Stiles knew exactly what she was — a walking wet dream at 35,000 feet.

At 28, she was the kind of beautiful that made passengers forget their final destinations. Fair, porcelain skin that glowed under the cabin lights, full pink lips always glossed to a sinful shine, big doe eyes framed by long lashes that fluttered like invitations. Her body was pure sin sculpted by hours of gym sessions and genetics that refused to play fair: heavy, round breasts that strained against every top she wore, a tiny waist flaring into wide hips and a thick, juicy ass that jiggled just enough with every step down the aisle. Between her thighs sat her favorite secret — a plump, pink pussy that got slick at the mere thought of a man who could afford to keep her dripping in diamonds and designer.

She never wore the standard air hostess uniform the way the airline intended. Stiles altered hers just enough to skirt the rules while screaming fuck me. The navy skirt was hiked shorter than regulation, hugging her ass so tight it looked painted on, the hem barely covering the lace tops of her thigh-high stockings. The white blouse was unbuttoned one (or two) too many, the fabric stretched taut over her big tits, the outline of her lacy bra visible when she leaned forward — which she did a lot. Red heels clicked like countdowns, and her makeup was always flawless: smoky eyes, flushed cheeks, lips begging to be ruined.

Stiles flirted shamelessly. Married? Didn’t matter. She’d spot the gold band, flash a coy smile, and still let her fingers brush a man’s arm while handing him a drink. “Anything else I can do for you, sir?” she’d purr, voice low and honeyed, eyes dropping to his lap for a split second. She loved the way their Adam’s apples bobbed, the way their wives’ photos on their phones suddenly felt irrelevant.

Her dream was simple and crystal-clear: marry rich. Not just comfortable — filthy rich. A man who’d buy her Birkins without blinking, fly her private, fuck her on silk sheets in penthouses overlooking cities she’d only seen from airplane windows. She was tired of economy-class lays and cheap hotel hookups. Stiles wanted to be spoiled, pampered, owned in the best way — a trophy wife who got railed senseless every night and woke up to black cards on the nightstand.

She scanned every flight like a predator. Business class and first were her hunting grounds. Tonight’s red-eye to London was no different.

Meanwhile, across the city in a quiet, tidy apartment, Derek Hale lived a life of calm routine.

28, tall at 6’2”, broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, muscles earned from disciplined gym mornings and weekend hikes. Sharp jawline, big doe eyes that crinkled when he smiled, dark hair always neatly styled but soft enough to make you want to run fingers through it. He was the golden boy at one of the country’s top conglomerates — senior project lead, always hitting deadlines, charming clients without trying, quietly brilliant.

His CEO adored him. “Derek, you’re the future of this company,” the older man would say during board meetings, clapping him on the shoulder. Seniors bought him coffee, juniors looked up to him like a big brother. He was kind — genuinely kind. Held doors, remembered birthdays, helped interns without making them feel small. No ego, no flash. Just steady, reliable Derek.

His evenings were peaceful: gym, home-cooked meal, review reports while soft lo-fi played. No drama, no chaos. He dated casually but nothing serious yet. He wanted real — someone sweet, someone to build with. Not that he was looking hard.

Until tonight.

The call came at 4 PM.

“Derek, emergency.” The CEO’s voice was tight. “London deal — the investors won’t wait. I was supposed to fly out tonight, but my daughter’s in the hospital. Appendicitis. I can’t leave.”

Derek sat up straight. “Sir, I—”

“I need you to go instead. You know the files inside out. Close this deal for me. Can you?”

Without hesitation: “Of course, sir. I’ve got it.”

Relief flooded the line. “Good man. My secretary’s on her way to your place with everything — suits, watch, files, ticket. First class. Flight’s at 10 PM. And Derek? Thank you.”

Derek nodded even though no one could see. “Don’t worry about a thing.”

He hung up, heart suddenly hammering. First class? London? Closing a multi-million deal? This was big.

He showered fast, nerves buzzing under his skin.

An hour later, the doorbell rang.

The CEO’s secretary — Sara, sharp, pretty, and shamelessly flirty — stood there with a garment bag and a sleek black box.

“Mr. Hale,” she purred, eyes raking over him in his casual tee. “Boss says make us proud.”

She handed over two crisp Ralph Lauren suits — charcoal and navy — tailored to perfection. Then the box: a Rolex Submariner, black dial, gleaming under the hallway light.

Derek blinked. “This is…?”

“For the meeting. Image matters. Boss insists.” She winked. “You clean up nice already, but this? Deadly.”

She passed him a leather folder thick with documents, then the boarding pass. First class. Round-trip. His name embossed.

“Airport staff will meet you curbside. Good luck, handsome.” She blew a playful kiss and left, hips swaying.

Derek stared at the watch. Heavy. Expensive. Real.

He read the files twice, memorizing key points. Packed efficiently — one suitcase. Showered again. Slipped into the charcoal suit. The fabric felt like butter. The Rolex sat heavy and perfect on his wrist. He looked in the mirror: tall, sharp, powerful. Nervous butterflies, but ready.

Airport was seamless. A staff member in a suit greeted him by name, whisked him through priority security, fast-tracked everything. He boarded early.

The first-class cabin smelled like leather and luxury — wide seats, privacy screens, soft lighting.

And then she appeared.

Stiles.

In her slutty little uniform, skirt riding high on thick thighs, blouse dipping low to show the swell of her big tits. Pink lips curved in a slow, predatory smile the second she saw him.

Oh fuck, she thought. Tall. Built. That jaw. That suit hugging every muscle. And — her eyes flicked — Rolex. No ring.

Jackpot.

“Welcome aboard, sir,” she breathed, voice like velvet. “I’m Stiles. I’ll be taking care of you tonight.”

Derek’s cheeks warmed instantly. “Th-thank you.”

She led him to his seat — the best one, window, fully flat-bed capable. Her hips swayed deliberately, ass bouncing softly with each step.

“Here we are,” she cooed, leaning close to point out controls. Her perfume — sweet vanilla and something dirtier — wrapped around him. “Very spacious. You can get very comfortable.”

He swallowed. “Looks great.”

She straightened but didn’t step back. Instead, she reached for the champagne chilling nearby, poured a flute, and handed it to him with both hands, fingers brushing his.

“Something to relax you before takeoff?” Her eyes locked on his, tongue darting out to wet her bottom lip.

Derek took it, fingers tingling where they touched. “Thanks.”

The other hostesses did the safety demo — professional, crisp.

Stiles? She made it obscene.

When demonstrating the oxygen mask, she held it to her face slowly, lips parting around it like she was sucking something else. Eyes never left his.

Seat belt? She saved that for last.

Approaching him again, she bent low — way lower than necessary. Her heavy breasts nearly spilled from the blouse, creamy cleavage inches from his face, nipples hard and poking through lace. The scent of her skin hit him like a drug.

“Let me help,” she whispered, voice husky.

Her fingers grazed his hips as she pulled the belt across his lap. She leaned in further, tits brushing his cheek for a heartbeat. Soft. Warm. Fucking sinful.

Click.

She stayed there a second too long, lips close to his ear. “All secure, sir. Wouldn’t want you… slipping out of anything.”

Derek’s face burned crimson. Cock twitching traitorously under the suit pants. “Uh—thanks.”

She pulled back with a slow, filthy smile — the kind that promised every depraved thing. “My pleasure.”

The captain’s voice crackled: takeoff in two minutes.

Stiles sauntered to her jump seat, hips rolling, glancing back at him once with a wink.

Derek gripped the armrests, champagne forgotten, heart pounding.

This flight just got a hell of a lot longer.

And Stiles? She was already planning how to join the mile-high club with the handsome stranger in 1A.

She licked her lips, thighs pressing together.

Game on.