She'd never called him back. He'd called her a few times, sent her some emails, pining for her, but she wasn't ready. Suddenly, one day, walking through the airport, he heard a voice that sounded like his vague memory of her.

He turned around, and there she bounced, hair about shoulders, breasts under tee shirt, smiling to end the world.

He was too controlled to run, but he walked as fast as he dared, his arms opening wide as she got closer and then suddenly she was against him and he was holding her as he had dreamed.

She was warm, and solid, real and panting from trying to catch him. Her luggage was on the ground, her arms were around him in return and she was raising on tiptoe to kiss him, her soft lips against his, her tongue flicking between their lips, forcing its way into his mouth, all hot and wet and obscenely wonderful.

His hands went up under her shirt to her bare back, not quite daring there in the middle of the airport as the crowds rushed about them to lift it up and over her breasts, uncovering her long hard eager nipples.

Finally, reluctantly, they pulled apart to breathe, then stood, silently, staring happily into each other's eyes before she asked "Is there somewhere we can go make out?"

He smiled, nodded, took her by the hand and led her down the corridor to a rarely-used gate built in the days when air travel was still expanding. Airport seating is not particularly conducive to heavy petting, but he didn't care. She was there, next to him, each of them in their own little side-by-side plastic bucket chairs, her foot on his leg, and her hand on his arm, her dazzlingly beautiful face leaning forward to be kissed again.

As their tongues danced her hand slid over the arm of the chair down to his lap, feeling for his cock under his uniform pants. It wasn't hard for her to find because it was hard and rapidly growing harder, especially under the expert pressure of her palm. He winced as a wave of pleasure rolled over him, shaking him, spinning him out of control like sudden turbulence. He reached out, seeking more control, found her nipple, and tweaked it hard. She pulled back for a second, bit her lip, staring deep into his eyes like a cute little puppy as his hand snuck up under her shirt, squeezing and pinching and tickling her breasts. She was flushed and panting again, but it wasn't from running this time. It was obvious pure desire mixed with what seemed to him like a sense of sadness and frustration.

His hand still on her breast, still tweaking her nipple now almost completely exposed to whoever else might be there or come wandering through, he asked her what the matter was.

"My plane starts boarding in ten minutes" she pouted, "and I really need you inside me but I have to go, and I don't want to." With that she jumped out of the seat, leaned over, kissed him one more time, hard and deep, luscious breasts dangling in front of his face, one still trapped in the shirt, the other swinging free, an incredibly distracting pendulum.

And then she was gone, pulling down the shirt, arranging herself, scooping her luggage off the floor and running back out into the concourse to her gate, to her plane, to her husband, again.

He slumped back in the chair, dazed and bemused, and not entirely sure exactly what he was feeling.

It was only then, in the sudden wrenching stillness of her absence that he noticed the slightly disheveled pilot and flight attendant sitting in the shadows on the far end of the waiting area, completely overlooked in the heat of the moment, now staring at him curiously.

"Who the fuck was that?" the pilot called out.

"Just a passenger," he answered, shaking his head in wonderment, "just a passenger."