

He groaned low as she moved, her thighs clenching, the bench squeaking beneath them. Outside the thin wall, the airport hummed—voices, wheels, gate changes. But in here, it was only heat and thrust, pressure and risk.

She moved harder. Tugged his hair. Ground her hips. Everything in her clenched.

“Come for me,” she whispered, breath trembling.

Her orgasm hit—sharp, silent, a wave that stole her breath. She rode it out, and seconds later, he followed with a groan, clutching her tight as he spilled into her.

They stayed tangled a moment, breathing hard in the dim light. Then they separated quickly, wordlessly.

Mia straightened her dress with shaking hands. Ethan buttoned his shirt, grinning like a man who’d survived something deliciously stupid.

“Best delay ever,” he said.

“Don’t get cocky,” she replied, slipping back into the blur of gates and strangers.

At her gate, her phone buzzed.

New Email: Welcome to the Denver Team!

She tapped it open. A team photo loaded.

Her stomach twisted.

There he was.

Allan Carter. Senior Manager.

Her new boss.

Denver was about to get complicated.