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Aviator Sunglasses

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Jack spotted her when she walked into the bar. She pulled off a set of aviator sunglasses and hooked one arm over the collar of her t-shirt. He'd always had a thing for women in aviator sunglasses.  

She was tall, but he was taller. She was the unpretentious and thoroughly effortless kind of blonde, natural in the way she didn't call attention to it. In a t-shirt and blue jeans, she made it easy for him to fix his eyes on a pair of black motorcycle boots that told him more about her – in conjunction with the aviator glasses – than the first fifteen minutes of conversation would have. 

She was Air Force. 

It wasn't uncommon to run into military in Colorado Springs. But in his circle, he was much more likely to bump elbows with parents than with obviously unattached, unnaturally compelling, single women.  

He knew she was single by the way she walked into the place like she owned it but also with a hint of wariness. 

He watched her scan the bar. Near the door was a man in a two-hundred-dollar suit and an eight-hundred-dollar watch. He watched her discard him summarily, without much extraneous though. There was a guy, young, maybe her age but she passed him by, too. Between her and Jack was a well-dressed man probably Jack's age who was trying exceptionally hard to get her to notice him. She didn't even spare him a smile.  

She sat down next to Jack. Her elbow brushed his forearm in a way that was meant to seem casual and accidental but was obviously calculated. It worked, though, she had his attention. She looked him over, from hairline to waist and granted him a slow, sultry smile. 

She knew what she wanted. 

"I'm Sam," she said. The hello was implied. 


"Can I buy you a drink?" 

He gave her the same onceover she'd given him, just because he could. Never mind that he'd done the same in the time it took her to walk to his end of the bar. When his eyes tripped over her chest he didn't try to hide it. She was nicely put together. And it was clear by the smile she still wore that she knew it. 

He let her buy him one drink, he wasn't getting drunk, not when she was a possibility. They made small talk. She fed him some bullshit line about deep space radar telemetry – no woman who walked like she did flew a desk as a radar tech, that was for damn sure – but he let her. She smiled politely when he told her he coached high school hockey. He could tell he wasn't quite dangerous enough for her. 

So it was unexpected when she went home with him. 

She kissed like her mouth was summer rain and moved like her body was Marvin Gaye lyrics. She told him out loud that she liked the way his skin felt against her palms and the slight sound her fingernails made in his chest hair. It made him blush and he tried to kiss her words away but she liked to tell him what she was feeling. 

She talked the whole time. 

She liked the way his hands fit around her waist. And she liked the way he was tan everywhere. She gasped on the words thick and strong and made his eyes roll back in his head at the same time. 

When he got his mouth down on her, she tasted like a whiskey sour – sweet, tangy, a little earthy.  

She was upside down and backwards at one point and it had been long enough since he'd had an acrobatic partner that he coaxed her back down and around but he took her harder to appease that part of her she wasn't afraid to show him. 

When it was over they were both hot, damp and sticky. She drew her finger through the beads of sweat on his belly and laughed. 

When her cell phone rang at three thirty he tried not to be disappointed and he tried not to listen to her job sounding like anything other than deep space radar telemetry. She left him slick and satiated in his tangled sheets.  

She was like an aberration, a thing he wouldn't have believed if he hadn't experienced it. He almost believed he dreamed it. But there, on his dresser, were her aviator sunglasses.