Tyrone boarded the private business-class section of the luxury Scandinavian carrier in a sleek black suit, the buttons of his charcoal shirt left provocatively undone at the collar. He exuded power even after a week of late-night deals, untamed indulgence, and dominance beneath the northern stars.

He carried no bags—just a tailored coat over his shoulder, a sleek passport, and that signature presence that turned every head he passed in the terminal. He didn’t glance at anyone unless they earned it. But he felt their eyes.

Seated alone in the private row, he reclined his chair back slightly and loosened his cuffs. He had hours ahead—time enough for a nap, or something… more.

It wasn’t long before the flight attendant came down the aisle. Male, mid-20s, tall and lean with a sharply tailored uniform. His name tag read “LUKAS.”

And he definitely noticed Tyrone.

“Mr. Dominian?” Lukas asked, voice crisp but soft, as he offered him a drink menu. “Would you prefer champagne or your usual whiskey?”

Tyrone looked up slowly, letting his gaze sweep up Lukas’s fit frame—tight waist, strong jawline, flushed cheeks. He could tell Lukas knew exactly who he was. And that the boy was trying to stay professional.

Tyrone took the menu, brushed his fingers—intentionally—against Lukas’s hand. The brief touch made the attendant stiffen slightly.

“Whiskey,” Tyrone said, low and smooth. “Neat. But only if you pour it yourself.”

“Yes, sir.”

The corner of Tyrone’s mouth lifted. “Good boy.”

Lukas flushed. The word hit him deeper than it should have. He nodded and turned, disappearing toward the galley.

Tyrone watched him walk away. Lukas moved like he was holding himself together. Like he wanted to be noticed—but only by someone who could unravel him.

Minutes later, the curtain drew back and Lukas returned, balancing a sleek crystal tumbler.

“I took the liberty of giving you the 25-year Glenmorangie,” Lukas said, placing it down gently. “It’s not on the menu.”

Tyrone leaned forward. “Neither are you, are you?”

Lukas froze. Tyrone rose, stepping in close, the air between them thick with unspoken tension. His hand slid casually into Lukas’s waistband at the back—light pressure, suggestive but still deniable.

“Sir—” Lukas breathed, voice shaking slightly.

“Tell me, Lukas… do you only serve drinks to passengers?” Tyrone asked, voice dark velvet. “Or do you serve… other needs?”

Lukas swallowed. “There’s a service closet… private. I could—check your seatbelt. Make sure everything’s secure.”

Tyrone smirked.

He followed him back, past the first-class galley and into a tiny, dim service area barely large enough to stand in. The door clicked shut.

Without a word, Tyrone pressed Lukas back against the counter, one hand sliding into his hair, the other gripping his chin. He stared down into those pretty, nervous eyes.

“I don’t need drinks,” Tyrone murmured, “I need obedience.”

“Yes, sir,” Lukas whispered.

Tyrone kissed him hard, claiming his mouth. Lukas moaned—low, desperate—and kissed back like he’d been dreaming of this. Tyrone spun him around, pulling the tight uniform trousers down just enough. He took his time. Made the boy beg in a whisper.

“You’re lucky this is a long flight,” Tyrone growled as he filled him—deep, slow strokes that made Lukas clutch the counter. “Because I don’t finish quickly. And neither will you.”

The encounter lasted twenty minutes. Quiet. Efficient. Dominant. Lukas was breathless when Tyrone left him, hair mussed, uniform slightly askew, knees barely holding him up.

Tyrone returned to his seat, perfectly composed, sipping his whiskey like nothing had happened.

But the flight was long. And two hours later, another attendant entered his orbit.

Her name was Isabelle.

Late-30s, brunette, busty, with arched brows and legs that didn’t quit. She wore her blouse tight across her chest, and her eyes were sharp enough to know exactly what had gone on in that service closet. She waited until Lukas was off-duty and strolled down the aisle with a fresh towel and a glass of water.

“You look like a man in need of a proper refresh,” she purred.

Tyrone tilted his head. “You offering?”

“I don’t offer,” she said, placing the glass down slowly. “I… tempt.”

Tyrone’s eyes moved over her curves. “What do you think temptation gets you on a flight like this?”

She leaned closer. “First-class trouble.”

He chuckled—low, dangerous. “Come here.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He simply guided her down beside him into the large lie-flat seat, her heels clicking once before she sank onto his lap. His hands cupped her ass through the tight uniform skirt, his lips trailing along her neck.

“Your hands are bold,” she whispered.

“They get results.”

He undid her blouse slowly, revealing a black lace bra and full, ripe breasts that he immediately began to worship with his mouth. She gasped as his teeth grazed her nipple through the fabric.

“God, Tyrone—”

“You say my name so well,” he growled, pushing her back on the wide seat and hiking her skirt up. “Say it louder.”

Her panties were soaked. He slid two thick fingers inside her as he kissed her deeply, swallowing her moans. Then he pulled them out and tasted her.

“Sweet,” he murmured.

She writhed under him. He took his time with her—pleasured her with his mouth until her thighs shook, then bent her over the seat’s edge and took her from behind. Her moans were muffled by a blanket, but her body gave everything.

By the time he was done, she was breathless and dazed.

“Don’t fall in love,” he said, tucking her hair behind her ear. “I don’t stay grounded.”

She just smiled. “I don’t need love. I needed this.”

Tyrone returned to his seat, two attendants ruined by his touch. He sipped the rest of his whiskey as the plane began its descent hours later, the city lights of home flickering into view below.

Juliette’s message was waiting.

So was Lance’s latest report—punctuated with a “Yes, Sir” at the bottom.

And still… Tyrone knew.
More visitors would be coming.
More pleasure. More control.
He was home—but his world was always open for business.


Tyrone’s Page