Flying. Megan Hart
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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