Chapter 5: Champagne & Sinners

I paced my Kirkland apartment, phone in hand, thumb hovering over Coco’s number. This Paris trip—a software conference—had been looming, but dragging her along felt like the spark it needed. I hit call, and her voice purred through. “Ginger, what’s up? Craving me again?”

I grinned, leaning on the counter. “Always. Tell me—ever been to Paris?”

“Paris?” She paused, smirking through the line. “Not yet. Why? Planning something sexier than McCaw Hall?”

“Way sexier,” I said, pulse kicking up. “Business trip next week. Wanna come with? Turn it into a romp?”

She laughed, low and throaty. “A free Paris fling with you? Fuck yes, big guy. When’s takeoff?”

“Tuesday,” I said. “Business class—fold-down seats, the works. Pack light—you won’t need much.”

“Done,” she purred. “Catch you at the airport.”

Tuesday night, we boarded the red-eye from SeaTac, settling into the cushy business-class cabin—wide seats, privacy screens, fold-down beds. Coco looked like sin in a tight sweater and skirt, her silver-threaded mane loose, her tanned skin gleaming under the lights. The crew rolled out dinner soon after takeoff—salmon, roasted potatoes, a glass of champagne each. I clinked my flute to hers. “To Paris—and trouble.”

“Trouble’s my specialty,” she winked, sipping fast, bubbles loosening her grin. She speared a potato, holding it to my lips. “Feed me yours, and I’ll make it worth your while.”

I smirked, sliding a bite into her mouth, her tongue brushing my fingers. “Careful, Coco. Keep that up, and I’ll fuck you right here.”

She chewed slow, eyes glinting. “Promises, promises. Ever done it on a plane? I’d suck you dry while they snore.” Her foot nudged mine under the tray, and my cock twitched, dinner forgotten.

“Jesus,” I muttered, shifting as the champagne buzzed through me. “Finish that salmon first—or I’ll stuff you with something else.”

She giggled, downing her drink. “Food’s just foreplay, Ginger.”

The cabin dimmed post-meal, trays cleared, seats folding into beds. Passengers drifted off, the engine’s hum a lullaby—except for us. Coco’s gaze turned wicked. “Everyone’s out. Mile-high time?”

Before I could nod, her hand slipped under my blanket, unzipping me quiet and slow. My cock sprang free, and she ducked down, her warm mouth closing over me.

A stewardess passed by, just inches from our row. I froze, cock pulsing in her throat. Coco didn’t stop—she just moaned low and deep, daring me to get caught. I gripped the armrests, every muscle tense.

“Fuck,” I hissed, barely audible. Her lips slid deeper, tongue teasing, sucking with purpose. Snores filled the air, and I fought to stay silent—jaw clenched, a groan rattling my chest. She hummed, vibrations jolting me, and I came hard, thick spurts down her throat. She swallowed, popping up with a grin, wiping her lips

“Quiet enough?”

“Barely,” I panted, zipping up, heart hammering. “You’re a menace.”

She smirked, sipping more champagne. “Wait ‘til Paris.”

We landed at Charles de Gaulle, jet-lagged but wired, Paris sprawling ahead. My meetings ate the mornings, but evenings were ours—two nights of heat in the City of Light.

We hadn’t stopped touching since we landed—on the street, in the hotel, under the table at cafés. It felt less like a vacation and more like a free fall.

The first night, we hit the Moulin Rouge, its red windmill blazing against the dark. Inside, the cabaret pulsed—feathers, sequins, bare skin swaying to sultry beats. Our table came with a bottle of champagne, and Coco poured with a grin that was half thrill, half challenge.

Her dress—a deep-cut thing that shimmered like spilled ink—barely caged her. Her nipples had stiffened under the lace, visible to no one but me.

“This is hotter than McCaw,” she said, clinking glasses. “Ever fucked in a place like this?”

“Not yet,” I smirked. “But watching these girls makes me wanna bend you over right here.”

She leaned close, breath warm, voice low. “I’d let you. Imagine me topless like them, riding you while they dance. Or while you do.”

Her hand slipped to my thigh. I exhaled slow.

“Fuck, Coco...”

“I want eyes on me,” she whispered. “I want them jealous.”

My cock twitched. The champagne was working fast.

But then I looked at her—really looked. Her smile was tight. Her eyes a little too bright. She was riding the edge of something, but I couldn’t tell if it was ecstasy or escape.

“You okay?” I asked, quieter.