Service With a Smile (Patreon)

You can tell a lot about a passenger from how they walk down the aisle.

Some march in like they own the place. Some skulk past, dodging eye contact, already braced for a middle seat near the loos. Others are all business — laptops, power ties, Bluetooth headsets still chirping as they wedge themselves into 17C.

And then there’s her.

Row 21, middle of the cabin. Hair sprayed to hell, claws lacquered a pearly peach, dragging two mismatched carry-ons like she’s moving house. She’s not dressed for comfort, either — pearls, heels, a blouse buttoned all the way up. Like it’s 1964 and she’s about to audition for Pan Am.

I clock her the second she boards.

“Excuse me, buck,” she says, waving me down before she’s even halfway to her row. “Do you have a hook or something up front? My son brought his instrument — it’s very delicate.”

Behind her, trailing by three full paces, is the son in question.

Eighteen if he’s a day. German shepherd. Handsome in that pouty, high-school-heartthrob way. Pierced ear, black hoodie, chunky noise-cancelling headphones. That perfect floppy fringe of black fur all but screaming emo phase — or maybe that’s just his natural setting.

He barely looks up.

Just shrugs off his bag and shuffles forward like he’s walking to detention. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was embarrassed to be seen with her. Which, judging by her volume, is fair enough.

“Oh! Blake, sweetheart, wait — your shirt’s all untucked. And there’s a smudge on your snout.”

She unzips a side pouch on her carry-on like it’s a tactical vest, pulls out a crumpled sanitizing wipe and a lint roller, then starts fussing at him like he’s about to meet the headmaster.

“Mum…” Blake hisses, wriggling. “Quit it.”

She doesn’t. “You were touching all those railings in the terminal. And don’t get me started on security — filthy paws grabbing everyone’s things. Do you want to bring home some fungal infection?”

“Do you want to make a scene?” he mutters, glancing around.

Too late. A pair of business hyenas in Row 18 are already snickering behind their tablets.

I suppress a smirk and gently intervene. “We do have sanitizing wipes on board, ma’am. And we’ll be happy to assist you and your son with storing the instrument safely.”

“Oh! Thank you, dear. That’s very kind. He’s so clumsy with it sometimes — aren’t you, baby?”

Blake doesn’t answer. He just ducks into the row and slumps into the window seat, arms folded, staring dead ahead.

The father — who I hadn’t even noticed yet — trudges in behind, dragging his own bag. Greying retriever. Worn wedding band. The look of a man who gave up arguing years ago.

He nods at me, voice flat. “Sorry.”

“No worries, sir. Long flight. We’ll take good care of you.”

He grunts and sits.

The mother keeps fussing, reaching across Blake’s lap to buckle his belt, fluff his pillow, adjust his fan, and then — I shit you not — tighten his hoodie drawstring like she’s tucking him in for a nap.

Blake yanks it loose, face dark.

She ignores him. “He’s a good boy,” she tells me, unprompted. “Just gets anxious sometimes. We’ve had some… bladder issues. Nothing serious! But if he needs to tinkle, I’ll ring the call button.”

My ears twitch. I’m still smiling, but barely.

“I’m 18,” Blake growls, not looking up. “I don’t need help taking a piss.”

His mother gasps.

“Language!”

“It’s a medical term,” he deadpans.

The husband sighs and pulls out a book.

I finally let myself grin.

“Well,” I say smoothly, adjusting my tie, “if you do need anything at all, young pup… I’d be more than happy to provide some hands-on assistance.”

I see it then — the flick of Blake’s ear, the twitch of his nose. His eyes don’t quite meet mine, but there’s a flicker of curiosity. Of attitude.

“Mum,” he says, loud enough for the whole cabin to hear, “I don’t need someone to hold my dick and shake it for me.”

Dead silence.

Row 23 giggles. A border collie chokes on his gum.

His mother is mortified. “I apologize,” she says, clutching her pearls like she’s about to faint. “I don’t know what to do with that filthy mouth of his—”

“I do,” I murmur under my breath, stepping back toward the galley.

The cabin’s still boarding. I’ve got at least twenty minutes before final call.

Now, we’re at thirty thousand feet.

Engines purring. Lights dimmed to a soft amber. The cabin’s gone quiet the way only a red-eye can — the kind of hush that settles over tired bodies and half-lidded eyes.

Most passengers are out cold. Seatbacks tilted, faces slack in sleep, the occasional snore cutting through the hum. Even the kids in Row 6 finally shut up.

The drink carts are stowed. My co-steward’s doing sudoku in the jump seat. And me? I’m just doing my rounds. Just that late-night rhythm — the steady lull of a flight halfway to nowhere.

The seatbelt sign dings.

I’m halfway through the galley checklist when I hear it: Row 21. 

“Excuse me!”

She’s already halfway out of her seat, tray table still down. Same voice from check-in. Same motherly panic.

“I think my boy needs to use the little pup’s room. He’s been wriggling for ten minutes!”

I turn, smile locked in place. “Of course, ma’am. I’ll be happy to assist.”

The shepherd groans, dragging a paw down his face. Hood up. Headphones around his neck. Ears pinned flat and a look like he wants to melt through the floor.

“Mum. For fuck’s sake.”

“Language,” she hisses, patting his knee like that’s going to smooth anything over. “He’s just shy about asking.”

He doesn’t even look at her. Just mutters to me, “I’m eighteen, bruv. Not five.”

Half the row turns. Not with interest — just that bored, passive smirk you get when someone else’s drama spices up the boarding process. I clock his father ducking behind a paperback like he’s hoping to disappear.

I crouch slightly, keeping my voice calm, my posture professional. “No trouble at all, sir. The lavatory’s at the rear galley. I’ll show you the way.”

“Don’t call me sir,” Blake says, rising to his feet with a scowl. “You sound like my mum.”

I lean in just close enough for him to hear it over the engine hum: “Trust me, pup — I don’t sound anything like your mum.”

He blinks, caught off guard. Then smirks — just a flicker — and tugs his hoodie down over his joggers.

“Bruv,” he mutters. “Whatever.”

As he stomps up the aisle, he shoots me a look over his shoulder. “Sorry ’bout her, yeah? She still thinks I’m in bloody nursery.”

“No worries,” I murmur, falling into step a few paces behind. “I’ve met worse.”

The air shifts as we head toward the back. Dimmer lights. Fewer passengers. Quieter. The steady drone of the turbines levels into a low, soothing hum. Scent’s different too — not just coffee and perfume now, but old vinyl, creamer dust, and the musk of too many bodies in recycled air.

We reach the rear galley. He’s already at the lavatory, paw on the latch like it’s a challenge.

He glances back. “See? I can manage.”

“Never doubted you,” I say smoothly. “Just makin’ sure you didn’t mistake the catering locker again. Had a lad last week piss all over the pretzels.”

He snorts. Genuine this time. Then rolls his eyes and disappears into the lav, door clicking shut behind him.

I pause.

One beat.

Then two.

And I wait.

I should walk away.

I should go back to the galley, refill the coffee pot, maybe sneak a biscuit before the next round.

Instead, I wait.

Ten seconds.

Then fifteen.

And that’s when I hear it — the unmistakable hiss of piss hitting metal. Steady stream. Boy’s clearly been holding it.

Then the sound changes. Slows.

Becomes… something else.

Rhythmic. Wet.

Intentional.

My ears tilt.

I glance back down the aisle — empty. Galley’s deserted. My crew is prepping in the forward cabin. Captain’s still got us cruising steady.

I shift closer. Just one step. Then two. Hooves soft on the carpet.

The lav light leaks out beneath the door — thin slice across the floor. And inside, shadows. A body. Moving. Hand pumping.

My pulse ticks up.

I lift a hoof. Tap once, gentle against the door.

“Everything alright in there, sir?”

A pause.

Then: “Yeah—yeah, I’m—fuck—I’m fine.”

He sounds breathless.

Too breathless.

“Sure?”

Silence.

Then: a soft click.

The lock disengages.

Door opens — just a sliver.

Enough to let the scent hit me.

Piss. Sweat. That swampy young-dog funk that builds up on long flights and only gets worse when a lad starts touching himself in a pressurized plastic closet.

Our eyes meet through the crack. His are wide, pupils blown out, lips parted. There’s colour in his cheeks. His hoodie’s rumpled, fur mussed. A bead of sweat clings to the bridge of his snout.

He’s not even pretending to hide it. Not really.

That paw’s still wrapped around his cock like he’s scared it’ll misbehave if he lets go — sheath tugged back, shaft throbbing, fat knot swelling with each heartbeat. His balls hang low and glossy, slick with sweat.

He wants to be caught. Wants someone to step in and sort him out.

I do.

Barely enough space for both of us in the lav — just enough for one poor bastard to piss and knock his elbows on the mirror if he’s lucky. But now it’s packed full of heat and fur: me in tailored navy with a half-stiff in my slacks, and him — this overgrown pup, all leg and confusion, panting like he doesn’t know whether to bolt or beg.

The door clicks shut behind me. My hoof on the lock. Final.

He swallows. I hear it. Loud in the quiet. His tail curls between his thighs like he’s trying to hide something we’ve both already seen.

“Mum said you needed help,” I murmur, voice low and smooth, the kind that carries over a tannoy just before takeoff. “But I reckon you’ve needed help for a while now, haven’t you, pup?”

He nods. Barely.

“Words, Blake.”

“Y–yeah,” he stammers. “I… I didn’t mean to. It just— I got— it got—”

“Hard?” I supply, leaning in until my breath brushes his ear. My hoof plants next to his on the sink, boxing him in. “Yeah. I can see that.”

I glance down.

Poor mutt’s still out there. Sheath clingin’ to the base like it’s holdin’ on for dear life. His cock — red, thick for his age, tapered just right — twitches like it’s tryin’ to wave me down. Glazed at the tip with slick. His paw squeezes on instinct.

“Let go,” I murmur.

He freezes for a sec. Then obeys — like a good pup should.

It bobs free, fat and needy, smackin’ against my uniform. Leaves a smear of pre on my navy slacks like a signature.

I don’t flinch.

He stares at me like I’m sent to him by the gods themselves. Like I’m here to either ruin him or redeem him.

The air’s ripe now — swampy with dog sweat and hormones. That raw, sleepless, unwashed stink. Hoodie soaked through. Waistband damp with musk. I drink it in slow, like it’s aged whiskey.

Blake shifts, flustered in the silence.

“I—I didn’t mean for you to… I thought you’d just tell me to stop,” he mumbles.

I lean in, chest brushing his, muzzle to muzzle. Feel his breath stutter.

“Do you want to?”

He doesn’t answer.

Didn’t think so.

I drop to my knees.

Not graceful — not in this shoebox. My antlers scrape the mirror. Elbow knocks the paper bin. Knees slam vinyl. But I wedge in anyway, head between his trembling thighs, and stare up at that flushed, twitchin’ cock like it’s mine to deal with.

’Cause it is.

He’s shaking.

I’m not.

I press my muzzle to his belly first — just below the navel — letting him feel the heat of my breath soak through that sweaty, travel-matted fur. Pup’s got that ripe, unwashed scent clinging to him, and it goes straight to my fuckin’ brain. I drag my snout down, slow and greedy, until I’m buried in the funk at the base where sheath meets cock.

He twitches.

Then moans.

Soft, but raw. Desperate.

“Ohh…”

The poor pup’s shaking.

His paws lift like he might push me away — but don’t. They just hover there, useless. One brushes my antlers like he’s scared to admit what’s happenin’.

I don’t wait.

I open my muzzle.

Let my tongue slip out and drag up his angry red shaft like I’m starving.

Pre’s already smeared down the underside, leaking from the tip like he’s been edging for hours. I lap it up like it’s the only thing that’ll keep me alive. It’s hot, slick, tangy — full of that heady, virgin dog-spunk musk that makes my balls fucking ache.

His thighs twitch. His tail gives a helpless flick.

Then I take him. Just the tip.

Let it stretch my lips and drag across my tongue, let him feel every ridge of my mouth accept him like it’s made for his cock. He gasps like he’s just been gut-punched — or blessed.

He tastes like heat. Like bottled-up, puppy-horny frustration finally getting a release.

His cock throbs inside my muzzle.

I pull back just enough to swirl my tongue around the head — teasing that slick, sensitive crown — then sink again, a little deeper. He’s thicker than I expected. The shape widens. I feel the knot start to push up, fat and swollen, not quite ready, but beggin’ to be used.

“F-fuck,” he whines.

Voice cracking.

Cock twitching.

Pup’s about to find religion — and I’m the fuckin’ altar.

His hips twitch — instinctive. Poor sod’s trying to thrust, to fuck, to get any friction, but there’s no room to rut — he’s got no room. Lav’s too tight, walls right up on us,  mirror’s creakin’ behind him, and I’ve got him proper pinned. My gob’s locked round his cock, and he’s got fuck-all space to move. Just heat. Just scent. Just the sloppy, obscene shlurp of me suckin’ down his virgin mutt cock like I was born for it.

And am I.

I flick my eyes up.

He’s pantin’, mouth open, eyes half-lidded like he’s high on it. Proper mess. Hoodie clingin’ to him like second skin, ears flat, tail twitchin’ where it’s pinned to the side.

“Don’t stop,” he whispers.

No stammer this time.

Like he means it.

I growl low round his cock, lettin’ the rumble shake through him. Then I sink lower.

I hear it — just faint — the scrape of claws on the sink edge behind him. Not cocky. Not in control. He’s barely holdin’ on. Palms flat, bracin’ himself like the fuckin’ floor’s gonna drop out beneath him and I’m the only thing keepin’ him grounded.

I go deeper.

My tongue slides under the shaft, workin’ it slow, lettin’ him feel every fuckin’ centimetre. The knot’s engorgin’ already — swollen and hot at the base like a proper pup, fattenin’ for a tie. I don’t take it. Not yet. Just let it rest on my muzzle, warm and pulsing.

Glrk.

Sound’s obscene. Wet. Hollow. His tip hits the back of my throat and I hold it there — just long enough for him to panic a little.

Glrk. Slrk. Glrk. 

He yelps.

“Oh—fuck—oh, mate—”

His knees go, proper soft. He doubles over, hoodie dragging across my antlers, whimper leaking out his muzzle like he’s lost control of every bloody thing.

I grab his hips — lock him down tight.

“Where d’you think you’re goin’, then?” I growl, lips stretched round his cock, voice thick with spit and heat. “You stay right fuckin’ there, pup.”

He’s trembling head to toe now — not from fear, nah. From sheer, bucking overload.

He’s close.

And I ain’t lettin’ him off easy.

Thighs twitchin’. Tail jerkin’. Chest flutterin’ with them shallow, frantic breaths like he’s sprinted a marathon and come undone at the finish line.

That knot’s flarin’ — swellin’ like mad. Fast. Too fast. The poor lad’s body betrayin’ him, givin’ up the truth of just how young and pent-up he really is. Like his cock’s tryin’ to finish the story before his brain can catch up.

Glrk… slrp…

I suck him harder now. Filthy. Wet. Deep. Each suck draws a strangled moan from his throat. His paw — hesitant just a minute ago — clamps onto the base of my antler like it’s the only thing holdin’ him on this side of sanity. His other paw fists the hoodie against his chest. The rest of him’s fallin’ to bits.

“Oh fuck—fuck—I can’t—oh fuck I’m—”

I feel it.

The twitch.

The jolt.

The raw, helpless shudder of a pup losin’ it.

Gods, already? Barely minutes in, and the poor mutt’s blowin’ like he’s been edged for days.

Splurt .

Hot.

Messy.

His load splashes against my tongue — thick, sharp, fresh-baked pup batter. Another shot. Then another. He whines through it, ears flat, tail thudding wildly. Knees damn near give out.

He’s still cumming when the guilt kicks in.

“I’m sorry—fuck—I didn’t mean to—wasn’t even that long— I usually last a bit more when I’m… when I…”

I hold, still suckin’ — slow and greedy. Past the point of sensitivity. Milking him. Letting that knot twitch against my lips like it’s beggin’ for a tie it ain’t gettin’.

Then I ease back.

Slrp.

One final pop as the tip slips free, wet and shiny. I lick it clean.

He stares.

Mouth open. Chest rising.

His cock — softish now — rests sloppy against his belly, still droolin’. Hoodie’s rucked under his arms, belly fluff twitchin’ with every breath.

And his face —

Red. Hot. Proper wrecked.

“I—I didn’t mean to cum that fast,” he whispers.

“You needed it,” I murmur, wiping my muzzle with a handkerchief. “That’s all.”

He swallows.

Quiet.

“You’ve never been a horny, rutty little mutt before?”

“…No.”

I look at him — slow, smug.

Muzzle slick. Suit stained.

Cabin drenched in sweat, cum, and travel funk.

The mutt’s still shaking.

Panting like he ran a marathon… with his cock.

His sheath’s soaked — slack now, still drooling creamy drips. Belly fluff damp with splashback. Knot still twitching under the fabric where I’d tucked it away.

I lean in, lips grazing the fur just above his sheath. Close enough to feel the twitch. Close enough to smell where the pup ends and the dog begins.

“You’re a big dog now, Blake,” I murmur. “Grown lads make messes.”

He whimpers — shame-sweet, tail curling tight.

I smooth the hoodie down like I’m tucking in a pup for bed. Doesn’t hide the smell. Or the heat. Or the fat, sticky print he left across my slacks.

“We’ve still got hours left in the air,” I purr, licking his cum off my thumb. “Plenty of time to finish your education.”

I rise. My knees pop. My antlers scrape the mirror. Cock still aching behind my fly.

Blake’s bracing against the sink — hoodie bunched, trousers round his ankles, chest heaving. He watches me. Red-faced. Wrecked.

I wipe my muzzle. Slow. Deliberate. Then lick it clean.

His tail twitches.

“You made a mess,” I say, stepping in close.

He lowers his head. “Couldn’t help it.”

“Came like a puppy in his sleep.”

“Didn’t mean to.”

“No?”

I turn him to the mirror. Press my bulge against his arse. Let him feel what he did to me.

He gasps. Ears down.

“You liked being caught. Liked being used.”

He says nothing. Doesn’t need to.

I slide a hoof between his cheeks. Fingers teasing. His body tenses — not in fear. In need.

“I called you a grown-up.” My voice is low now. Right in his ear. “But that’s not what you want, is it?”

He shudders. Then — softly, breathless —

“No, daddy.”

One paw grabs the edge of the sink.

“Don’t treat me like a grown-up.”

He bites his lip.

“Treat me like a slutty puppy.”

His voice cracks on the word “puppy.” And that does it.

I reach for the soap dispenser. One pump. Two. The cheap orange gel dribbles out, smelling like dollar-store citrus. I smear it between my fingers.

His tail jerks.

Then lifts.

The little fucker’s presenting. No hesitation. No shame. Just cockdrunk heat and a needy arse.

His earlier mess still clings to his sheath, but his body’s already beggin’ for more.

I press my fingers under his tail and slide them in. The soap squelches loud in the lav.

He whimpers, pressing back instinctively, tail quivering.

“You feel that?”

“Y-yes…”

I push deeper, scissoring him open. He moans into the sink. Legs trembling.

By the time I’ve worked three fingers in, he’s gasping.

“Grown dogs don’t let their mums baby them and then lift their tails like this.”

He shudders.

“Puppies do.”

He nods.

“Dirty little seat-humping puppies who can’t stop leaking.”

He lets out a sound — not even a word. Just raw, used-up noise.

“Say it.”

“I’m… I’m a puppy.”

“Say it right.”

“I’m a slutty puppy, daddy. Please—please use me.”

I grin.

Line up.

“I’m gonna start pushin’ in now. You push back for me, yeah?”

“Fuckin’ hell… what if I… er… y’know…”

“Trust me, pup. You’ll thank me.”

He does. That tight little ring loosens, twitching, just enough to let me in.

I press forward, slow. Deliberate.

His whole frame jolts.

“F-fuck—oh gods—”

He’s white-knuckling the counter. Claws scraping. Arse tight as hell. But not stopping me.

“There’s a good pup,” I growl. “Takin’ buck dick like a champion.”

I keep the pressure steady, working deeper, until he clamps up. Final resistance. I reach under the hoodie, pinch his nipple.

He gasps — sharp and high — and I slam the rest in.

His paw hits the mirror. “G-gods—bruv—what the fuck—!”

“You took all of it. Good boy.”

He’s trembling. Full-body. Sweat rolling. Puck clenching like it doesn’t know what just hit it.

I start to pull out — slow, thick — and he panics.

“Wait—wait—wait!”

I freeze. Let him catch up. Then start again.

Slow. Wet. Deep.

His tight little guts flutter, trying to fight and keep me all at once.

He’s not enjoying it yet — not fully — but he’s determined to take it. Proving something. Gritting his teeth and gettin’ fucked through it.

I watch him in the mirror. Brave little puppy takin’ cock like it’s a test he doesn’t want to fail.

The lav creaks with us. Rhythmic. Filthy. My cock slurps through him and I angle up —

And there it is.

He screams.

No warning. Just a ragged howl. Legs give out. Eyes roll. He’s cockdrunk. Done.

“There it is,” I growl. “That little switch inside you.”

“What the fuck—what the fuck was that—!”

“You don’t even know what your fuckin’ hole can do, do you?”

He tries to answer — mouth open, lips twitchin’ — but all that comes out is a wheezing gasp. Pup’s trembling. Tail won’t stop. His puck’s flutterin’ and squeezin’, beggin’ for another hit.

“You’re grippin’ me like a vice, pup. You need this.”

I start hammerin’ — hard, merciless, blunt head hittin’ his spot every time. Each thrust knocks a louder whine out of him, like his throat’s just leakin’.

“Got you twitchin’ like I’m pressin’ your fuckin’ reset button,” I snarl, leanin’ down. “Like I’m reprogrammin’ you from the inside out.”

He howls. Proper now. Muzzle clamped, body shakin’, tail flickin’ like mad. Still pushin’ back, greedy for cock, desperate to get stuffed deeper, harder.

His head hits the mirror. Tongue lolls out. Drool slicks the glass.

“I can’t—I’m gonna—”

“You’re gonna break,” I growl. “So break. Cum for me.”

And fuckin’ hell, he does.

Cock jerks, balls tight — he paints the lav, unloadin’ everywhere. Proper eruption. Sink, wall, mirror — glazed like he’s claimin’ the place.

I grab his knot, tight.

He bucks harder, whimperin’ into my palm, rutting like he’s breedin’ a sink. His hole clamps and flutters, and that’s it for me.

“Ffffuck—” I grunt, buryin’ deep, unloadin’ thick.

Spurt after spurt floods his guts, my cock throbbin’ wild. No knot, but I stay buried. Let him feel it all.

The air’s swampy — sweat, jizz, buck, dog. Every breath’s thick. His hoodie’s glued to his back. My slacks stick to my thighs.

“You’re gonna smell like jizz the rest of the flight.”

“Don’t care…” he pants, dazed.

“You’re gonna drip on your seat.”

He moans, ears twitchin’, tail limp.

I lean close.

“I wonder what mummy’ll think.”

One last push, and I stay buried.

Steam rolls off the mirror. Lav creaks like it’s fallin’ apart. He just nods — breathless, ruined.

I kiss his neck.

“Good puppy.”

There’s no space to clean up in here, not properly, so I step out — let the little mutt gather himself — and sort myself out in the galley. My slacks are stickin’, cock still half-hard and drippin’. Sampson, the raccoon I’m workin’ with tonight, is leanin’ against the trolley wall, smirkin’.

“Have fun?” he asks, low.

“You know it,” I mutter, zippin’ back up, tryin’ to brush off a stray streak of jizz that’s clung to my thigh.

Then the lav door opens.

Out steps the pup — hoodie all wrinkled, fur plastered to his chest, headphones hangin’ limp around his neck. He’s not makin’ eye contact. Ears red. Tail down. Total mess.

“Hope you’re enjoyin’ the inflight service, sir,” I say with a grin.

The pup chokes, eyes flashin’ to me in full panic before he bolts back to his seat. Walkin’ funny now — properly split open — his guts all stirred up. And just to top it off, he’s got a wad of jizz‑soaked loo roll stuck to the back of one of his trainers, draggin’ behind him like a slutty little tail.

Sampson whistles, impressed. “Cutie. How’d he taste?”

I slip a finger in his mouth — my finger — slick and sticky with hormones and dog cum.

“See for yourself.”

I watch from the galley as the pup taps his dad on the shoulder, head ducked low, tail barely moving. Trying to slide back into his window seat like nothin’ happened.

His dad gives him a sniff, frowns, then says — a little too loud:

“Were you wankin’ in the loo again, Blake?”

“Dad!”

“What? You stink like jizz, son.”

Blake huffs and shuffles past his mum, who — as ever — seems blissfully unaware.

“Oh sweetheart,” she coos, pulling out a wipe. “Your fur’s all damp. Did you get splashed in there? Here—give me your paws—”

“Mum—!”

“You know I don’t like those public lavatories. So filthy. You never know what you might pick up in them.”

She fusses like mad, squirting hand sanitizer onto his pads and smoothing his hoodie while he shrinks into his seat, face burning. I swear his ears can’t get any flatter. Poor mutt looks like he wants to disappear through the cabin floor.

Then the captain chimes on overhead.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re beginning our final descent. Please stow any remaining items and return your tray tables to the upright position.”

Blake doesn’t move. He just stares dead ahead.

Then — slowly — he looks back.

Right at me.

I catch his eye.

And wink.

He jolts like I’ve swatted his arse, lips parting in panic, tail twitchin’.

Vacation of a lifetime, pup.

Bet he’ll be having wet dreams about this flight for years.