26-08-2026, 02:00 AM
Chapter 142: Deep inside Summer, High in the Sky.
# Scene 1
The invitation landed two days after the booster touched down clean. No tip. No fire. Just the slow mechanical perfection of eight landing legs settling onto concrete while a crowd that had learned not to breathe finally remembered how.
Selvam read the email twice. Seoul Digital Innovation Summit. A three-day technical showcase with ministerial attendance and seven-figure procurement budgets.
Summer built the sensor-fusion stack. Every line of code that made the trucks see through fog and rain and the peculiar half-light of a Seoul winter afternoon had come through her hands. The engineers would drill her on the details. Not Vanitha.
Vanitha was in Los Gatos. The boutique fabric shipment had arrived with a customs problem... three crates of hand-loomed silk held at SFO until someone with the right paperwork showed up in person. She was also the CHRO onboarding forty new engineering hires. The headcount expansion was running two weeks behind schedule.
Selvam called her from the office.
“We need to go to Seoul,” Selvam said. “The Digital Innovation Summit. Three days of summit, then we extend the trip. Ten days total. You and I.”
“Take Summer.” No pause. Her voice carried the warm precision she used for decisions she’d already made. “She knows the sensor fusion better than anyone.”
“She built it.”
“Yes.”
“Will you be... ”
“I’m fine, mama. I am behind the onboarding initiative. Go to Seoul. Build the market.”
She paused. One beat.
“Tell Summer to keep me updated.”
“On the presentation?”
“On everything.”
The call ended. He sat with the phone in his hand for three seconds longer than necessary.
The Dassault Falcon 8X private jet left San Francisco at 8:17 PM. Fourteen hours to Seoul. The cabin smelled of fresh leather and the particular clean absence of commercial aviation. No recycled air. No overhead announcements. Just the low hum of turbines and the soft click of Summer’s keyboard.
She sat forward. Laptop open on the polished table. The screencast a blue glow across her face that softened the sharp Nordic angles into something warmer. Her dark blonde hair was pulled back, a few strands loose at her temples. She wore a fitted white blazer over a pale blue blouse, the kind of professional arrangement that didn’t announce itself but left no ambiguity about the woman wearing it.
Her fingers moved across the keyboard. Refining the Q&A prep materials. The presentation deck was already locked... ninety slides, clean typography, no animations... but Summer had insisted on building a secondary document.
Selvam sat across from her with the Korean regulatory brief. Thirty-seven pages of dense legalese translated by a contractor who charged too much and delivered exactly what was needed. The autonomous vehicle framework was structured. Predictable. The kind of regulatory environment that rewarded precision and punished ambiguity.
He looked up. “The liability clause. Section four, paragraph twelve.”
Summer didn’t look away from her screen. “The one where the vehicle manufacturer assumes full responsibility if the software fails during pedestrian interaction?”
“Yes.”
“It’s standard in every market that matters. We indemnify. We insure. We move on.”
He nodded. Returned to the brief.
The cabin fell quiet. Not awkward. The particular productive silence of two people who had shared enough conference rooms to know when talk was necessary and when it wasn’t. The engines hummed beneath them. The Pacific unspooled as darkness.
Three hours passed. Summer’s screen stayed bright. Her posture never changed... spine straight, shoulders relaxed, the particular physical discipline of someone who had spent enough time in front of cameras to understand that comfort and composure were not the same thing.
The cabin lights dimmed automatically at some point. The transition was smooth... bright white to warm amber in a gradient that took ninety seconds. The windows went black. The Pacific was there but invisible, thirty-eight thousand feet below, carrying nothing but depth and distance.
Jiyeon entered from the forward galley. Korean. Composed. Her uniform pressed with the particular attention of someone who understood that luxury was in the details, not the announcement. She carried a tray with two flutes of champagne. The bottle was already on ice at her station.
“Mr. Chandran. Ms. Hamilton.” Her accent was minimal. Her English precise. “Estimated arrival at Incheon is fourteen-oh-seven local time. Weather is clear. Temperature nineteen Celsius.”
She set the flutes on the table. Summer looked up. Her eyes found the champagne, then Selvam’s face, then the champagne again.
“Thank you,” Selvam said.
Jiyeon nodded once and withdrew. Her shoes made no sound on the carpet.
Summer reached for her flute. The champagne was pale gold. Cold. She took a sip without looking at him.
“Fourteen hours is a long time to sit upright.”
Selvam closed his laptop. The soft click filled the small space between them.
“You should sleep,” he said. “The presentation isn’t until day two. You have time.”
“Sleep where? These chairs are built for people who don’t have spines.”
“The suite.”
She held the flute between two fingers. The amber light caught the liquid and held it.
“Just sleep?”
“If that’s what you need.”
Her mouth curved. Left corner higher than the right. The particular expression that lived somewhere between challenge and invitation and never settled on either.
“Are you going to help me sleep?”
The question hung. Warm. Charged. The particular heat that had been building between them since the last time they had sex in the new penthouse floor of the Vanmmer headquarters.
Selvam stood. He extended his arms towards her.
“Come on.”
She closed her laptop. She let her hand rest on his, and the two of them moved toward the rear of the aircraft where the private suite waited with its queen-width bed and its reading lamp and its small window showing nothing but dark.
# Scene 2
The suite door closed behind them with a soft hydraulic hiss. Cream linen on the queen bed. A low reading lamp casting amber across the narrow space. The small window showed nothing but black... Pacific dark, thirty-eight thousand feet down, the kind of depth that made the bed feel both smaller and more necessary.
Summer sat on the edge of the mattress. The blazer was still on.
Selvam stood in the narrow gap between the bed and the bulkhead. The engines hummed beneath them, a steady forward pressure that vibrated through the frame and into the soles of his shoes.
He reached for her face. Both hands. Cupped her jaw with the deliberate, unhurried care that was his specific register.
She leaned into him before he finished the motion. Her forehead pressed against his sternum. Her hands found his wrists and held there, fingers warm against his skin.
The blazer came off first. He lifted it from her shoulders with both hands, slow, letting the fabric slide across her arms. She raised them to help. The blouse underneath was pale blue, thin cotton, the top two buttons already undone from hours at the laptop.
He started at the third button. His fingers worked each one with the same measured patience he brought to everything... no rush, no performance, just the clean arithmetic of a man who understood that some things were worth the time they took.
Summer watched his face. Her eyes tracked his hands, then his mouth, then his eyes. The amber light softened everything... the sharp Nordic angles of her cheekbones, the full curve of her lower lip, the particular warmth that lived in her expression when she wasn’t being watched by anyone but him.
Button four. Five. Six. The blouse fell open. Her skin beneath was pale gold in the low light, the particular warm fairness that came from Nordic blood and California sun. Her breasts were full beneath a simple black bra, the fabric stretched across curves that the blazer had hidden completely.
He reached behind her. Found the clasp. One smooth motion and the bra loosened, the straps sliding from her shoulders with a soft whisper of elastic and cotton. She let it fall. Didn’t catch it. Just sat there with her chest bare, her shoulders back, her eyes on his.
Selvam’s hands found her breasts. Both palms. The weight of them filled his grip... full, soft, the nipples already hard against his thumbs. He traced the curve of each one slowly, feeling the particular give of flesh that was both firm and yielding, and Summer’s breath caught audibly in the quiet suite.
His mouth found her left nipple. Warm. Wet. His tongue pressed flat against the hardened tip, then circled, then sucked with the focus.
Summer exhaled sharply. Her hand flew to the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair, gripping hard enough that he felt the pull at the roots.
She didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. The sound she made... low, broken, the particular gasp of a woman being touched exactly where she wanted... carried everything.
He took his time. Left breast, then right. Alternating between them with the unhurried rhythm of someone who had fourteen hours and no intention of rushing through the first one. His mouth was warm. His tongue was specific. He sucked each nipple until it peaked harder against his lips, then moved to the other, then returned.
Summer’s breathing changed completely. Shorter. Quicker. The hand in his hair tightened with each pass. Her other hand found his shirt and pulled... less patience now, fingers clutching fabric, the particular urgency.
He let her rush him. His shirt came off over his head. Her hands spread across his chest the moment the fabric cleared... palms flat against the muscle, fingers tracing the lines of his pectorals, the ridges of his abdomen, the particular disciplined architecture of a body built through decades of deliberate work.
His belt came next. Her fingers found the buckle, worked it open, pulled the leather free with a soft rasp. His cock was already hard against the front of his trousers, the outline clear through the fabric. Summer’s hand brushed it once, deliberately, her palm warm through the cotton, and Selvam’s jaw tightened.
He pushed her back onto the bed. Not roughly. The motion was controlled... one hand at her shoulder, guiding her down until her head met the pillow and the cream linen settled around her dark blonde hair. She was bare from the waist up, her breasts full and peaked, her skin pale gold against the white sheets.
He braced his forearms on either side of her head. The position put his face inches from hers, his chest above her, his cock pressing against the junction of her thighs through the fabric of his trousers and her skirt. The amber light caught the contrast perfectly... his dark skin against her fair shoulders, the particular visual arithmetic of two bodies that had arrived at the same destination from opposite directions.
“I missed fucking you, Summer,” he said. Quiet. Clear.
Summer’s mouth curved. “mm.”
He reached between them. Found the waistband of her skirt, pushed it down her hips. She lifted to help. The fabric gathered around her thighs, then her knees, then he pulled it free entirely and dropped it to the floor. Her underwear followed... simple black cotton, already damp at the center. He hooked two fingers under the elastic and drew them down her legs in one smooth motion.
She was bare. Completely. Her body open beneath him, her thighs parted, the pale gold of her skin warming to something deeper in the low light. The patch between her legs was darker blonde, neatly trimmed, the hood of her clit visible and already swollen.
Selvam unzipped his trousers. Pulled his cock free. It was hard, full, the head dark and already wet. He positioned himself between her thighs, the tip pressing against her entrance, feeling the heat and wetness there.
He pressed against her entrance and stilled. “So wet,” he said.
He entered her slowly. One long, deliberate push that buried him to the root in a single measured stroke. The wet heat of her surrounded him completely... tight, warm, her inner walls gripping his shaft with a pressure that made his breath catch.
Summer’s back arched. Her head pressed into the pillow. Her thighs wrapped around his waist and locked, holding him deep inside her. For a beat, neither of them moved. Just the feeling of being joined, fully, completely, the particular stillness that came before motion.
Then her hips began to roll. Small, deliberate circles that ground her clit against the base of his cock with each rotation. Selvam held himself deep and let her move, feeling the wet friction build between them, watching her face in the amber light.
He began to thrust. Long, measured strokes that started unhurried and built toward something more purposeful. Each one drove him deep, then withdrew almost completely, then drove deep again. The rhythm was steady. Controlled. The particular pace of a man who understood that endurance was its own form of generosity.
His mouth found her throat. Her collarbone. The soft curve where her neck met her shoulder. He kissed each place with the same attention he’d given her breasts... thorough, specific, his tongue tracing the line of her pulse until he felt it quicken under his lips.
He returned to her mouth. Deep, open kisses between thrusts, his tongue meeting hers, his breath mixing with hers in the warm confines of the suite. Summer’s hands were everywhere... his shoulders, his back, tangling in his hair, gripping the sheets, moving with the particular abandon of a woman who had decided that composure was a currency she no longer needed to spend.
“Oh... ” The word escaped her, breathy and broken.
“God, right there... ” Her voice fractured as he hit the spot again, the moan rising in pitch, sharpening at the edges.
“Don’t stop... ” A gasp, then a laugh that dissolved into something raw.
“Fuck, Selvam, I fucking missed this... ” She cut herself off with a sharp inhale as he shifted angle, her nails digging into his shoulders.
“Yes. Like that. Just... ” Her hips rolled against him, chasing the pressure building low in her spine. “Exactly like that.”
Selvam kept his rhythm. Steady. Deep. Each thrust drove into her with the measured force of a body that had been built for endurance and knew how to use it. His cock stretched her open, every ridge and vein leaving its signature on her wet inner walls, and the wet sounds of their joining filled the suite beneath the steady hum of engines.
Neither of them thought about the forward cabin. Neither of them thought about Seoul or presentations or regulatory frameworks or anything beyond the particular heat of skin against skin and the building, inevitable climb toward something neither of them was in any hurry to reach.
# Scene 3
The turbulence arrived without warning. One smooth stretch of air, then the fuselage shuddered... a lateral roll that sent the champagne glass on the side table skidding three inches across the surface before it hit the rim and stopped. The roll came again. Harder. A series of short, lateral pitches that pressed their bodies together with each downswing and separated them on the up.
Selvam was buried deep inside her when the first one hit. The downswing drove him harder, the angle shifting, the head of his cock pressing against something that made Summer gasp and dig her fingernails into his shoulders.
“Fuck... ” Her voice broke. “What was that?”
“Turbulence.” He braced one hand against the bulkhead. The fuselage shuddered again. Another lateral roll. The champagne glass rattled against the table edge.
Summer’s hips jerked with the motion. The downswing drove him deeper than he’d been before, the full length of his cock pressing against her cervix with a force that should have been too much and wasn’t. She gasped again. Louder. Her thighs clamped around his waist.
Then she laughed.
The sound was bright, sudden, completely unself-conscious... a full-throated laugh that broke through the moan she’d been building and landed somewhere between pleasure and absurdity.
Her head tilted back against the pillow. Her dark blonde hair spilled across the cream linen. She was laughing and gasping at the same time, her body responding to each roll with a helpless, delighted urgency that made the amber light catch the flush spreading across her chest.
Selvam kept his rhythm. The bulkhead was solid under his palm. Each lateral roll came, he adjusted his weight, kept the stroke consistent, and the downswing drove him deeper every time. The control of it... his body steady while thirty tons of aircraft moved around them... undid Summer completely.
Her laughter mixed with moans. Each roll brought both. Her hands gripped his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. Her hips rolled with the motion, meeting each downswing, taking the extra depth and turning it into something that made her breath catch behind her teeth.
The pressure built visibly. Her thighs trembled. Her back arched. The wet sounds of their joining grew louder, sharper, punctuated by the occasional metallic rattle of the champagne glass against the table and Summer’s voice filling every corner of the small suite.
She came during the worst of it. A long, lateral roll that held for three full seconds, driving Selvam deep and holding him there while Summer’s body locked around him. The orgasm rolled through her in loud, shuddering waves... her thighs clamped tight around his waist, her inner walls pulsing around his cock in rhythmic contractions he could feel through every inch of his shaft. She cried out. Once. Twice. The sound carried through the bulkhead and into whatever empty space lay beyond, and neither of them cared.
The champagne glass rattled furiously beside them. The fuselage shuddered. Summer’s body shook beneath him. He held himself deep and let her ride it, his hand still braced against the bulkhead, his breathing steady while hers came in ragged, broken pulls.
The air smoothed. Gradually. The lateral rolls eased into gentle pitches, then settled back to the steady forward hum that had been there all along. The champagne glass stopped rattling. The suite went quiet except for the sound of two people breathing hard in a bed that had survived its first test.
Summer pushed him onto his back. One smooth motion, her hands on his chest, her body shifting above him until she was straddling his hips with his cock still buried inside her. The position put her in control completely... her hands braced on his pectorals, her hips finding the angle she wanted with the precise, focused authority she brought to anything she had decided to do well.
From here, she could see his face fully. The amber light caught the silver at his temples, the lines at the corners of his eyes, the particular stillness of his expression as he watched her move above him. She studied him the way she studied data she cared about... reading every shift, every subtle change in his breathing, the way his jaw tightened when she ground her clit against the base of his cock on the downstroke.
He gripped her hips. His hands were large, warm, fingers pressing into the soft flesh of her ass with enough pressure to guide but not control. He said nothing. Let her set the pace. The silence was always the correct response with Summer, and she knew it.
She rode him slowly at first. Long, deliberate strokes that took him deep and almost withdrew, then deep again. Her breasts moved with each rise and fall, full and pale in the low light, her nipples hard and dark against the fair skin. Her back arched. Her head tilted. Her dark blonde hair fell forward around her face, then back, then forward again as the pace built.
The second orgasm arrived differently. Slower. Deeper. A warmth that built low in her pelvis and spread outward through her hips and into her thighs until the trembling was visible. Her rhythm faltered. Her hands pressed harder against his chest. Her head dropped forward, hair falling around both of them, and when it broke she made a sound that was half-moan, half-sob, her inner walls clenching around him in waves that made his own control threaten to slip.
He held. Let her ride it. His hands steady on her hips, his breathing controlled, his cock buried to the root inside her while she came apart above him and put herself back together one shuddering breath at a time.
They lay like that for a while. Naked. Summer sprawled across his chest, one leg hooked over his thigh, the sheets pulled halfway across her back. Her breath warmed his skin. The champagne glass sat silent on the side table. The Pacific was still black outside the small window. The engines hummed.
Then the knock.
Soft. Professional. Three precise taps on the suite door.
Jiyeon’s voice came through the panel. Neutral. Measured. “Mr. Chandran. I’m bringing the champagne you requested earlier. Would now be convenient?”
Summer buried her face in his chest. Her shoulders shook once... not with laughter, with the particular mortification of a woman who had just been thoroughly fucked on a private jet and now had to acknowledge that the person bringing champagne had almost certainly heard every sound she’d made.
Selvam’s hand found the back of her head. His fingers worked through her dark blonde hair, calming, present.
“Now is fine,” he called through the door. His voice was entirely composed. The same register he used for board meetings and rocket landings and telling flight attendants that yes, the naked woman on his chest would like champagne.
The door opened. Jiyeon stepped in with the tray... a fresh bottle of Billecart-Salmon, two clean flutes, a small dish of ice keeping everything at the correct temperature. Her eyes moved across the scene once. The rumpled sheets. The naked bodies. The champagne glass that had skidded across the table during turbulence. Her expression did not change. Not a flicker. Not a raised eyebrow. Just the practiced, expressionless professionalism of a woman who had seen the suite used for exactly this purpose before and had long ago decided that her tip did not depend on her facial muscles.
She set the tray on the side table. Adjusted the flutes. Checked the bottle temperature with two fingers against the glass.
“Descent will begin in approximately four hours, Mr. Chandran. Weather at Incheon remains clear.”
“Thank you, Jiyeon.”
“Is there anything else required?”
“We’re fine. Let the rest of the crew know we come with a package. No interruptions until descent.”
She nodded once. Her expression remained exactly what it had been when she entered. She pulled the door closed behind her with the same soft hydraulic hiss that had sealed them in ninety minutes earlier.
Summer lifted her head from his chest. Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes were wide. She stared at him with the particular intensity of a woman who had just watched something she thought she understood reveal a new dimension.
“You are absolutely unbelievable.”
Selvam reached for the bottle. The cork came out with a soft pop. He poured two glasses, handed one to Summer, clinked his against hers.
“We are paying them well.”
She laughed. The sound filled the suite... bright, unrestrained, the particular laugh of someone who had just been caught naked by a flight attendant and discovered that the man responsible found the whole thing mildly amusing.
She laughed until she had to set the glass down. Until her shoulders shook. Until the sheets slipped further and her bare chest caught the amber light and Selvam watched her the way he watched things he had built that turned out better than the specifications suggested.
They finished the bottle talking.
She turned her head on his chest, her cheek warm against his skin, and looked up at him with the particular half-smile that meant she was about to say something she knew would get a reaction.
“Why do you think she told us we had four hours left?”
Selvam’s hand was still in her hair. His thumb traced the shell of her ear once, slow, before he shifted his weight and rolled toward her. His mouth found her right breast before she’d finished the sentence... open, warm, taking the full soft weight of it between his lips like he was eating something ripe and worth savoring.
“Mmm... ” His voice vibrated against her skin. “Maybe for this.”
Summer’s laugh caught in her throat and became something else. Her hand found the back of his head, fingers threading through the short dark hair at his nape, and she pulled him closer rather than pushing him away.
He worked his way down. Mouth trailing from her breast across the warm plane of her stomach, his tongue pressing flat against the soft skin above her navel, then lower. His hands spread her thighs apart with the same deliberate patience he’d used on her blouse buttons. The pale gold of her inner thighs, the darker blonde between them, the particular wet shine that told him she was ready before he’d even arrived.
He pressed his mouth against her. Flat. Warm. His tongue found her clit through the hood and circled it once, slow, feeling the swollen nub respond against his lips. Summer’s hips lifted off the mattress. Her breath came out in a sharp, broken sound that filled the suite.
He took his time. The same unhurried register. His tongue worked her clit in slow, specific strokes... circling, flicking, pressing flat against the hood until the sensitivity built and her thighs began to shake against his ears. He slid two fingers inside her. Curled them forward. Found the spot that made her back arch and her hand fist in the sheets.
“Selvam... ” Her voice was wrecked. Already. “Oh God, right there, don’t stop... ”
He didn’t stop. His mouth and his fingers worked in concert, building the pressure from nothing to something to everything in a steady, controlled climb that Summer couldn’t rush and didn’t try to.
Her hand stayed in his hair, gripping, releasing, gripping again. Her hips rolled against his face with increasing urgency. The wet sounds of his mouth on her filled the suite beneath the engine hum.
The orgasm built differently than the first two. Slower. Deeper. A warmth that started at her clit and spread outward through her pelvis and into her thighs until the trembling was visible in the amber light.
She came with his tongue pressed flat against her hood and his fingers curled inside her, her inner walls pulsing around his knuckles in rhythmic waves that made her cry out... loud, unguarded, the particular sound of a woman who had stopped caring about bulkheads and flight attendants and anything beyond the particular heat of Selvam’s mouth between her legs.
When the spasms subsided, Summer’s hand relaxed in his hair. Her chest heaved with ragged breaths, her skin flushed pink in the warm amber light. Selvam kissed her inner thigh once, then again, before moving up her body to settle beside her.
“Your turn,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.
He didn’t argue. Summer pushed him onto his back and slid down between his legs. Her hand wrapped around his cock, still hard and slick with her own wetness. She stroked him twice, slowly, her thumb sweeping over the head to collect the bead of moisture there.
“Still so hard,” she murmured, her breath hot against his shaft.
She took him into her mouth without ceremony. Warm, wet heat enveloped him as she swallowed him to the root, her nose pressing against his pelvis. Selvam’s hand found the back of her head, fingers threading through her dark blonde hair as she began to move.
The suction was perfect... firm but not aggressive, her tongue working the underside of his shaft with each stroke. She set a steady rhythm, her hand working what her mouth couldn’t reach, her cheeks hollowing with each pull.
Selvam watched her through half-lidded eyes. The sight of her... lips stretched around him, hair falling forward, the particular focused intensity she brought to everything she did... pushed him closer to the edge than he expected.
“Summer,” he warned, his voice rough.
She hummed in response, the vibration traveling through his cock and into his spine. Her pace increased. Her free hand found his balls, cupping them gently, rolling them between her fingers.
The pressure built rapidly. Selvam’s grip tightened in her hair. His hips lifted slightly off the mattress, driving deeper into her mouth. Summer took it, her throat opening to accommodate him, her eyes finding his with that particular challenge that always undid him.
He came hard. His release hit the back of her throat in thick pulses. Summer swallowed everything, her throat working around him, not pulling away until the last tremor had passed through his body.
She released him with a soft pop, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Her smile was triumphant, satisfied.
“Better than sleep,” she said, crawling back up to collapse against his chest.
Selvam wrapped his arm around her, his hand tracing lazy patterns on her bare back. The engines hummed steadily beneath them. The Pacific remained invisible outside the small window.
“Vanitha wants updates,” he said quietly.
Summer’s body tensed slightly against his. “On the presentation?”
“On everything.”
She was quiet for a moment. Her finger traced the line of his collarbone.
“What did you tell her?”
“That you’d keep her informed.”
Summer exhaled slowly. Her breath was warm against his skin.
“I am sure she knows what we will be doing, if we are left alone.”
Selvam didn’t answer immediately. His hand continued its slow path across her back.
“Well she was the one who wanted to share me with you.”
Summer lifted her head to look at him. Her eyes searched his face.
“I love her for that, she knows it’s been a while since we…” she trailed off.
“That’s the reason she didn’t come.” He finished her tought.
Summer laughed. The sound was smaller than before. Wry.
“That’s a very Vanitha thing to do.”
She settled back against his chest. Her cheek found the same warm spot it had been in before. His heartbeat was steady beneath her ear. Slow. Controlled. The particular rhythm of a man whose pulse didn’t spike even when his cock was still softening inside a woman’s mouth.
“You should text her,” Summer said.
“Now?”
“Not the details. Just... something. So she knows we’re thinking about her.”
Selvam reached for his phone on the side table. The screen lit his face blue-white for a moment. He typed with one thumb, the other arm still around Summer’s shoulders.
*2 more hours before touch-down. Summer’s presentation locked. Seoul weather clear. Will call tomorrow.*
He set the phone back down. The screen went dark.
Summer’s hand found his stomach. Her palm pressed flat against the muscle there, fingers splayed.
“What did she say?”
“Nothing yet. She’ll see it in the morning.”
“She’s awake. It’s what... ” Summer calculated. “Nine in the morning in Los Gatos?”
“Ten.”
“She’s awake.”
The phone buzzed. Once. Selvam picked it up.
Summer watched his face. The amber light caught the silver at his temples, the particular stillness of his expression as he read whatever Vanitha had sent back. His jaw didn’t move. His breathing didn’t change. But something shifted behind his eyes... brief, private, gone before it fully formed.
“What did she say?”
Selvam turned the phone so Summer could see.
*Good. Tell Summer to hydrate. The jet air is dry. And don’t let her over-rehearse. She’s better when she’s loose.*
Summer’s mouth curved. The left corner higher than the right.
“She’s good,” Summer said.
“She is.”
“She knows I’m here. Right now. Like this.”
“She knows. And she wants that, for us.”
# Scene 1
The invitation landed two days after the booster touched down clean. No tip. No fire. Just the slow mechanical perfection of eight landing legs settling onto concrete while a crowd that had learned not to breathe finally remembered how.
Selvam read the email twice. Seoul Digital Innovation Summit. A three-day technical showcase with ministerial attendance and seven-figure procurement budgets.
Summer built the sensor-fusion stack. Every line of code that made the trucks see through fog and rain and the peculiar half-light of a Seoul winter afternoon had come through her hands. The engineers would drill her on the details. Not Vanitha.
Vanitha was in Los Gatos. The boutique fabric shipment had arrived with a customs problem... three crates of hand-loomed silk held at SFO until someone with the right paperwork showed up in person. She was also the CHRO onboarding forty new engineering hires. The headcount expansion was running two weeks behind schedule.
Selvam called her from the office.
“We need to go to Seoul,” Selvam said. “The Digital Innovation Summit. Three days of summit, then we extend the trip. Ten days total. You and I.”
“Take Summer.” No pause. Her voice carried the warm precision she used for decisions she’d already made. “She knows the sensor fusion better than anyone.”
“She built it.”
“Yes.”
“Will you be... ”
“I’m fine, mama. I am behind the onboarding initiative. Go to Seoul. Build the market.”
She paused. One beat.
“Tell Summer to keep me updated.”
“On the presentation?”
“On everything.”
The call ended. He sat with the phone in his hand for three seconds longer than necessary.
The Dassault Falcon 8X private jet left San Francisco at 8:17 PM. Fourteen hours to Seoul. The cabin smelled of fresh leather and the particular clean absence of commercial aviation. No recycled air. No overhead announcements. Just the low hum of turbines and the soft click of Summer’s keyboard.
She sat forward. Laptop open on the polished table. The screencast a blue glow across her face that softened the sharp Nordic angles into something warmer. Her dark blonde hair was pulled back, a few strands loose at her temples. She wore a fitted white blazer over a pale blue blouse, the kind of professional arrangement that didn’t announce itself but left no ambiguity about the woman wearing it.
Her fingers moved across the keyboard. Refining the Q&A prep materials. The presentation deck was already locked... ninety slides, clean typography, no animations... but Summer had insisted on building a secondary document.
Selvam sat across from her with the Korean regulatory brief. Thirty-seven pages of dense legalese translated by a contractor who charged too much and delivered exactly what was needed. The autonomous vehicle framework was structured. Predictable. The kind of regulatory environment that rewarded precision and punished ambiguity.
He looked up. “The liability clause. Section four, paragraph twelve.”
Summer didn’t look away from her screen. “The one where the vehicle manufacturer assumes full responsibility if the software fails during pedestrian interaction?”
“Yes.”
“It’s standard in every market that matters. We indemnify. We insure. We move on.”
He nodded. Returned to the brief.
The cabin fell quiet. Not awkward. The particular productive silence of two people who had shared enough conference rooms to know when talk was necessary and when it wasn’t. The engines hummed beneath them. The Pacific unspooled as darkness.
Three hours passed. Summer’s screen stayed bright. Her posture never changed... spine straight, shoulders relaxed, the particular physical discipline of someone who had spent enough time in front of cameras to understand that comfort and composure were not the same thing.
The cabin lights dimmed automatically at some point. The transition was smooth... bright white to warm amber in a gradient that took ninety seconds. The windows went black. The Pacific was there but invisible, thirty-eight thousand feet below, carrying nothing but depth and distance.
Jiyeon entered from the forward galley. Korean. Composed. Her uniform pressed with the particular attention of someone who understood that luxury was in the details, not the announcement. She carried a tray with two flutes of champagne. The bottle was already on ice at her station.
“Mr. Chandran. Ms. Hamilton.” Her accent was minimal. Her English precise. “Estimated arrival at Incheon is fourteen-oh-seven local time. Weather is clear. Temperature nineteen Celsius.”
She set the flutes on the table. Summer looked up. Her eyes found the champagne, then Selvam’s face, then the champagne again.
“Thank you,” Selvam said.
Jiyeon nodded once and withdrew. Her shoes made no sound on the carpet.
Summer reached for her flute. The champagne was pale gold. Cold. She took a sip without looking at him.
“Fourteen hours is a long time to sit upright.”
Selvam closed his laptop. The soft click filled the small space between them.
“You should sleep,” he said. “The presentation isn’t until day two. You have time.”
“Sleep where? These chairs are built for people who don’t have spines.”
“The suite.”
She held the flute between two fingers. The amber light caught the liquid and held it.
“Just sleep?”
“If that’s what you need.”
Her mouth curved. Left corner higher than the right. The particular expression that lived somewhere between challenge and invitation and never settled on either.
“Are you going to help me sleep?”
The question hung. Warm. Charged. The particular heat that had been building between them since the last time they had sex in the new penthouse floor of the Vanmmer headquarters.
Selvam stood. He extended his arms towards her.
“Come on.”
She closed her laptop. She let her hand rest on his, and the two of them moved toward the rear of the aircraft where the private suite waited with its queen-width bed and its reading lamp and its small window showing nothing but dark.
# Scene 2
The suite door closed behind them with a soft hydraulic hiss. Cream linen on the queen bed. A low reading lamp casting amber across the narrow space. The small window showed nothing but black... Pacific dark, thirty-eight thousand feet down, the kind of depth that made the bed feel both smaller and more necessary.
Summer sat on the edge of the mattress. The blazer was still on.
Selvam stood in the narrow gap between the bed and the bulkhead. The engines hummed beneath them, a steady forward pressure that vibrated through the frame and into the soles of his shoes.
He reached for her face. Both hands. Cupped her jaw with the deliberate, unhurried care that was his specific register.
She leaned into him before he finished the motion. Her forehead pressed against his sternum. Her hands found his wrists and held there, fingers warm against his skin.
The blazer came off first. He lifted it from her shoulders with both hands, slow, letting the fabric slide across her arms. She raised them to help. The blouse underneath was pale blue, thin cotton, the top two buttons already undone from hours at the laptop.
He started at the third button. His fingers worked each one with the same measured patience he brought to everything... no rush, no performance, just the clean arithmetic of a man who understood that some things were worth the time they took.
Summer watched his face. Her eyes tracked his hands, then his mouth, then his eyes. The amber light softened everything... the sharp Nordic angles of her cheekbones, the full curve of her lower lip, the particular warmth that lived in her expression when she wasn’t being watched by anyone but him.
Button four. Five. Six. The blouse fell open. Her skin beneath was pale gold in the low light, the particular warm fairness that came from Nordic blood and California sun. Her breasts were full beneath a simple black bra, the fabric stretched across curves that the blazer had hidden completely.
He reached behind her. Found the clasp. One smooth motion and the bra loosened, the straps sliding from her shoulders with a soft whisper of elastic and cotton. She let it fall. Didn’t catch it. Just sat there with her chest bare, her shoulders back, her eyes on his.
Selvam’s hands found her breasts. Both palms. The weight of them filled his grip... full, soft, the nipples already hard against his thumbs. He traced the curve of each one slowly, feeling the particular give of flesh that was both firm and yielding, and Summer’s breath caught audibly in the quiet suite.
His mouth found her left nipple. Warm. Wet. His tongue pressed flat against the hardened tip, then circled, then sucked with the focus.
Summer exhaled sharply. Her hand flew to the back of his head, fingers tangling in his hair, gripping hard enough that he felt the pull at the roots.
She didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. The sound she made... low, broken, the particular gasp of a woman being touched exactly where she wanted... carried everything.
He took his time. Left breast, then right. Alternating between them with the unhurried rhythm of someone who had fourteen hours and no intention of rushing through the first one. His mouth was warm. His tongue was specific. He sucked each nipple until it peaked harder against his lips, then moved to the other, then returned.
Summer’s breathing changed completely. Shorter. Quicker. The hand in his hair tightened with each pass. Her other hand found his shirt and pulled... less patience now, fingers clutching fabric, the particular urgency.
He let her rush him. His shirt came off over his head. Her hands spread across his chest the moment the fabric cleared... palms flat against the muscle, fingers tracing the lines of his pectorals, the ridges of his abdomen, the particular disciplined architecture of a body built through decades of deliberate work.
His belt came next. Her fingers found the buckle, worked it open, pulled the leather free with a soft rasp. His cock was already hard against the front of his trousers, the outline clear through the fabric. Summer’s hand brushed it once, deliberately, her palm warm through the cotton, and Selvam’s jaw tightened.
He pushed her back onto the bed. Not roughly. The motion was controlled... one hand at her shoulder, guiding her down until her head met the pillow and the cream linen settled around her dark blonde hair. She was bare from the waist up, her breasts full and peaked, her skin pale gold against the white sheets.
He braced his forearms on either side of her head. The position put his face inches from hers, his chest above her, his cock pressing against the junction of her thighs through the fabric of his trousers and her skirt. The amber light caught the contrast perfectly... his dark skin against her fair shoulders, the particular visual arithmetic of two bodies that had arrived at the same destination from opposite directions.
“I missed fucking you, Summer,” he said. Quiet. Clear.
Summer’s mouth curved. “mm.”
He reached between them. Found the waistband of her skirt, pushed it down her hips. She lifted to help. The fabric gathered around her thighs, then her knees, then he pulled it free entirely and dropped it to the floor. Her underwear followed... simple black cotton, already damp at the center. He hooked two fingers under the elastic and drew them down her legs in one smooth motion.
She was bare. Completely. Her body open beneath him, her thighs parted, the pale gold of her skin warming to something deeper in the low light. The patch between her legs was darker blonde, neatly trimmed, the hood of her clit visible and already swollen.
Selvam unzipped his trousers. Pulled his cock free. It was hard, full, the head dark and already wet. He positioned himself between her thighs, the tip pressing against her entrance, feeling the heat and wetness there.
He pressed against her entrance and stilled. “So wet,” he said.
He entered her slowly. One long, deliberate push that buried him to the root in a single measured stroke. The wet heat of her surrounded him completely... tight, warm, her inner walls gripping his shaft with a pressure that made his breath catch.
Summer’s back arched. Her head pressed into the pillow. Her thighs wrapped around his waist and locked, holding him deep inside her. For a beat, neither of them moved. Just the feeling of being joined, fully, completely, the particular stillness that came before motion.
Then her hips began to roll. Small, deliberate circles that ground her clit against the base of his cock with each rotation. Selvam held himself deep and let her move, feeling the wet friction build between them, watching her face in the amber light.
He began to thrust. Long, measured strokes that started unhurried and built toward something more purposeful. Each one drove him deep, then withdrew almost completely, then drove deep again. The rhythm was steady. Controlled. The particular pace of a man who understood that endurance was its own form of generosity.
His mouth found her throat. Her collarbone. The soft curve where her neck met her shoulder. He kissed each place with the same attention he’d given her breasts... thorough, specific, his tongue tracing the line of her pulse until he felt it quicken under his lips.
He returned to her mouth. Deep, open kisses between thrusts, his tongue meeting hers, his breath mixing with hers in the warm confines of the suite. Summer’s hands were everywhere... his shoulders, his back, tangling in his hair, gripping the sheets, moving with the particular abandon of a woman who had decided that composure was a currency she no longer needed to spend.
“Oh... ” The word escaped her, breathy and broken.
“God, right there... ” Her voice fractured as he hit the spot again, the moan rising in pitch, sharpening at the edges.
“Don’t stop... ” A gasp, then a laugh that dissolved into something raw.
“Fuck, Selvam, I fucking missed this... ” She cut herself off with a sharp inhale as he shifted angle, her nails digging into his shoulders.
“Yes. Like that. Just... ” Her hips rolled against him, chasing the pressure building low in her spine. “Exactly like that.”
Selvam kept his rhythm. Steady. Deep. Each thrust drove into her with the measured force of a body that had been built for endurance and knew how to use it. His cock stretched her open, every ridge and vein leaving its signature on her wet inner walls, and the wet sounds of their joining filled the suite beneath the steady hum of engines.
Neither of them thought about the forward cabin. Neither of them thought about Seoul or presentations or regulatory frameworks or anything beyond the particular heat of skin against skin and the building, inevitable climb toward something neither of them was in any hurry to reach.
# Scene 3
The turbulence arrived without warning. One smooth stretch of air, then the fuselage shuddered... a lateral roll that sent the champagne glass on the side table skidding three inches across the surface before it hit the rim and stopped. The roll came again. Harder. A series of short, lateral pitches that pressed their bodies together with each downswing and separated them on the up.
Selvam was buried deep inside her when the first one hit. The downswing drove him harder, the angle shifting, the head of his cock pressing against something that made Summer gasp and dig her fingernails into his shoulders.
“Fuck... ” Her voice broke. “What was that?”
“Turbulence.” He braced one hand against the bulkhead. The fuselage shuddered again. Another lateral roll. The champagne glass rattled against the table edge.
Summer’s hips jerked with the motion. The downswing drove him deeper than he’d been before, the full length of his cock pressing against her cervix with a force that should have been too much and wasn’t. She gasped again. Louder. Her thighs clamped around his waist.
Then she laughed.
The sound was bright, sudden, completely unself-conscious... a full-throated laugh that broke through the moan she’d been building and landed somewhere between pleasure and absurdity.
Her head tilted back against the pillow. Her dark blonde hair spilled across the cream linen. She was laughing and gasping at the same time, her body responding to each roll with a helpless, delighted urgency that made the amber light catch the flush spreading across her chest.
Selvam kept his rhythm. The bulkhead was solid under his palm. Each lateral roll came, he adjusted his weight, kept the stroke consistent, and the downswing drove him deeper every time. The control of it... his body steady while thirty tons of aircraft moved around them... undid Summer completely.
Her laughter mixed with moans. Each roll brought both. Her hands gripped his shoulders hard enough to leave marks. Her hips rolled with the motion, meeting each downswing, taking the extra depth and turning it into something that made her breath catch behind her teeth.
The pressure built visibly. Her thighs trembled. Her back arched. The wet sounds of their joining grew louder, sharper, punctuated by the occasional metallic rattle of the champagne glass against the table and Summer’s voice filling every corner of the small suite.
She came during the worst of it. A long, lateral roll that held for three full seconds, driving Selvam deep and holding him there while Summer’s body locked around him. The orgasm rolled through her in loud, shuddering waves... her thighs clamped tight around his waist, her inner walls pulsing around his cock in rhythmic contractions he could feel through every inch of his shaft. She cried out. Once. Twice. The sound carried through the bulkhead and into whatever empty space lay beyond, and neither of them cared.
The champagne glass rattled furiously beside them. The fuselage shuddered. Summer’s body shook beneath him. He held himself deep and let her ride it, his hand still braced against the bulkhead, his breathing steady while hers came in ragged, broken pulls.
The air smoothed. Gradually. The lateral rolls eased into gentle pitches, then settled back to the steady forward hum that had been there all along. The champagne glass stopped rattling. The suite went quiet except for the sound of two people breathing hard in a bed that had survived its first test.
Summer pushed him onto his back. One smooth motion, her hands on his chest, her body shifting above him until she was straddling his hips with his cock still buried inside her. The position put her in control completely... her hands braced on his pectorals, her hips finding the angle she wanted with the precise, focused authority she brought to anything she had decided to do well.
From here, she could see his face fully. The amber light caught the silver at his temples, the lines at the corners of his eyes, the particular stillness of his expression as he watched her move above him. She studied him the way she studied data she cared about... reading every shift, every subtle change in his breathing, the way his jaw tightened when she ground her clit against the base of his cock on the downstroke.
He gripped her hips. His hands were large, warm, fingers pressing into the soft flesh of her ass with enough pressure to guide but not control. He said nothing. Let her set the pace. The silence was always the correct response with Summer, and she knew it.
She rode him slowly at first. Long, deliberate strokes that took him deep and almost withdrew, then deep again. Her breasts moved with each rise and fall, full and pale in the low light, her nipples hard and dark against the fair skin. Her back arched. Her head tilted. Her dark blonde hair fell forward around her face, then back, then forward again as the pace built.
The second orgasm arrived differently. Slower. Deeper. A warmth that built low in her pelvis and spread outward through her hips and into her thighs until the trembling was visible. Her rhythm faltered. Her hands pressed harder against his chest. Her head dropped forward, hair falling around both of them, and when it broke she made a sound that was half-moan, half-sob, her inner walls clenching around him in waves that made his own control threaten to slip.
He held. Let her ride it. His hands steady on her hips, his breathing controlled, his cock buried to the root inside her while she came apart above him and put herself back together one shuddering breath at a time.
They lay like that for a while. Naked. Summer sprawled across his chest, one leg hooked over his thigh, the sheets pulled halfway across her back. Her breath warmed his skin. The champagne glass sat silent on the side table. The Pacific was still black outside the small window. The engines hummed.
Then the knock.
Soft. Professional. Three precise taps on the suite door.
Jiyeon’s voice came through the panel. Neutral. Measured. “Mr. Chandran. I’m bringing the champagne you requested earlier. Would now be convenient?”
Summer buried her face in his chest. Her shoulders shook once... not with laughter, with the particular mortification of a woman who had just been thoroughly fucked on a private jet and now had to acknowledge that the person bringing champagne had almost certainly heard every sound she’d made.
Selvam’s hand found the back of her head. His fingers worked through her dark blonde hair, calming, present.
“Now is fine,” he called through the door. His voice was entirely composed. The same register he used for board meetings and rocket landings and telling flight attendants that yes, the naked woman on his chest would like champagne.
The door opened. Jiyeon stepped in with the tray... a fresh bottle of Billecart-Salmon, two clean flutes, a small dish of ice keeping everything at the correct temperature. Her eyes moved across the scene once. The rumpled sheets. The naked bodies. The champagne glass that had skidded across the table during turbulence. Her expression did not change. Not a flicker. Not a raised eyebrow. Just the practiced, expressionless professionalism of a woman who had seen the suite used for exactly this purpose before and had long ago decided that her tip did not depend on her facial muscles.
She set the tray on the side table. Adjusted the flutes. Checked the bottle temperature with two fingers against the glass.
“Descent will begin in approximately four hours, Mr. Chandran. Weather at Incheon remains clear.”
“Thank you, Jiyeon.”
“Is there anything else required?”
“We’re fine. Let the rest of the crew know we come with a package. No interruptions until descent.”
She nodded once. Her expression remained exactly what it had been when she entered. She pulled the door closed behind her with the same soft hydraulic hiss that had sealed them in ninety minutes earlier.
Summer lifted her head from his chest. Her cheeks were flushed. Her eyes were wide. She stared at him with the particular intensity of a woman who had just watched something she thought she understood reveal a new dimension.
“You are absolutely unbelievable.”
Selvam reached for the bottle. The cork came out with a soft pop. He poured two glasses, handed one to Summer, clinked his against hers.
“We are paying them well.”
She laughed. The sound filled the suite... bright, unrestrained, the particular laugh of someone who had just been caught naked by a flight attendant and discovered that the man responsible found the whole thing mildly amusing.
She laughed until she had to set the glass down. Until her shoulders shook. Until the sheets slipped further and her bare chest caught the amber light and Selvam watched her the way he watched things he had built that turned out better than the specifications suggested.
They finished the bottle talking.
She turned her head on his chest, her cheek warm against his skin, and looked up at him with the particular half-smile that meant she was about to say something she knew would get a reaction.
“Why do you think she told us we had four hours left?”
Selvam’s hand was still in her hair. His thumb traced the shell of her ear once, slow, before he shifted his weight and rolled toward her. His mouth found her right breast before she’d finished the sentence... open, warm, taking the full soft weight of it between his lips like he was eating something ripe and worth savoring.
“Mmm... ” His voice vibrated against her skin. “Maybe for this.”
Summer’s laugh caught in her throat and became something else. Her hand found the back of his head, fingers threading through the short dark hair at his nape, and she pulled him closer rather than pushing him away.
He worked his way down. Mouth trailing from her breast across the warm plane of her stomach, his tongue pressing flat against the soft skin above her navel, then lower. His hands spread her thighs apart with the same deliberate patience he’d used on her blouse buttons. The pale gold of her inner thighs, the darker blonde between them, the particular wet shine that told him she was ready before he’d even arrived.
He pressed his mouth against her. Flat. Warm. His tongue found her clit through the hood and circled it once, slow, feeling the swollen nub respond against his lips. Summer’s hips lifted off the mattress. Her breath came out in a sharp, broken sound that filled the suite.
He took his time. The same unhurried register. His tongue worked her clit in slow, specific strokes... circling, flicking, pressing flat against the hood until the sensitivity built and her thighs began to shake against his ears. He slid two fingers inside her. Curled them forward. Found the spot that made her back arch and her hand fist in the sheets.
“Selvam... ” Her voice was wrecked. Already. “Oh God, right there, don’t stop... ”
He didn’t stop. His mouth and his fingers worked in concert, building the pressure from nothing to something to everything in a steady, controlled climb that Summer couldn’t rush and didn’t try to.
Her hand stayed in his hair, gripping, releasing, gripping again. Her hips rolled against his face with increasing urgency. The wet sounds of his mouth on her filled the suite beneath the engine hum.
The orgasm built differently than the first two. Slower. Deeper. A warmth that started at her clit and spread outward through her pelvis and into her thighs until the trembling was visible in the amber light.
She came with his tongue pressed flat against her hood and his fingers curled inside her, her inner walls pulsing around his knuckles in rhythmic waves that made her cry out... loud, unguarded, the particular sound of a woman who had stopped caring about bulkheads and flight attendants and anything beyond the particular heat of Selvam’s mouth between her legs.
When the spasms subsided, Summer’s hand relaxed in his hair. Her chest heaved with ragged breaths, her skin flushed pink in the warm amber light. Selvam kissed her inner thigh once, then again, before moving up her body to settle beside her.
“Your turn,” she whispered, her voice hoarse.
He didn’t argue. Summer pushed him onto his back and slid down between his legs. Her hand wrapped around his cock, still hard and slick with her own wetness. She stroked him twice, slowly, her thumb sweeping over the head to collect the bead of moisture there.
“Still so hard,” she murmured, her breath hot against his shaft.
She took him into her mouth without ceremony. Warm, wet heat enveloped him as she swallowed him to the root, her nose pressing against his pelvis. Selvam’s hand found the back of her head, fingers threading through her dark blonde hair as she began to move.
The suction was perfect... firm but not aggressive, her tongue working the underside of his shaft with each stroke. She set a steady rhythm, her hand working what her mouth couldn’t reach, her cheeks hollowing with each pull.
Selvam watched her through half-lidded eyes. The sight of her... lips stretched around him, hair falling forward, the particular focused intensity she brought to everything she did... pushed him closer to the edge than he expected.
“Summer,” he warned, his voice rough.
She hummed in response, the vibration traveling through his cock and into his spine. Her pace increased. Her free hand found his balls, cupping them gently, rolling them between her fingers.
The pressure built rapidly. Selvam’s grip tightened in her hair. His hips lifted slightly off the mattress, driving deeper into her mouth. Summer took it, her throat opening to accommodate him, her eyes finding his with that particular challenge that always undid him.
He came hard. His release hit the back of her throat in thick pulses. Summer swallowed everything, her throat working around him, not pulling away until the last tremor had passed through his body.
She released him with a soft pop, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Her smile was triumphant, satisfied.
“Better than sleep,” she said, crawling back up to collapse against his chest.
Selvam wrapped his arm around her, his hand tracing lazy patterns on her bare back. The engines hummed steadily beneath them. The Pacific remained invisible outside the small window.
“Vanitha wants updates,” he said quietly.
Summer’s body tensed slightly against his. “On the presentation?”
“On everything.”
She was quiet for a moment. Her finger traced the line of his collarbone.
“What did you tell her?”
“That you’d keep her informed.”
Summer exhaled slowly. Her breath was warm against his skin.
“I am sure she knows what we will be doing, if we are left alone.”
Selvam didn’t answer immediately. His hand continued its slow path across her back.
“Well she was the one who wanted to share me with you.”
Summer lifted her head to look at him. Her eyes searched his face.
“I love her for that, she knows it’s been a while since we…” she trailed off.
“That’s the reason she didn’t come.” He finished her tought.
Summer laughed. The sound was smaller than before. Wry.
“That’s a very Vanitha thing to do.”
She settled back against his chest. Her cheek found the same warm spot it had been in before. His heartbeat was steady beneath her ear. Slow. Controlled. The particular rhythm of a man whose pulse didn’t spike even when his cock was still softening inside a woman’s mouth.
“You should text her,” Summer said.
“Now?”
“Not the details. Just... something. So she knows we’re thinking about her.”
Selvam reached for his phone on the side table. The screen lit his face blue-white for a moment. He typed with one thumb, the other arm still around Summer’s shoulders.
*2 more hours before touch-down. Summer’s presentation locked. Seoul weather clear. Will call tomorrow.*
He set the phone back down. The screen went dark.
Summer’s hand found his stomach. Her palm pressed flat against the muscle there, fingers splayed.
“What did she say?”
“Nothing yet. She’ll see it in the morning.”
“She’s awake. It’s what... ” Summer calculated. “Nine in the morning in Los Gatos?”
“Ten.”
“She’s awake.”
The phone buzzed. Once. Selvam picked it up.
Summer watched his face. The amber light caught the silver at his temples, the particular stillness of his expression as he read whatever Vanitha had sent back. His jaw didn’t move. His breathing didn’t change. But something shifted behind his eyes... brief, private, gone before it fully formed.
“What did she say?”
Selvam turned the phone so Summer could see.
*Good. Tell Summer to hydrate. The jet air is dry. And don’t let her over-rehearse. She’s better when she’s loose.*
Summer’s mouth curved. The left corner higher than the right.
“She’s good,” Summer said.
“She is.”
“She knows I’m here. Right now. Like this.”
“She knows. And she wants that, for us.”
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