Flying. Megan Hart
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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.”