I sit back in my roomy armchair and survey the cabin. It’s flooded with soft light, all milky leather, pearl-gray carpets, and pale wood panels. The epitome of luxury.

I smile, recalling the disappointment I felt when I first set foot in this jet that Raphael co-owns with his older brother Sebastian.

It seemed small.

Not that I’d had any personal experience with private jets before. In fact, my point of reference had been movies like Air Force One and TV shows like House of Cards, both featuring the designated aircraft of the president of the United States.

No less.

Now that I know what a regular private jet looks like, I find this twelve seater perfectly sized. Big enough to be able to stretch your legs, yet small enough to feel comfortable.

We’re flying back to Paris from a lazy weekend in Costa Brava. Well, relatively lazy because whenever we weren’t in the pool, restaurant or bed, we worked in the luxury spa’s outdoor cafe, enjoying the perfect early May weather. When he wasn’t on the phone with his aides, Raphael studied some highly sensitive file, and I toiled on my thesis.

My inner nerd loved the quiet companionship during those studious hours just as much as my inner strumpet enjoyed kissing him on the beach.

But everything good comes to an end.

This flight included.

Reminding myself it’ll be over before we can say “Paris,” I get started on my mouth-watering breakfast of poached eggs, stir-fried mushrooms, smoked salmon rolls, and maple syrup pancakes. Next to me, Raphael skims a report and types an email while sipping his double espresso.

Who says men can’t multitask?

“Eat while it’s warm,” I say.

“Oui, maman.” He puts his tablet aside.

I pick up a bowl of mixed berries. “Just because you can have this kind of breakfast any time you want isn’t a reason not to enjoy it.”

“True.” He digs in. “It’s going to be a hell of a week.”

“Work?”

“Uh-huh.” He gives me sideways look. “I won’t see you much.”

I fold my napkin and arrange the remains of the food on the tray, avoiding eye contact. He doesn’t need to know how dismayed I am at the prospect.

Raphael turns away from me and begins to fumble with the controls on his armrest. Suddenly, we are shut off from the rest of the aircraft by a felt partition. Neat. He presses another button, and my seat slides into a reclining position. A second later, so does his.

He leans over me. “We could put the next twenty minutes to good use.”

Except I can’t. My period started this morning. The problem is my upbringing won’t allow me to say this to a man. Even a man that’s intimately familiar with every inch of my body.

“That trick you did with the seats,” I say instead, “was cheesy.”

He nods. “And cheap.”

“Exactly.”

“And childish,” he adds.

“That, too.”

“And Chinese.”

I frown. “Why Chinese?”

“Because… I ran out of pertinent ch-words.”

I burst out laughing.

He unbuttons my shirt and pushes the cups of my bra under my breasts. The feel of his hand against my skin is too pleasant to resist, so I let him caress me from the waist up.

He begins to stroke my left breast, his palm scooping and kneading it. At the same time, his mouth descends on my right breast, and, after swirling his tongue around my nipple, he captures it between his lips. A shiver runs through me. His eyes on my face, Raphael draws the nipple into his mouth and sucks on it. I moan and arch my back as he rolls my other nipple between his fingers, pinching it gently.

This is so damn good.

I mean, not good.

Because he clearly doesn’t intend on stopping at my waistline. He’s just unbuttoned my jeans and is drawing the zipper down.

“I should’ve warned you to wear a skirt,” he says, sliding his hand under the lacy front of my panties.

I grab his wrist. “What if the attendant comes in to collect the trays?”

“She won’t,” he says, halting nonetheless, “as long as the partition is up.”

“What if there’s an emergency? What if we’re crashing and the pilots need to let us know?”

“If we’re crashing, we’ll know.”

As I look for another reason why we should stop, he moves his hand between my legs.

I jerk his wrist. “Stop!”

“Why? What’s wrong, baby?”

OK, to hell with good manners. “I’m on my period.”

“Oh.” He looks a little confused. “Do you need to use the bathroom?”

“No, I’m good. But I don’t want you to… you know.”

He puts his hands on my lower abdomen. “Cramps?”

“A little.”

“Poor sweetie.”

Before I can catch his wrist, his long fingers slip inside my panties and find the string of my tampon. “Wonderful invention, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Can you just… return to my breasts?”

“Here’s a deal.” He gives me a crooked smile. “My mouth returns to your lovely tits, but my hand stays where it is.”

“I don’t think—”

“Without moving.”

“You’re such a… dickkopf,” I say.

He widens his eyes. “Did Mia Stoll just use a swear word?”

“It means ‘pigheaded’ in Alsatian.”

“Phew.” He drops his head to his chest in fake relief. “For a moment there, I thought the end of the world was upon us.”

I smile, and Raphael gives me a tiny stroke down there, his touch featherlight.

I squeeze my thighs. “Your hand stays only if you can control it.”

“I promise I’ll do my best,” he says. “If I fail, slap me.”

“Oh, I will.”

He blows air across my nipples and resumes his ministrations. But I find it impossible to relax, too aware of his hand between my legs. In particular, of his fingers that begin to stir again. When he presses them against my bud, I open my mouth to cry foul, except the pleasure turns out to be stronger than my inhibitions and taboos.

Encouraged by my permissiveness, he starts to rub in earnest.

My lids grow heavy.

He applies more pressure, and soon I’m writhing under his touch. I forget I’m menstruating. I disremember I have cramps. My brain doesn’t even know what cramps are anymore.

Raphael rubs faster, whispering against my lips, “Mia, baby, you’re so beautiful.”

I peak the moment his tongue pushes into my mouth. As he kisses me hard and deep, wave after wave of sweet pleasure washes over me.

I abandon myself to it.

When I come down from the high, I realize my fingernails have dug into his back, hard.

“I’m sorry,” I say, letting go of him. “Did I hurt you?”

“A little.” That panty-dropping smile again. “But I loved it.”

I grin back. “Well, that makes two of us with self-control issues.”

“Isn’t it weird,” he says, “how I have no problem exercising control in every sphere of my life, except this?”

“It is weird.”

“I can go days, sometimes weeks without thinking about women, until I see something that tempts me. And then I’m toast.”

“Some-thing?”

“On a woman,” he explains. “Like your eyes. And lips. And neck, and boobs… Actually, every part of you.”

As he names the various parts he touches his lips to them, a little clumsy at times. What with his right hand still in my panties and his left hand splayed against my seat propping him up, the poor man is forced to use his head.

Literally.

“It’s like with Q-tips,” Raphael says.

“Pardon me?”

“Haven’t you ever caught sight of Q-tips in a bathroom drawer, and suddenly your ears felt itchy?”

I smile and nod. Just hearing the word makes my ears itchy.

He trails his tongue up my neck and over my chin. “It’s like once you see them, you simply must grab one to scratch your itch! You know?”

“Yeeeah…” I draw it out.

The truth is I don’t know if I know. The real Q-tip situation is something I can definitely relate to, but we’re no longer talking about Q-tips, are we? Raphael is describing his relationship with the opposite sex.

Scratch the itch, huh?

I’m struck by how insensitive his comparison is. And even more by the fact that he doesn’t realize it.

Or doesn’t care.

For heaven’s sake, Mia, walk away from this man!

He’ll get you addicted to his lovemaking and rakish charm and then discard you like a used Q-tip.

“Baby, is something wrong?” he asks.

I shake my head. “All’s well.”

“I doubt it.” He searches my face. “Did I bite your lip too hard, or is it what I just said?”

How can a man be so blunt and so sensitive at the same time? He says the most outrageous things without caring about their effect, yet he’s capable of noticing the slightest change in the way my body reacts to him. Why isn’t he just a regular entitled jerk? Things would have been so much easier!

I would’ve dumped him by now.

No, scratch that, I would’ve never hooked up with him in the first place.

“It’s not something you did,” I say.

He nods. “It’s what I said about Q-tips, right?”

“Not a very flattering comparison.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

I tug at his wrist, and he pulls his hand out of my panties.

“At least it was honest,” I say, sitting up. “I’ll get over it.”

He pulls himself up, too, and then puts the backs of our seats into an upright position.

I sort myself out and decide this is a good time to talk about my colleague Sandro, whom my lover is about to sack.

“You’re letting Sandro Marnier go,” I say.

Raphael gives me a slightly surprised look. “I am, indeed.”

“Is he bad at his job?”

“Why do you care?” His expression hardens. “Is he a friend of yours? Or more than a friend?”

“He’s a friend of Barbara’s,” I say. “We sometimes eat lunch together.”

Raphael nods, his jaw relaxing.

“So, is he bad?” I ask again.

“No. But he showed up to work drunk three times over two weeks.”

“His boyfriend of three years dumped him out of the blue.”

“Not my problem.” Raphael’s lips flatten.

My jaw clenches.

“I must act before his probationary period ends,” Raphael explains. “If I don’t, he’ll get an open-ended contract, join the staff union, and continue drinking. And then it’ll definitely be my problem.”

“He won’t continue drinking,” I say. “I can vouch for him. He loves his job, and he needs to work. It was just a glitch.”

Raphael shakes his head. “If things are the way you describe them, he would’ve never allowed the glitch to happen in the first place.”

“Haven’t you ever lost your way?” I ask. “Haven’t you made misguided decisions and done stupid things you regretted bitterly later?”

He surveys my face.

“Please, will you give Sandro a chance?”

He stares out the window for a long moment. “Yes, there was a time when I lost my way,” he says, turning to me. “Many years ago, back in my teens.”

“But you got your act together, and I’m sure you didn’t do it alone. Someone—your parents, most likely—was there to help you.”

He gives me a humorless smile. “Someone was, indeed, only it wasn’t my parents. Maman was running her charity in Nepal, and Papa… Anyway, the person who had my back was Seb. I may have never cleaned up my act if it weren’t for him.”

I gaze into his eyes.

He stares back. “I’ll take another look at Sandro’s file.”

“Thank you.”

The corners of Raphael’s mouth curl up. “You should apply for sainthood with that heart of yours.”

Ha! The irony of it.

I’m not championing Sandro out of the goodness of my heart. My motives are more complex and somewhat less altruistic. The main one is a ludicrous wish. I hope that if my sex tape ever hits the Internet, the universe will return the favor. I hope the people who know me won’t see it, or if they do, they won’t judge me too harshly.

And, above all, I hope the people who matter most won’t cast me off.