Flying (4 page)

The car ride home was silent and stinky. She had to open the windows just to keep from choking on the overripe smell of teenage boy sweat, and Tristan turned the radio up so loud there was no chance of talking. He used to sing along with the songs, but he didn’t now. Stella did, fumbling the words, a little bit on purpose to lighten the mood between them even though she felt as though she had every right to be pissed.

She wasn’t good at letting go. Not in her regular life. It had been one of the things Jeff had complained about, a flaw she wanted to deny but deep inside knew she couldn’t. Stella liked the last word. So when they got home and into the kitchen, she couldn’t resist one final poke.

“You can take that sandwich for lunch tomorrow.”

Her son, who’d once been a tiny baby, then a toddler dragging his toy bear in the dirt, her boy who was now on his way to being a man, frowned. He shrugged and ran his fingers through his dirty hair in a way disconcertingly like his father had done when they’d first met. It was a panty twister, that move, and he didn’t know it yet, thank God.

He looked at the fridge. Then at her, for the first time in a long while meeting her gaze without letting it slide away. “I never liked those sandwiches, Mom.”

Stubbornly, Stella shook her head. “You loved—”

“No, Mom,” Tristan told her firmly. When had his voice dropped? No more cracking, no more sudden shifts in pitch. “That wasn’t me. That was never me. I just never said anything about it until now.”

He left her in the kitchen and thudded his big feet up the stairs, and in a few minutes the shower started to run. The pipes squealed. Stella stood without moving, her eyes closed, for a long time, remembering.

Then she threw the sandwich in the trash.

CHAPTER FIVE

Some trips are focused, pinpointed. Specific. Stella arrives, finds what she’s looking for and leaves a day or two later. Sometimes she comes home disappointed—Stella might have broad standards and eclectic taste in men, but when it comes to flying she does have standards, nevertheless.

On some trips, like this one to Minnesota, flying is simply a bonus. The Mall of America is a short shuttle ride from both the airport and the luxurious casino hotel where she’s booked a king-size room. She’s planned a weekend of shopping. Good food in fancy restaurants. Even a little gambling.

Normally, Stella travels carry-on only, but this time she has checked an empty suitcase that she will fill with all of her holiday shopping. The twenty-five-dollar checked-bag fee is worth it, when you consider what she’d have to pay to ship all of her purchases. She spends hours and hundreds of dollars, visiting every store at her leisure and losing herself in the comparison of gifts. Finding the perfect thing for her parents, sister, brother-in-law, nieces and nephews. Coworkers. She even picks up a gift for Jeff and Cynthia, not because she wants to, particularly, but because Cynthia always sends her something and it’s begun to feel as though the expectation of receiving one in turn is easier to fulfill than dealing with the unspoken resentment.

For Tristan, she falters. He has so much already. Though Stella vowed to herself she would never play the game of tug-of-war with Jeff about which parent is the “cooler” one, they have both gone overboard with the gifts since the divorce. Tristan owns every device, every video game system with all the accessories, sometimes in duplicate so he has one in each house and doesn’t have to suffer the loss of his toys. There’ve been musical instruments and lessons. Sports equipment. Trips.

But what, she wonders as she goes from store to store to store, would her son really
like?
The problem is, Stella really doesn’t know. The sandwich she threw in the trash haunts her, and she second-guesses herself, picking things up and putting them down. She comes away with very little, telling herself there’s still time, but she knows too well how that’s not always true.

The trip isn’t totally without self-indulgence. In the fancy lingerie shop, she springs for a pretty merry widow corset set in a deep wine color. It gives her magnificent cleavage. Paired with matching panties and sheer stockings, her sexiest heels, she’s going to shine like a diamond.

In her hotel room Stella packs away all her purchases in the empty suitcase and lays out her clothes for the night. The new lingerie looks even better in the hotel room’s far more flattering light than it did in the dressing room. She straightens her back, squares her shoulders. Juts a hip. She knows how to showcase what she has now in a way she never did until a few years ago. Then again, until a few years ago, Stella favored high-waisted cotton granny panties and full-coverage bras, and the last time she’d worn sexy lingerie had been the first night of her honeymoon. And that had been no more than a silky nightgown with spaghetti straps.

Jeff had always said he didn’t see the point in spending so much money on something you were only going to take off right away, and Stella had believed he meant it. Of course, later, when she’d stumbled on his browser history and saw the kinds of porn he’d been watching, she could only chuckle a little at how all the women in his favorite videos had worn garter belts and stockings, crotchless panties, bras with the nipples cut out. By then there was no way Stella would’ve kissed him on the mouth, much less sucked his cock, and lingerie was out of the question.

No, she hadn’t begun wearing sexy scanties for men, even if most of the ones she found did seem to like her choices. Stella began wearing these scraps of silk and satin for herself. When she wears something pretty, even under her rattiest jeans or T-shirt, it reminds her that her body still works. She breathes, she laughs and sighs; she has orgasms.

She’s alive.

In front of the full-length mirror, she smooths the satin over her belly and cups her breasts for a moment, lifting them. Her nipples tighten as she watches herself. She tries on a smile, slow and seductive. She turns to look over her shoulder at her ass, which will never be her favorite feature but looks pretty good in the wispy panties. The best part of this outfit is that there’s no hint of it beneath her regular clothes, but it’s almost guaranteed to be an eyeball popper when she gets undressed.

Stella draws in a breath, hands flat on her belly. Her ribs twinge a little as they expand against the corset’s metal bones, but it’s not laced so tight that she feels faint. She runs her hands up her sides, pressing lightly, waiting for the pain that never seems to go away, though there’s no reason for her to ache. Then she slides a hand between her legs, stroking lightly. Her clit pulses. Pushing her fingers inside her panties, Stella finds slick heat. Anticipation is the best aphrodisiac.

She’s packed a couple choices, but decides on a simple black dress of clinging fabric. Long sleeves and a demure neckline are offset by the thigh-high slit that will give a tantalizing peek at the tops of her stockings if she crosses her legs just right. Her jewelry is simple to match—a pair of silver hoops in her ears, a matching bracelet of hammered metal and a silver herringbone chain at her throat. She pulls her hair into a careful French knot, sprays on a hint of perfume and she’s ready to go.

There was a time when, if she’d seen a woman like herself sitting alone in a high-end restaurant, reading while she ate her expensive dinner, Stella would’ve felt sorry for her. Now she’s been on enough shitty dates to appreciate and understand the luxury of being able to enjoy a good steak and a good book at the same time without having to force a conversation. She declines the waiter’s offer of a cocktail, but a few minutes later, he returns.

“The gentleman—” he points to a man several tables over “—would like to send you a glass of wine.”

Stella looks up. “Ah. Tell him thanks, but no.”

“Something else?” the waiter asks. “We have a great pomegranate martini—”

“No. Thanks. I don’t care for anything, but please let him know I appreciate the offer.”

By the end of her meal, a truly stellar steak and asparagus steamed to perfection, Stella has almost finished her book and the waiter is back with another offer.

“Coffee and dessert? The gentleman—”

Persistent, she thinks. And horny. She likes that.

Stella sets aside her book and smiles. “Please ask the gentleman if he’d like to join me.”

If the waiter hates playing Cupid, he doesn’t show it. In minutes, the man who seriously wants to get Stella liquored up and on a sugar high arrives at her table. He’s tall, dark and handsome. Just her type, but who’s she kidding? Almost all men are her type when she flies.

“Hi. I’m Daryl.” He holds out a hand. Warm fingers squeeze hers with the perfect amount of pressure. He has wide brown eyes and a great smile. Straight white teeth. Curly black hair cropped close to his head. His suit is expensive, and so is his watch.

“Lavinia.” It’s the name of one of the characters in her book.

“Pretty name. Unusual.” Daryl looks up at the waiter. “I’ll have a coffee and a piece of cherry pie. Vanilla ice cream. And the lady will have...?”

“The same,” she decides without looking to see what other delights she might be missing on the dessert menu. “Cherry pie’s my favorite.”

Daryl is in town for a week to meet with clients, for a business he doesn’t describe and Stella doesn’t ask about. He comes to Minneapolis a few times a year, always stays at this hotel because of how easy it is to get to the airport and also, of course, the gambling. “Do you gamble, Lavinia?”

“Sometimes. I’m not much for poker or blackjack, but I do like to play the slots. This pie is amazing, great choice. And thank you, by the way.” Stella drags her fork through the thick, sweet cherry goo and licks it, watching Daryl’s gaze follow the flicker of her tongue.

“How about craps?”

She smiles. “Don’t you have to be lucky to win?”

“You have to be lucky to win at anything.” Daryl’s smile leaves crinkles in the corners of his eyes that Stella likes very much.

She leans toward him. “Tell me, then. Do you feel lucky?”

“Oh,” Daryl says, leaning too, “I surely hope so.”

She lets him take her to the casino, and she lets him press a hundred dollars’ worth of chips into her hand. She also lets him put his arm around her as they take their place at the craps table, and when he asks her to blow on the dice for him, she does that too. Stella has never considered herself lucky, but Daryl wins. And wins again.

Soon the whole crowd is chanting her name—well, not her real name, but the one she gave him. And when finally his streak ends, he pulls her into his arms and kisses her in front of the crowd as though they’re lovers and not strangers. He’s a very good kisser, and Stella doesn’t mind. Not at all.

“Lucky Lavinia,” Daryl says into her ear, his hands settling on her hips to pull her close. “You wanna get out of here?”

They go to his room, and he offers her a drink, but she declines.

“Not a drinker.” Daryl nods. “I remember now. I could order us something from room service, if you’ve got a craving for something sweet.”

That’s not what she’s craving, and she answers him by stepping again into his embrace and offering her mouth. Daryl kisses her slowly, palming her ass and grinding her a little against the growing bulge of his crotch. When he moves his mouth to her throat, Stella lets her head fall back with a small sigh.

“You like that?” Daryl nips a little, sending shivers of delight all through her. “Yeah. I thought so.”

Her nipples are tight and hard, her cunt aching. She wants to run her hands all over him, but steps back instead. “Do you have protection?”

She does, if he doesn’t. She always does. But a man who expects to fuck without bothering to buy the condoms isn’t worth even the small amount of time she’s prepared to give him.

“Yeah.” Daryl tugs at his tie and the buttons of his shirt, exposing his smooth dark skin. “I’ll take care of you, don’t you worry.”

Stella tilts her head to look him over. “You do this a lot, Daryl?”

“I
travel
a lot.” He gives her a nice once-over. “You do this a lot, Lavinia?”

It’s a fair question. Her fingers inch up her hem, little by little. For another man, she might play coy or even lie, but she and Daryl seem to have an understanding. “I do it enough.”

His warm, full-throated laugh settles between her thighs. “Good. Just so I know where I stand.”

It’s good for them both to know. She curls her fingers in the fabric of her dress, easing the hem higher. Daryl watches her. At the slide of his tongue over his full lower lip, her clit pulses.

“Why don’t you get out of that shirt?” she says in a low voice. “And those pants too.”

Daryl unbuttons and tosses his shirt to the chair, but his hands hesitate at his belt buckle. “What about you?”

“You want me to take off my dress?” Stella smiles.

He works open the buckle of his belt, then gets out of his pants and tosses them onto the chair next to his shirt. His body is gorgeous. Fit and lean, with muscles in all the right places. Standing in a pair of tight black briefs, Daryl lifts his chin toward her as he bends to take off his socks. “C’mon. Be fair.”

Stella pulls her dress up and over her head, then carefully hangs it over the back of the room’s other chair. She strikes a pose, showing off everything she has to its best advantage, and it must be working for him, because Daryl’s eyes go wide. He wipes a hand over his mouth.

“Damn,” he says. “Look at you.”

This is the rush. This is the gasping breath after being underwater for too long. This is coming out of the dark and into the light, if only for a little while.

Stella needs this.

“Kiss me,” she says, and Daryl is happy to oblige.

He turns them both so he can sit on the edge of the bed with Stella standing between his legs. He breaks the kiss and leans into her, pressing his forehead to the stiff satin covering her belly. His hands roam over her ass, squeezing. He looks up at her, brow a little furrowed, lips parted and a little wet from their kisses.

“What?” Stella traces a fingertip over one of his thick, dark eyebrows. His eyelashes are amazing, enviably long and thick, the sort a woman would kill for.

“Didn’t think it would be this easy, that’s all.”

She wonders if she ought to be a little insulted by this. Stella presses her thumb to Daryl’s lower lip; when he opens for her, she tucks it inside his mouth. He sucks it gently, biting the tip. She bends to kiss him, replacing her thumb with her tongue. She looks into his eyes.

“We both want something,” she says. “Looks like it’s the same thing. Is there something wrong with that?”

“No....”

Some men, she knows, want to fuck women who act like whores. Some men think all women are whores. There
is
a difference. Stella’s not a slut or a whore no matter how many times she flies with strangers. No man can make her feel that way about herself, no matter what he says or how he acts. She cups Daryl’s chin in her palm, holding his face still while she studies him.

“Do you want me to leave?” she asks.

“No!” Daryl laughs and grips her hips, pulling her closer. “Hell no.”

“You want to fuck me,” Stella murmurs, watching his pupils dilate as she speaks.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

She smiles, breathing assent against his mouth. “So fuck me, Daryl.”

With a low growl, he pulls her onto the bed, rolling them both so he ends up on top. His weight’s a surprise, though the press of his erection isn’t. He pushes his hips against her, grinding. His mouth finds hers, a little too hard. Stella puts her hands flat on his chest to hold him back from her for a second. Daryl breaks the kiss to look at her, holding her gaze while he rocks his cock against her clit.

They kiss for a long time, longer than she expects. But she doesn’t mind. They move together on the bed, grinding, rocking, rolling.

Daryl moves a hand between her legs at last, slipping his fingers inside her panties. Stroking her clit. Then, pushing inside her. “Shit,” he breathes. “You’re so wet.”