Fly

by T. A. Foster

  “Oh my God.” She covered her face with her hands. “I can’t believe I just did that.”

  He kissed her, his tongue working its way into her mouth. Just when she thought she had hit the highest level of embarrassment, he made her forget all about it with a kiss that made her drunker than the moscato wine.

  “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.” He broke from the kiss.

  “Really?” she winced.

  “Absolutely. I can now scratch making a librarian come off my bucket list.” He winked, then kissed her shoulder.

  Skye slinked deeper into the couch. What had she just done? Making up a fake identity and having drinks with a total stranger was one thing. Bringing him back to her apartment, getting naked, and letting him give her the most explosive orgasm she’d had in a year was something entirely different. But damn, it was incredible. Her entire body felt relaxed and fulfilled in his arms.

  He was still hovering over her. Was he waiting for something? He bit his lower lip as he scooped her in his hands and flipped her onto his chest.

  “Whoa—what?” The room spun as she tried to catch her new bearings. It was a whole new perspective sitting on top of this incredibly hot stranger.

  Even in the dark, she could see his killer smile. “My turn.”

  He positioned her legs over his waist as his fingers dug into the soft flesh above her hipbones. His thumbs pressed down causing her hips to rock back and forth. She began to grind against him to relieve the pressure.

  “Oh my God.” Her head flew back and she cursed the condom situation again.

  “Like that.” He groaned. He grasped at her breasts and the rocking quickened. “Come for me again.” He clutched at her lower back and Skye heard the moans rising from her throat as his breath quickened. For not-sex, this was fucking amazing.

  Bolt could smell the coffee before his eyes were open. He shook his head and sat on the couch.

  “Good morning.” He grinned. It came back to him. Last night he had gone home with the librarian. Of course they both knew she probably had never stacked a book in her life. She was in the kitchen, her dark hair pulled in a ponytail. It had hung loosely on her shoulders at the bar. He wondered how long she had been awake.

  “Oh, hey.” She kept her head down and was busy with something over the sink.

  He stretched his arms toward the ceiling before dropping to the floor for pushups. It cleared his head. After a count of thirty he hopped up from the floor and walked toward the kitchen where she was furiously scrubbing a water glass.

  “Last night was fun.” He winked at her.

  “Uh—yeah, it was great.”

  “I think you missed a spot.” He pointed to the glass covered in bubbles. It was perfectly clean, but she seemed nervous. He noticed there wasn’t a crumb on the counter. It didn’t look like anyone lived in the place.

  She shot him a look. “You don’t have on any pants.”

  He saw the way her cheeks turned a deep crimson. “I think you took care of those last night.” He didn’t know why, but something about her made him want to test her. She was a bundle of contradictions that he wanted to unwind. Last night felt like only the beginning of what he could get her to do.

  He walked back toward the couch and dug into the cushions until he retrieved his boxer briefs. He slipped them on and reappeared in the kitchen.

  “This better?”

  “Uh—sure.” She reached near him for a coffee cup.

  He felt her elbow graze his shoulder. “Can I have a cup?”

  She nodded, then handed him a mug.

  This was unchartered territory. Bolt waited for her to pour a cup then he tipped the pot toward his cup. Usually, women clamored for his number or gushed about the night before. The silent treatment was a first.

  “Why don’t we go get some breakfast?” He placed the cup on the counter. “You like pancakes?”

  He eyed her legs. She was wearing a pair of boxer shorts and a cropped T-shirt. He knew last night when he spotted her at the bar she had an incredible body under that suit, but it was like unwrapping a present when he got her home. Each layer he took off surprised him by revealing something more gorgeous and sexier than the last. He wasn’t ready to admit that last night was a first for him too. He had never spent the night with a woman and not had sex. True, it wasn’t platonic by any means, but it still wasn’t sex and that hadn’t happened since high school.

  “Breakfast?” she questioned.

  “Yes, you know the meal that people eat in the morning. Usually comes before lunch.”

  “I don’t know.” She hesitated. “I’ve got the literary conference thing.” She stared at the floor.

  That was all he needed to hear. “Ok. Well, enjoy your conference.” He walked to the living room to redress. His clothes were piled under the coffee table. He debated whether he should try again, but he had dated and slept with enough women to know when the game was over. This one had climbed back into her shell. She must be one of those buttoned-up proper types who goes crazy after a glass of chardonnay and wakes up with instant hangover remorse. He smiled, glad even if it was only for a few hours, he had pulled her out of her comfort zone. She was like wildfire under his touch and he had enjoyed every second of it.

  He walked toward the door. “Last night was fun.” He waved as he pulled on the handle. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Uh-huh. Yeah.” She barely smiled.

  Bolt closed the door behind him and walked toward the elevators. Nice to meet you? What kind of line was that? He shook his head. Three days in a row he had left a woman behind as he walked toward an elevator, but for the first time he left with something—regret. He hesitated in front of the elevator bay. Maybe he should go back and ask for her number. Maybe he should ask her real name. No. That wasn’t part of his plan. Fly straight, he reminded himself as the doors shut and he descended to the lobby.

  “Dude, you haven’t hit a straight shot all morning.” Hollywood laughed as he placed his beer on the cooler and put his ball on the tee.

  “Whatever. Shut up.” Bolt stepped back and assessed his shot again. They had been at the driving range for an hour and there wasn’t any improvement in his swing.

  Hollywood watched as his ball landed near the two hundred yard marker. “See? Like that. Hit it like that.” He reached into the cooler for another beer. “You missed a good time at the O-club.”

  “Oh yeah? Nurses again?” Bolt accepted a cold bottle from his friend.

  “Nurses, you name it, the girls were there.”

  “How’d you do?” He and Hollywood shared the same philosophy when it came to women—have a good time, but don’t get attached.

  Hollywood shook his head. “Eh, I got a few numbers, but we leave in a month so I don’t know if it’s worth it. I don’t want to deal with the whole dating thing, then she’s going to get upset when she finds out I’m leaving for six months. It never goes over well.”

  “Nope. Never goes over well.” Bolt wiggled his hips into position and glared at the ball. He was going to hit this sucker three hundred yards. He pulled the club behind his back and swung forward.

  “WESTPAC is going to be epic. Korea, Thailand, Japan. We are going to be like rock stars over there. I’ve heard the strippers are unbelievable.” Hollywood chuckled.

  “Yeah, I’ve heard something like that. I’m just ready for the flying. It’s going to be unbelievable flying over there.”

  “Six months of nothing but beautiful women and perfect flying. I’d say we have a pretty good gig.”

  “I agree.” Bolt tossed another ball on the tee and grimaced as the shot curved to the far left of the range.

  “Ha! Man, you suck.”

  “Shut up, Hollywood.” He threw the driver in his bag and reached for an iron. Maybe he just needed to change up his clubs.

  “You didn’t say anything about last night. How was the Gaslamp scene? Touristy?” Hollywood asked.

  Bolt tried to focus on the ball on the t
ee and not the scene of the nameless psuedo librarian under him that flashed in his head. He breathed through his teeth.

  “That good, huh?” Hollywood wasn’t going to let it go.

  “Yeah, kinda met someone.”

  “Met someone? What in the hell does that mean?” Hollywood hit another perfect shot.

  “Nothing. I didn’t get her number, so I won’t see her again.” Bolt still wondered if he should have at least asked.

  “Alright. Glad you had fun.” Hollywood returned to his club and ball. “Want to hang out tonight? I was thinking about going to PB. You up for a few beers?”

  “Sure. Sounds good.” Bolt threw the iron in his bag. He was always up for a few beers. “I think I’m calling it, man.”

  His friend laughed. “Yeah, you suck today. What, is that girl in your head?”

  “Nah.” Bolt picked up his clubs and slung them over his shoulder. “Just an off day. Hey, I’ll see you tonight. What time?”

  “Nine.” Hollywood lined up to take another shot. He didn’t look ready to leave.

  “See ya.”

  Bolt stepped from the shower and grabbed the towel on the rack. He wiped the droplets of water from his face then his chest. He reached for his tags. They weren’t there. He dropped the towel and looked next to the hook where he always put them. Where were they? He searched his dresser, the bathroom counter, and his pockets. Dammit. He hadn’t picked them up this morning at the librarian’s. How could he have left them? Not all Marines wore their tags. It was a personal decision, but after losing Riggs he hadn’t gone a day without them. The guilt tore through him at the thought of abandoning them. It was one thing to take them off. It was something else to leave them behind.

  He glanced at the clock. If he left now he could still swing by her place in time to meet Hollywood by nine. He pulled on a pair of jeans, a gray T-shirt, and ran out the door. He prayed the librarian was at home on a Saturday night reading a book.

  Bolt lived in Fashion Valley in a one-bedroom condo. He liked it. There was a local bar within walking distance, and he could be on the beach or at work in fifteen minutes. Location is everything.

  He pulled onto the interstate and pointed his truck toward the Gaslamp district. The night crowd would be gathering, and he knew parking wouldn’t be easy. It had to be the most popular neighborhood in the seaside city. He slowed near the bar where he met the librarian and pulled behind it to park. Might as well take advantage of the lots where he could. Getting the tags back was worth the five dollars for parking.

  In a matter of minutes he was knocking on her door. He rapped his knuckles a few times.

  “Yep, hold on.” She swung open the door and he was met with the vision he had of her last night. Her hair was piled high on her head, loose strands flying to the side and she was wearing glasses. He didn’t know a woman could look so hot in a pair of specs. She was stunning. It didn’t hurt she had deep blue eyes that sparkled when she smiled.

  “Hey.” He grinned.

  “Oh, wow. Hey. What are you doing here?” She looked confused. For a second he worried she might slam the door in his face.

  “I, uh—left something this morning. Just needed to grab it and then I’ll leave.” He motioned toward the living room.

  She seemed unsure of whether or not to let him in. Her hand had a death grip on the doorframe.

  “Can I come in? It’ll only take a second.” He didn’t want to go into the significance of the tags, but if it was the only way to get them back he would.

  She stepped back. “Sure. I’ll help you. What did you leave? I haven’t seen anything.”

  He immediately walked to the couch. It was covered in spreadsheets and graphs. “I guess you’re not working on the Dewey decimal system?” He chuckled as she rushed to stack the papers together.

  “No, it’s for work. Real work.”

  With the charts out of the way he shoved his hand between the cushions. Nothing.

  “What did you forget?” She studied him while he searched.

  “My tags.” He reached between the last cushions.

  “Tags?” She adjusted her glasses. “Oh, that necklace you had on?”

  He nodded. “Yes. That.”

  He watched as she walked to the back of the couch and crouched on all fours, disappearing behind the sofa. She hopped up with the tags clutched in her hand. “Here they are.”

  “Thanks.” He took two steps to the other side of the couch and reached for the silver chain. He had never been so happy to see them before.

  Before she handed them to Bolt she flipped the metal over in her hand. “Is your name Riggs? Are these military tags?”

  He stopped. “No. Riggs was my friend. The other one is mine.”

  “Hardcastle?” She raised her eyebrows.

  He opened his palm for her to drop them into his hand. “Yep. You caught me. I’m Ben Hardcastle.” He looped the tags over his head and threaded them under his T-shirt before extending his hand. Introductions seemed strange at this point. He had spent an entire night naked with this woman.

  She might have wanted to hold back on the smile, but he saw it form on the corners of her mouth. “I’m Skye Stephens.” She chewed on her bottom lip.

  “Skye? I like it. Fitting for a librarian.” He winked, liking the way it made her blush.

  “I think we both know I’m not a librarian.” She walked to the other side of the couch. “I work for an ad agency. That’s what all of this stuff is.” She pointed to the work stacked on the coffee table.

  “Working on Saturday night? That’s no fun.”

  She scoffed. “Fun? I don’t even know what that is anymore.”

  He was tempted to disagree with her. Last night she had been all kinds of fun. Bolt thought for a second. Hollywood would either kill him or grill him, but for some reason he couldn’t walk out with only his tags. “Come with me to PB. Let’s go get a beer.”

  Skye eyed him. “Beer?”

  “Please tell me you aren’t one of those girls who only drinks wine.” With her hair in that bun and those glasses, she looked like a strict coffee drinker.

  “I don’t even know what that means, but of course I can drink a beer.” She folded her arms across her chest.

  “Ok, then drink one with me. Come on. Let’s go.” His head leaned toward the door.

  She looked at her yoga pants and tank top. “I can’t go out like this. Besides, I’m working.”

  Remnants of this morning were starting to surface, but he didn’t feel like retreating this time. He wanted her to go get a drink with him, not hide out in her shell. “You’ve got ten minutes.” He settled on the couch.

  “What are you doing?” Her hands flew to her hips.

  He picked up one of the charts. “I’m waiting for you to go change. Ten minutes.”

  She sighed, but he knew he had victory when she stormed to a room at the end of the hall and closed the door. He flipped over one of the reports. There were statistics, lines, and a graph about Balboa Park. He might as well be reading Russian. He studied the next page. There was a charcoal sketch of a face. He looked around the apartment to see if there was any other artwork like it. He appreciated the smooth lines. Skye must have drawn it. There were a few more like it in the stack. He placed them back in the pile, curious about her drawing hobby.

  He stood and scanned the apartment. Things always looked different with the lights on. Under her TV was a pile of books, their spines lined in a row. There was a picture as a bookend. He picked it up. Skye smiled from the frame with a group of girls. It looked like a college picture. He returned it to its position and walked to the window.

  Her apartment overlooked the inner courtyard of the complex. Lights shone from the pool and there was a fire pit in the corner. It looked like every other apartment building in San Diego: hibiscus flowers, faux waterfall, and lined deck chairs in a row. He thought it fit her. Pretty, but well maintained and organized—not a wild weed in sight. He chuckled out loud, realizing he h
ad just spent more time in the last five minutes analyzing Skye than he had the last five women he had slept with.

  Skye held up a pink shirt. No, too bright. She dug into her drawer for another one. She pressed a light blue tank top against her chest. This one might work. She brushed her teeth and dabbed on a pinch of blush. She checked her reflection in the mirror. Was she actually going through with this? True, now she knew the guy had a name, and he wasn’t a doctor or a pharmaceutical sales rep. It was far worse—he was in the military. She kicked herself for not putting the pieces together sooner. But what was there to assemble? It was supposed to be a one-night stand. A botched one, but nonetheless she wasn’t going to forget last night any time soon. Just the way he looked at her made her catch her breath. He was too good-looking. Men like that didn’t appear out of thin air.

  She stepped into a pair of black wedges and grabbed a jacket from her closet. No matter how warm and sunny the days were, San Diego nights were always chilly. She ran her fingers through her hair again to shake out the bun she had clipped on top when she was working.

  It was hard to ignore the fact that he had caught her home alone on a Saturday night with nothing to keep her company but spreadsheets. The spritz she used on her hair, might hold, but he said something about going to Pacific Beach, or PB as all the locals called it. Beach breezes would blow this to pieces. She gave up and headed for the door.

  Although her hand was on the knob, she couldn’t quite muster the nerve to turn it. What if he was some kind of crazy stalker who picked up women at bars and was just waiting for his chance to chop her into tiny bits? She shook her head. That was a completely irrational thought. What if his only interest was getting her into bed? She chewed her lip again, gnawing off half her lipgloss. Of course, he was determined to get her in bed. She had given up all her cards last night by bringing him back to her apartment and getting naked in five seconds flat. There was still another option. She smiled as she pulled the door open. Ben Hardcastle was getting ready to have to prove if he was here for the right reasons. She was going to stick to the golden rule.