Flying (2 page)

“Some crazy weather, huh?” The second he opens his mouth to speak, it doesn’t matter what he says. It means he’s hooked. He points at the TV, across which a banner is running. Freak tornados have swept the Midwest and also odd places on the East Coast that don’t usually see them. He doesn’t quite look at her and she’s most definitely not looking at him, but she can feel him sneaking a peek.

For one long second, she feigns inattention enough that his words don’t turn her toward him. But then... “Hmm? Oh. Yes! Crazy.” A soft frown, a crease of concern. “Those poor people. I hope nobody’s hurt.”

“A few have died, I think.” Other men might’ve said it with a hint of suppressed glee, the joy of the unscathed, but this guy... His sincerity is probably genuine. “And who knows how much the damage will cost?”

Stella angles her body, the smallest twitch, toward him. “Yeah. Scary. Have you ever been in a tornado?”

The question, as she’s meant it to, seems to take him a bit off guard. He shakes his head. His body angles toward hers too, almost like an afterthought. “No. Have you?”

She shakes her head. “No. I hope I never am. With my luck, I’d end up in Oz, dropping my house on a witch.”

He laughs. He has nice white teeth. Straight. The lines at the corners of his eyes settle him as older than she’d thought. He looks at her now, really looks. There’s that gleam, deliciously reluctant, and it sparks a fresh heat inside her.

“I’m Glenn.” He holds out his hand.

She takes it. The shake is firm and brief, still utterly polite. “Maria. Should I call you Father?”

He looks almost startled for a second, and when he lets go of her hand, his fingers touch his throat briefly. Then his pocket. “Oh. No. I mean, you don’t have to.”

Her head tilts, gaze taking him in, like the smile a few seconds longer than is necessary. “Would you
like
me to?”

For half a breath, she thinks she’s misjudged him. Either he has no secrets or he’s just that good at keeping them. But then... “You can just call me Glenn. Maria.”

There’s conversation after that. More about the weather. About the game on TV—he’s impressed she knows enough about the sport to keep up. Men always are; it annoys or amuses her, depending on the situation. Tonight, she’s amused. They talk of other things, too. Music, for one. Concerts. He’s been to see a few of the bands she likes. He shares some of her favorite songs. By the time an hour passes, she has him leaning in to her, getting closer. He offers her an onion ring and laughs when she declines. They order a plate of mozzarella sticks to share.

They don’t talk again about his collar...or lack of it. She expects that at any minute he’ll tell her he has to leave. They are in an airport, after all. Then he explains his plane’s been delayed by those very same storms that had started their conversation. She tells him she’s also been delayed because of weather, and as lies go, it’s so small it could almost be the truth.

There’s a moment when she can tip this the other way. She can thank him for the food and the iced teas he’s paid for. She can walk away and let him keep the secrets he already has, instead of becoming one more he has to keep. Stella, momentarily moral, stands to wish him a good night and good luck.

Glenn stands too. He asks her where she’s staying. The moment for doing the right thing has passed, and who’s to say what’s right and wrong, anyway? He’s an adult. She isn’t forcing him.

All she’s done is offer the temptation. He doesn’t have to take it. But as she gathers her bag and he helps her with her coat, Stella knows he already has.

“I have a reservation at the Marriott,” he tells her.

“Me too,” she says, and excuses herself to the restroom, where she makes one.

In the lobby, she gets her key while Glenn studies the nondescript paintings of horses and flowers with the intensity deserving art hung in the Met. She’s asked for a room on the lobby level—no elevators, no stairs, just the shortest of walks down a hallway smelling of antiseptic.

At the door, she turns to him with a smile. “Good night, Glenn. Thanks for walking me.”

“You’re welcome.”

Stella’s the one who offers her hand. Palm to palm, fingers link. There’s a long, slow and lingering squeeze. She tugs him, gently. One step closer. Then another. There’s only space enough for a breath between them, and she takes it. In these shoes, all she has to do is tilt her head and offer her mouth, let her tugging hand make him believe she’s pulling him when he’s the one taking the steps.

She doesn’t kiss him. That’s important. Stella lets Glenn start the kiss, and she lets him break it too. She keeps her eyes closed and can’t stop herself from smiling. Without opening them or looking to make sure they’re alone in the hallway, she leans back against the door to her room and puts his hand, fingers still linked with hers, inside her dress. Against her skin. She curls her fingers around his so that his knuckles brush lace and heat. He kisses her again, harder this time.

Glenn’s tongue strokes hers. He’s an excellent kisser. The hand not between her legs slides up her body, over her breasts, to cup the back of her neck. He breathes a little moan into her mouth, and Stella arches against him.

This is what she likes, what she craves. This is what she wants. Being wanted so much he’ll do anything, finger her in a hotel doorway, maybe fuck her right there, not caring about anything but getting his cock inside her.

“Inside,” Glenn whispers against her lips.

She fits the key into the slot without turning around. The door swings open, and they push through it without moving apart. They’re already at the bed by the time the door clicks shut. Glenn’s hand is still against her cunt, his mouth on hers. His hand on the back of her neck keeps her from falling.

He breaks the kiss and presses his forehead to hers, eyes closed. He licks his mouth. It’s Stella’s turn to cup the back of his neck, and she feels him shudder at her touch. She’s no longer holding his hand between her legs, but he hasn’t moved it. His fingers uncurl enough to slide beneath the lace.

She’s been wet for hours. His fingertips slide against her. They brush her clit, and Stella groans against him. The sound is low and raw. She doesn’t care. She wants him to hear the desire in her voice the same way he feels it between her legs.

She wants to hold nothing back.

Because this is what Stella really wants and craves and needs and seeks. This naked, somehow desperate connection of two people who don’t even know each other’s last names, but who each knows exactly how the other tastes. Glenn tastes like guilt and fervor. Does she taste the same, or is her flavor more bitter, like secrets and grief? She wants to eat him up, so she opens her mouth and invites his tongue inside.

Should she be surprised when he goes to his knees in front of her with a mutter like a prayer? Still, it startles her enough that if the bed weren’t behind her, she’d have backed away. She can’t move, and even if she could, his hands move to the backs of her thighs and hold her still. He doesn’t look up at her face when he pulls the tie at her side open, nor when her dress falls open to show off her pale blue, lacy bra and matching panties. The garter belt and stockings she loves so much.

The hair, the mouth, the shoes, the tits and ass and pussy no longer matter. When she stands in front of a lover for the first time—and there are only first times, first and last at the same time—she wants to hide herself behind her hands. She wants to fuck in darkness so everything becomes nothing but heat, scent and touch. So she can disappear into those things. So they don’t have to see her scars.

Men don’t care. She understands this. By the time she’s naked in front of them, their cocks are hard and their mouths hungry. They see curves and flesh. Nothing else. That’s why no matter how much she wants to hide, she never does. She stands naked in the light even though she’d prefer the darkness, because she deserves this scrutiny and though it’s more than a little twisted, she loves and craves the agony it brings her.

Glenn kisses her through the lace. He shivers, his hands moving up to cup her ass and pull her closer. One slips around the front to pull her panties aside, giving his tongue room to find her clit. He knows what he’s doing. It’s good, oh, fuck, it’s so astoundingly good that her fingers have wound into his hair before she realizes it. Her hips bump forward. He sucks gently on her swollen flesh.

Then he looks up at her.

His mouth is wet, eyes bright. There is that desire she wants to see, along with the guilt she has tasted in his kisses. He swallows, hard. “Maria. I—”

“Shhh.” Her fingers twist in his hair for a second before she softens her grip to pass her hand over his head and down to cup his cheek. “It’s okay. Nobody will ever know.”

God will know, but Stella doesn’t say so. She doesn’t believe in God, and if Glenn does that’s between him and his Maker. Glenn shudders and presses his cheek to her thigh as his fingers dimple her ass. His breath is hot through the lace of her panties. His tongue wet. His teeth press her skin, and she braces herself for the sting. He doesn’t bite her. She’s a little disappointed.

It took her a few trials to figure out the best way to wear lingerie is to put the panties on over the garter belt, so they can be easily removed without having to take off the stockings first. It makes it so much easier to fuck in places where it might be important to keep most of her clothes on.

Glenn’s fingers hook into the lace and pull her panties over her hips, her thighs. She steps out of them, and he uses his hands to settle her on the edge of the bed. Still kneeling, he parts her with his thumbs and finds her clit with his lips and tongue. Oh, God. His teeth. Again, not biting, though the pressure’s enough to make her muscles leap.

Stella opens herself to him. Legs spread. One goes over his shoulder, pulling him closer. Her hips rock under his mouth. Sometimes she bites her tongue to keep herself silent, but when he slides a finger inside her, she lets herself cry out again. She blindfolds herself with her hand.

Her pleasure is a spring, coiling tighter. Her world narrows, focused on the finesse of Glenn’s mouth and fingers. Even though she twitches and wriggles beneath him, he keeps the pace steady, almost teasing. She hovers close to orgasm, and he eases her off again and again, until in a sobbing breath, she begs.

“Please. Oh, please...please, please, please...”

He’s made her blind with desire, but not quite deaf. She hears the sharp intake of his breath and feels it against her. Then finally the relentless swipe of his tongue moving in time to his thrusting fingers. Stella goes over the edge, full force. Her orgasm is brutal. It breaks her open so she’s left panting and limp, blinking away stars.

Still fully dressed, Glenn gets up and sits on the bed without touching her. He says nothing. Stella finds her breath and pushes up on her elbow to look at him. His head is bowed, shoulders slumped a little.

“I used to be married,” he says. “We divorced. And with my work, it’s hard...to find someone... Dating is almost impossible. I’m...sorry.”

She wanted him to be reluctant. Not regretful. “Please don’t be. I’m not.”

His smile’s faint, but it’s real when he finally looks at her. “Would you be offended if I thanked you?”

Stella laughs, just a little. Shakes her head. “No. Of course not. I should thank you.”

When she puts her hand on his thigh, the muscles tense under her fingers. When she slides her hand a little higher, he covers it with his. She lets him stop her.

“I can return the favor,” she says, already anticipating the feeling of him inside her.

But Glenn shakes his head. “It was enough.”

“But I—” She stops, understanding suddenly and not wanting to make him feel bad.

Glenn looks a little embarrassed, but not too much. “It had been a long time. And you... You’re very sexy.”

He looks over her whole body so thoroughly that by the time his gaze meets hers, her cheeks have flushed. Again, she wants to cover herself, but settles for another thank-you. When he leans close to kiss her, Stella puts both her hands on his face and holds him to her mouth. Then she hugs him close. His hands stroke her back before he lets her go.

He doesn’t ask to stay, and that’s fine because then she doesn’t have to find a way to ask him to leave. When he’s gone, Stella showers, opening her mouth to the spray to wash away the taste of him. Just once, she thinks, maybe some stranger she seduces will ask her about the scars. And maybe, someday, she’ll tell him.

CHAPTER TWO

“Mom!”

Stella had been dreaming about the ocean. Soft waves lapping at
her toes, scuttling crabs, warm golden sand. In the dream, she’d been wearing a
beautiful teal bikini. That was how she knew it was a dream—even in the days
before childbirth and everything else that had happened, she’d never worn a
bikini. Too much skin exposed to the sun.

“Mom!”

She opened her eyes and groaned. Her sheets had tangled around
her feet. The pillow she used between her knees had gone missing, lost somewhere
in the abyss of her blankets. Her neck hurt. The lavender oil she’d put on her
pillowcase had been the source of the vivid dreams, but it made her sneeze
now.

“What?” she muttered, knowing Tristan couldn’t possibly hear
her. From the sound of his shouts, he was yelling from downstairs. “What, for
the love of all that’s holy, do you want?”

The elephant tread of her sixteen-year-old on the stairs was
enough to force her to burrow farther into the blankets. Tristan had hit another
growth spurt, topping six feet now, and his shoe size had gone up along with it.
She’d given birth to a giant. A giant with huge feet that tripped him up and
left enormous muddy tracks on the floor and couldn’t seem to move with anything
resembling silence.

“Mom, I need lunch money.”

Stella lifted her head from the pillow just enough to glare at
her son standing in the doorway. “You have to tell me this
now?
”

“Yeah, well, I need to eat lunch, don’t I?”

“What about last night, when I asked you if everything was
ready for school and you told me it was?”

“I’m gonna be late,” he warned. “I’ll miss the bus, and you’ll
have to drive me.”

That would be infinitely worse than having to direct him to her
checkbook, since it meant she’d have to get out of bed and didn’t even have time
for a shower. With another groan, Stella waved her hand toward the jumble of
junk on her dresser. “See if I have a twenty in my purse.”

At the rate Tristan ate, twenty bucks would last him for only a
few days, but she could deposit money in his account later. And in fifteen
minutes, according to the clock, he’d be on the bus and she’d be able to sneak
back to sleep for another hour.

He rummaged through her bag, couldn’t find her wallet and
suffered through her grumbling as she took the purse from him to find it. “Dad’s
picking me up after practice today. I’m staying there tonight.”

“Wait, what? I thought I was supposed to take you
shopping—”

“Dad will take me.”

“Does he know that?”

Tristan shrugged, not caring.

It wasn’t that Stella didn’t trust Jeff, but she knew from past
experience how happy he was to pawn off any sort of parental responsibility on
his new wife who, God love her, meant well but was as helpless and fluffy as a
bunny rabbit. Cynthia had married Jeff when she was twenty-two. She’d never had
children, had never even babysat and had inherited a tween son who seemed to be
as foreign to her as if he’d been born on Mars. Even after four years, it seemed
cruel of Stella to expect Cynthia to pick up Jeff’s slack when dealing with
Tristan was so clearly a constant adventure for her.

“Have a good day! Love you!” she called after him as he
thundered down the stairs again. Tristan didn’t answer. The front door
slammed.

Silence, blessed silence.

This was Stella’s shared-custody life. In the beginning,
Tristan had been only eight, still in elementary school. Too young to go out
with friends, still content to hang out watching movies with his mom. Still
hopeful, maybe, that his parents were only separating, not getting divorced.
They’d decided it was too disruptive for Tristan to move back and forth between
households on a weekly basis, so he spent most weeknights with her. Stella had
come to enjoy having every other weekend free once Tristan left for school on
Friday morning.

Now, if he didn’t have a sports practice or a school activity
or plans with friends, Tristan spent his time in front of the TV with his video
games or an endless stream of movies. Their house had become the place to hang
out, and that was fine with her even if the noise level sometimes became hard to
handle. She’d rather he was at home than have to drive him around or pick him up
from places. Now that Tristan was older, of course, he could get rides and so
had been spending more random weeknights with Jeff, especially since he now
required less “care” and could simply hang out.

There was no point in going back to sleep now. Stella stretched
and wriggled free of her blankets. Every part of her creaked and crackled as she
stretched. Time for another visit to the chiropractor. She needed to get there
more regularly rather than waiting until she was in agony, but somehow time
always managed to get away from her. She winced at the sharp ache in her neck as
she twisted her hair on top of her head—time for a visit to the salon too. And
maybe a trip to the optometrist, she thought as her reflection blurred briefly.
She blinked away the sleep, bringing her face into focus. She leaned on the sink
for a moment, staring in the mirror.

Stella gripped the porcelain until her fingers turned white.
She breathed in. She breathed out. She breathed until the face of the woman in
the mirror stopped looking as though she wanted to cry.

She smiled.

She frowned.

She looked concerned.

That last one wasn’t such a good look for her. It wrinkled her
forehead and creased lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth. It was almost
as bad as feigning interest, which required a little more sparkle in the eyes.
But all of it was better than the woman with haunted eyes and downturned mouth
that had greeted her a few minutes ago.

Steam had wreathed around the showerhead, so she pulled her
nightgown over her head and hung it carefully on the hook. It swung, loose, and
she made a mental note to fix it even as she knew she’d forget again until the
next time she hung something on it and it threatened to fall. In the shower, she
bent her head so the hot water could pound away at her neck and shoulders and
back—it was a quick fix that would ease the aches and pains for a while, at
least. So would a double dose of ibuprofen and some stretches, if she could
force herself to manage them. She should’ve worked out before she got in the
shower, but the morning had already started off upside down—why bother to fix it
now?

She slicked her palms full of soap and slid them beneath her
arms. Over her belly and thighs. Something stung her there, and she turned to
let the water wash away the suds.

A small bruise, the size of a quarter and already fading
greenish at the edges. It hurt when she pressed it, but the pain was brief. She
pushed it again, making it ache. Then harder. Her fingernail dug into her skin,
and that hurt worse. She could’ve made herself bleed, but stopped before that
happened. She had enough scars without giving herself more.

The tears fell before she could stop them, and even though the
shower made them invisible, they still burned. The rippled floor that kept her
from slipping and killing herself was also impossible to keep clean. The ridges
collected all the minerals and iron from the water, forever tinted orange no
matter how hard she scrubbed or how much bleach she used. They also hurt her
knees and palms as she folded herself onto the floor. She stayed that way until
the water began to turn cold. By that time she’d pushed the memory of Glenn’s
mouth on her so far away she could pretend it had happened to someone else.