The Cessna Caravan hummed through the thin air at 25,000 feet, somewhere over the Atlantic. The refuel in Dubai had been smooth—Roux, the pilot, had handled the ground crew with a wad of Jennifer's cash, no questions asked.
Now, with the Middle East fading behind them and New York still hours ahead, the cabin felt like a cocoon of recycled air and low vibrations.
Tony Stark lay on the makeshift stretcher, his color slowly returning thanks to the IV drip and antibiotics. The arc reactor in his chest glowed steadily, a blue heartbeat against the dim cabin lights.
Jennifer sat cross-legged on the floor beside him, her duffel within arm's reach. The crossbow was stowed, the pistol tucked into her waistband. She watched Tony stir, his eyes fluttering open more frequently now.
He was stabilizing—fever breaking, wounds clotting. But the man was a wreck: haunted by the cave, the betrayal, the near-death. She could see it in the way his jaw clenched even in half-sleep, the mutters about Yinsen, about weapons, about never wasting his life again.
She leaned forward, brushing a strand of dark hair from her face. Opportunity knocked. Tony Stark owed her his life. Time to collect a down payment.
"Tony," she said softly, her voice cutting through the engine drone.
He turned his head, brown eyes focusing on her. "Yeah? Not dead yet, if that's what you're checking."
"You're alive. Barely. But you're carrying a lot—stress, trauma, whatever you want to call it. That cave fucked you up."
He snorted weakly. "Understatement. You have no idea."
"I do, actually." She shifted closer, her green eyes locking onto his. "I've been through my own hell. Recently. And I know how to relieve it. Extreme ways."
His brow furrowed, curiosity sparking through the haze. "Extreme? Like what, skydiving? Or are we talking therapy with a side of bourbon?"
She smiled, slow and predatory. "Sex. Extreme sex. With me. Right here, right now. It'll burn off the edge, reset your head. Trust me—I've tested it."
Tony blinked, then laughed—a real one this time, though it ended in a cough. "You're serious. Mid-flight, on a prop plane, with me looking like roadkill? Lady, you're either insane or a gift from the gods."
"Both, maybe." She leaned in further, her hand resting lightly on his thigh. "But nothing's free. You want this? You send forty million to my account. Direct wire. Non-negotiable."
He stared at her, the laugh fading into appraisal. "Forty million? For sex?"
"For extreme sex. And for saving your ass from that cave. Consider it a stress-relief fee. You're a goddamn billionaire, Tony. Forty mil is pocket change. Lunch money."
He tilted his head, considering. The arc reactor whirred softly. "You're not wrong. But why forty? Round number? Or you got plans?"
"Plans are my business. Do we have a deal?"
Tony's eyes roamed over her—dark hair tousled from the wind, green eyes sharp as emeralds, body curved and athletic under the loose sweats.
Even battered from Afghanistan, she radiated control, danger, allure. He felt a stir, the first real one since the ambush. Adrenaline, survival instinct, whatever—it woke something primal.
"Deal," he said, voice rough. "But make it worth every penny."
Jennifer didn't waste time. She glanced forward at the cockpit door—closed, Roux focused on flying. The cabin was private enough, the engine noise a perfect cover.
She stood, stripping off her hoodie and sweats in efficient motions, revealing smooth skin, toned muscles, and the faint scars from her alley ordeal. Naked now, she straddled him carefully on the stretcher, mindful of his injuries.
"Two hours," she whispered. "No holding back."
Tony's hands—strong despite the weakness—gripped her hips. "Bring it."
It started slow, building like a reactor core. Jennifer ground against him, her breasts pressing to his chest as she kissed him deeply, tongues clashing in a battle for dominance.
He tasted of salt and survival; she of calculation and fire. His fingers dug into her flesh, pulling her closer. She reached down, freeing him from his ragged pants, stroking him to hardness with expert precision.
"Harder," he growled, bucking up despite the pain in his arm.
She obliged, lowering herself onto him in one fluid motion. He filled her completely, stretching her infinite womb that adapted without protest.
She rode him relentlessly, hips slamming down in a rhythm that shook the stretcher. Tony's hands roamed—squeezing her ass, pinching nipples until she gasped. She leaned back, arching, giving him full view as she bounced, her dark hair whipping.
Twenty minutes in, she flipped positions. Doggy style now, her on all fours over him as he thrust up from below. The plane hit mild turbulence, adding to the intensity—each bump driving him deeper.
He slapped her ass hard, leaving red marks; she moaned, pushing back fiercer. "More," she demanded. He obliged, one hand wrapping her hair like reins, pulling her head back as he pounded.
Sweat slicked their bodies. The cabin grew hot, air thick with their scents. Tony's arc reactor pulsed brighter with his heartbeat, casting blue glows over her skin. She clenched around him, milking every thrust. He bit her shoulder, drawing a sharp cry—pain mixing with pleasure.
Hour one: They switched to missionary. Jennifer on her back now, legs wrapped around his waist, nails raking his back. He drove into her with abandon, the stretcher creaking under the force. "Fuck the stress out," she panted. "Give it to me."
He did, deep, brutal strokes that hit her core, her womb accommodating without limit. She came first, body shuddering, walls pulsing around him. He followed soon after, spilling inside her with a guttural groan.
But they didn't stop. Extreme meant no breaks.
She pushed him back, mounting him reverse cowgirl. Her ass bounced as she rode, hands braced on his thighs. Tony watched, mesmerized, then reached around to rub her clit in furious circles.
She screamed—muffled by the engines—arching as another orgasm ripped through. He flipped her again, standing now despite his weakness, bending her over a cargo net. From behind, he slammed in, one hand choking her lightly, the other slapping rhythmically.
The turbulence hit harder over the ocean, the plane dipping and rising like their bodies. Jennifer's green eyes locked on his in a reflection from the window—wild, unyielding. "Deeper," she commanded.
He obliged, thrusting so hard it bordered on violence, her infinite womb taking it all without strain. He pulled her hair, bit her neck, squeezed her breasts until they ached anew.
Hour two: Exhaustion set in, but adrenaline fueled them. Side by side now, spooning on the narrow stretcher. Tony entered her from behind, slow at first, then building to frenzy.
His hand snaked between her legs, fingers working her while he thrust. She ground back, moaning his name. Climaxes blurred—hers multiple, his twice more, filling her each time.
Finally, at the two-hour mark, they collapsed. Bodies entwined, breathing ragged. The cabin reeked of sex and sweat. Tony's fever was gone; his eyes clearer, stress lines softened.
"Worth it," he murmured, tracing her hip.
Jennifer smiled, pulling away to dress. "Wire the money when we land."
He nodded, no argument. "Done."
The descent into New York began an hour later. Roux brought them down smoothly onto a private airstrip in New Jersey, just across the Hudson from Manhattan.
No customs hassle—more bribes had seen to that. A black SUV waited, courtesy of a quick burner-phone call Jennifer had made mid-flight.
She helped Tony into the back, his strength returning but still shaky. The driver—a discreet hire—took them straight into the city, weaving through early morning traffic toward Midtown.
Stark Industries loomed ahead, its sleek lines piercing the skyline. The MetLife Building in another life, now Tony's domain, arc reactor powered, a beacon of innovation. They pulled into the underground garage, bypassing security with Tony's verbal override via intercom.
Up the private elevator to the penthouse. Tony leaned on Jennifer, but his step was surer. The doors opened to opulence: floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, sleek furniture, a bar stocked with top-shelf liquor. JARVIS's voice greeted them, artificial, polite. "Welcome home, sir. Medical scan initiating."
"Later, JARVIS," Tony said, waving it off. He staggered to the desk, pulling up a holographic interface. Fingers danced over virtual keys.
Jennifer watched, arms crossed. "Forty million. Now."
He glanced at her, smirking. "Impatient. I like it." A few taps, biometric scan, and it was done. "Wired to the account details you gave me mid-flight. Offshore, untraceable. Happy?"
Her burner phone buzzed—confirmation from her bank app. Balance updated: $59,958,650 and climbing with the transfer. She allowed a real smile. "Very."
Tony poured two scotches, handing her one. "To new partnerships. And extreme stress relief."
She clinked glasses. "To that. And more."
He sipped, eyes thoughtful. "You saved my life. And... that flight? Unforgettable. What's your angle, Jennifer Hale? Really?"
She set the glass down, stepping close. "Survival. Power. In this world—your world—I'm building an empire. Starting with you."
He nodded slowly. "Fair. Stane's next. Then weapons shutdown. Big changes."
"I'll help. For a price."
Tony laughed. "Of course. But first—cheeseburger. And a real bed."
Jennifer glanced at the windows, dawn breaking over New York. Her body hummed from the sex, womb full of his seed but empty of consequence—yet. Forty million richer, arc reactor in her duffel, Tony Stark as ally and debtor. This world spun around her now.
She followed him to the kitchen, plans forming. Extreme sex was just the beginning.
(A/N: Tell me if they has been any mistakes in this chapter)