Flying

He looks again to his right, but this is a bar, not a diner. She’s judged him right, though. Before she can say anything, he’s waving at the bartender and asking for real sugar, which the bartender has to hunt for beneath the bar for a moment before he passes over a handful of white packets. They spill from the man’s hands, across the polished top of the bar, and Stella laughs as she helps scoop them up and tuck them into place alongside their chemical cousins.

“Thanks,” she says. It’s enough. She thought it might be.

He smiles at her. “You’re welcome.”

She tears two packets at the same time and stirs the sugar into the tea, then takes out the long spoon and tucks it in her mouth to suck the sweetness before setting it on the napkin in front of her. He looks away, but not quickly enough. She leans a little close, but not too much.

“I hate the taste of artificial sweeteners.” This is a dance. Maybe he knows it. Maybe he doesn’t. But Stella does, and she’s very careful with the steps. “They’re terrible.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean.” He lets his gaze tilt toward her again, but not his body. His hands close around his glass, but he doesn’t drink.

Gloss and glitter. It’s like dangling a sequined worm in sun-dappled waters, letting it drift and catch the light until the fish decides it wants to bite. The question is, will he bite? Will he?

“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.