Flying Fawna

by Rosemary Smith

  “Wake up. We have work to do. I’m Rakawah Fee. I am your trainer. Come we must go.”

  Chaz awoke to his master trainer talking to him while slapping his thigh with a long bamboo stick. He opened his eyes and almost opened his lips by way of protest, but his furtive eyes caught the determination in the older man eyes, and brought him back to the reality he’d crossed the forest for. He was here to train. He got up and grabbed his knapsack.

  “I am Chaz Xanadu of the Red Fire Pride. I’m here to begin my training.”

  “Well, you’re late.”

  “I’m sorry, Master. I fell asleep. It won’t happen again.”

  “Of that, you can be sure, my son.” Rakawah began to walk down the chamber.

  Chaz Xanadu compromised on a rather unsure nod. He followed him in silence, with an awkwardness that was new to him. He drew on his coat and buttoned it up. When they reached the threshold, Rakawah turned.

  Chapter Twelve

  Chaz wondered who the woman was he’d just dreamed about. He knew he’d never seen her, but when she kissed him in his dream, he felt as if she were there in the cave caressing him.

  He could not get her out of his mind. During his weeks of training, concentrating on sharpening his Ripper skills to hunt down and retrieve souless beings, he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d ever see her. In his dreams, she came to him like a siren—beckoning, tempting, teasing. The beast inside him wasn’t the only one who was aroused.

  ****

  “Why are you so annoyed?” Cindy, the pretty brunette receptionist with blushing pink skin and a slender frame genuinely wanted to know.

  “Doesn’t matter just how good a woman pilot is,” Dillon continued, “in my experience when something goes wrong up there, whatever crisis it may be—something goes haywire in a female's brain—when that happens—kkkkkkkzzzzzzz—he made the sound while making the ‘head gets cut off’ gesture, running his right hand across the middle of his leathery neck. My guess is a woman is always gonna be a woman—even if she can fly the friendly skies. I’m not sure I consider the skies so damn friendly when a dame’s piloting the plane.”

  “Yeah” Brock, agreed with his supervisor, “I guess you're right, Dillon.”

  “It happened when I was co-piloting with Cheryl Harwood. Remember her?” Dillon growled. “We’re up in the clouds and when the plane starts losing altitude, out of the blue she starts blubbering, panicking and yelling at me to take over the controls. And she has her certification as a crack pilot; yeah right,” he snarled.

  “And Ann Chesterfield. Out there, leading the pack; then wham! That hot as hell chick probably got thinking about the necking party she’d had the night before with her worthless boyfriend and that rendered the broad unable to put her plane down without panicking. Dumb dame.”

  Cindy almost rolled her eyes. He talked about women in only two ways: in terms of them panicking behind the wheel and as sexual objects. Funny he should. His belly was so large he looked like he was sitting in his own lap. She was surprised he still fit in the pilot seat. With all the male chauvinist pilots around her he wasn’t the only man with a waistline full of calories who talked that way. He continued in blatant sexist jabber.

  “And don’t forget about Rosa Young in Yonkers. Going batty; landing the Jet Aqua she’d landed a hundred times before. She overshoots the runway by about five hundred feet and almost ends up smashing in the trees with me alongside her.

  “And here comes this Zanobia dame...probably headed for six feet deep and a lily on her bosom.” Dillon combed his fingers through his tousled brown hair. “Doesn’t matter how good a female flyer is,” he concluded, as if he were speaking gospel because he believed it, “she's never quite tough enough. She can’t hang with the boys.”

  “Remind Ms. Zanobia to keep the jet’s tail up when she’s coming in and to make sure to cut out those climbing turns.” Cindy marveled at how comfortable Dillon Peters was at blaming all flying mishaps on gender. And he didn’t mince words or try to color the truth even though she—a woman—prompted him by asking the question. She couldn’t help wonder what he’d blame poor piloting skills on whenever it was a man. It sure wouldn’t be because of gender. She had to shake her head.

  Just then, Fawna Zanobia stepped out of her sporty, red corvette with black racing stripes and walked across the field as if she were Naomi Campbell strolling down the cat walk. Head held high, her bouncy black curls flopped as she swayed her sensuous feminine hips with each agile step.

  Dillon walked on his way, mumbling, “Damned, this one’s gonna make one good lookin’ corpse! What a waste!” Brock Adams had to shake his head at his boss’s blatant chauvinism as he walked toward this vision, even though he had to admit he himself harbored some of those same thoughts.

  Fawna’s hazel eyes sparkled. She stole a look at Brook’s lean, bronzed face and flashed a smile of perfection with those luscious lips. “Well, here I am, master, your tenderfoot,” she playfully announced. “In a few short hours I’ll snag my limited commercial license. I’m sure I’ll pass with flying colors. Then I’m tackling that transport license. Proud of your lil’ ole protege, Professor?”

  Brock swallowed hard. He felt his tall frame weaken at the knees as his ebony eyes slowly moved over Fawna—her luscious tall, slender frame.

  Gazing at her, he had to wonder how in the heck he could’ve spent so much time of late with Christie Rendall, the petite brunette waitress who worked in one of the airport restaurants—the cafe next to the Mesa Flying School Hangers. Every time he and Christie had a romp, his heart ended up pounding more deeply for this creature with her smooth olive skin and gorgeous hair. How he longed to plant his arms around her tiny waist and kiss those full lips of hers.

  As the ultimate connoisseur of all types of women, Brock understood his passion for Fawna was growing.

  And unlike a lot of women who’d whitened their teeth so unnaturally they looked like they’d swallowed a neon sign, Fawna’s blended beautifully with her tan skin whenever she smiled. Even though he knew she owned her own cosmetics company, based her in Chicago, and she’d been a high fashion model, every inch of her face was naturally beautiful and he adored this student.

  He didn’t even know he was capable of such a sweeping, hungry emotion for one woman. How silly he felt wasting so much time with Christie when his heart belonged to her. He wanted Fawna and only Fawna.

  Just as he could be a little chauvinistic when it came to flying—he was also old fashioned when it came to love. Not that he didn’t believe in sowing his wild oats. His oats had been all over the place.

  But love was a different matter altogether for Brock. Perhaps it was a little old-fashioned. Silly even. But that was his man code. That’s who he was. And over the almost year he’d been giving Fawna pilot lessons, he thought he just might be falling in love. Right at this moment, he knew she fit into his plans for the future.

  As he fastened his lust-filled gaze on Fawna’s voluptuous body and sexy face, he wondered if she even thought of him that way. He was fully aware the ball would be in her court. But damned. She’d only have to say the word and he’d never hold Christie in his embrace ever again.

  Before he lost his nerve, he asked, “Will you go out with me tonight?”

  She smiled and answered. “Yes, Brock. I’d love to go out with you.”

  She knew why she’d agreed. Earlier, about noon, a messenger had delivered her divorce papers. It had been two years to the day since she and Stephen had fought petty fights over property. She knew some of the fights were fruitless. She’d stayed angry at the way her marriage ended when she’d caught him in bed with one of his managers at Pace. She’d stayed bitter for a long while. Now she was ready to let go. Brock asking her out on the day her marriage officially ended, coupled with a book that appeared titled Let Go, made her think him asking her out was serendipitous.

  She told Brock she’d gotten her papers. He asked her if she’d dated anyone since filing. “Honestly,” she
said, I’ve gone out on a couple of dates since my divorce. Well, actually, I’ve gone out on one date. My sister, Nell, tried to convince me into going on a few blind dates. “The best way to get over someone, is to get under someone else,” is how she’d put it.

  “I tried blind dating once, and got an overdose. Not for me. I just have thrown myself into getting my commercial pilot license this past year. I haven’t thought about much else. I’ve let many people in my past life talk me out of living my dreams. After my husband left me, I decided from now on, I’m going to live the life I was talked out of years ago.

  You’ve never even flirted with me the whole time you’ve been giving me lessons, Brock. “Are you legit? Or did you make a bet with Dillon? “And what about Christie?” she asked, just to be sure. If it was one thing she wasn’t interested in, it was getting into another dead-end relationship. She didn’t want to waste her time. She was practicing rejection protection—still, he sure made her heart smile.

  “I’ve seen you hanging out with her at the cafe.”

  “It’s nothing serious,” Brock almost could barely contain his excitement that Fawna had even wondered about him and Christie. “And I’d never make a bet with anyone when it comes to you, Fawna. I really like you.” Her hazel eyes met his and shock fell over her face.

  “Will you go out with me tonight?”

  “Sure.”

  His heart thumping, Brock slipped his arm around her slender waist, then hurried her to the opposite side of the plane beyond anyone’s view. Near the plane’s wing, he pulled her to him and kissed her sexy mouth while he ran his fingers through her thick curly hair. He could feel Fawna lean in to return his embrace. Her delectable bosom was rising and falling against his muscled chest and her breathing was quick and uneven on his mouth.

  Oh glory, Brock became dizzy and reckless with desire. He kept kissing Fawna, almost as if he let go, he would never hold her in his arms again. She found his embrace intoxicating.

  His hands found the front zipper on her pants and she breathed in as the crisp morning air touched her exposed belly.

  A little gasp escaped from Fawna, “Oh-h, Brock!” as his arms crept around her beautiful buttocks. It had been more than two years since a man had touched her that way. She hoped her eagerness for his caress had more to do with her falling for him, than it did that she was horny as all get out. Her grip tightened about Brock’s neck and he moaned in sudden ecstasy, aching passion shot through his veins. For one brief second Brock opened his eyes to look up at the clouds instead of down upon them.

  He pressed Fawna in his hungry embrace.

  “Oh-h, Brock—Brock!” she gasped.

  He grabbed both sides of her lovely face, muttering something almost inarticulate about how they were destined to be together forever.

  ****

  Fawna glided her tongue over her lips, thoughtfully as she continued guiding the plane. One of her slim hands rubbed the skin just under her bosom. Rubbing under her breast was a nervous habit of hers she’d developed during her escapades as a dumped wife.

  One she indulged when she was thinking and when anger got the best of her. Dillon watched from the hanger. “Oh, boy, look at that student of mine! He bragged. He’d taken Fawna out on a few lessons but was willing to take full credit for her skill. “Look at her slipping that baby over the hangars, coming in sideways like a dizzy bat! Aviation was invented just so Fawna could strut her stuff in the clouds. She’s one dame who can fly!”

  “Didn’t Brock train her?” Asked one of the other instructors watching. “Yeah,” Dillon admitted, “Brock ought to be proud of his student. She’s the best he ever turned out.”

  Even though he was in the plane with her, it wasn’t her flying that was foremost in his mind. Brock’s heart flopped over as if it were doing handstands. He’d poured his heart out, but he hadn’t known if she would kiss him or smack him.

  He gazed into her dreamy green eyes, “Let’s go down. You’ve more than passed all your tests.” She went in for a perfect landing.

  Fawna got her license. She was flying every chance she got. Even the Dillon said he'd never seen anyone who loved it as much as Fawna. “I have to give it to her,” Dillon told Brock once, “unlike most dames she can fly anything from a pursuit plane to a giant amphibian, upside down, inside out and right side up!”

  It was true. Fawna felt as if she was born to fly. She handled a plane with some sort of careless rapture. She felt like she was a humming bird, dazzling, unabashed, crazy—mad with the power of flight; given to incredible speed, incredible darts and swoops and flutterings.

  Fawna circled the plane around the training hangers and safely landed. Brock helped her out, looking deep into her eyes as he gently held her until her feet touched the ground. She couldn’t help responding to his touch, then she placed her hands on his large ones.

  “Remember, we have a date tonight. I feel like dancing.”

  “Then we shall. I’ll pick you up at 8. Dinner, dancing...the works, Ok? She looked up at him and nodded.

  She thanked him for the paperwork he signed and told him, “Au revoir.” She walked to Dillon’s office to turn in the papers and secure her license. Then she floated on a cloud all her own, took a luxurious bubble bath, and dressed for her date.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Brock picked her up in a town car and told the limo driver to take them to the Leña Brava on Randolph. After an amazing dinner of blue corn rolled chicken enchiladas, with hot salsa and cold sour cream, refried beans, Spanish rice and some scrumptious sopapillas drenched in honey, they went to a nightclub showcasing dancers from the Dance Academy of Salsa.

  Fawna clapped her hands. “I’ve always wanted to learn how to do the salsa.

  “Then, you shall.”

  Brock called the male instructor over to give Fawna a quick salsa lesson before they took the dance floor.

  He stood in front of her in the corner of the dance arena, showing her how to straighten her stance while loosening her constitution.

  “This is a sexy dance! You can’t look sexy if you’re stiff!”

  She smiled. Brock looked on from the small round table near the dance floor. She thought she saw a flash of jealousy in his eyes, but she blew it off. He was the one that had hired the dancer. He couldn’t be.

  “The salsa is simple. It’s three steps, then pause, three steps, then pause. It’s what we call On-One-Timing. It’s easy. It’s just dancing while you walk.” He demonstrated. “Start out in a neutral position. Feet side by side. You walk forward on one step—backward on one step, alternating your feet. Again, forward with my left foot—backward with my right.” After demonstrating the move a few times he clasped her hands, they performed the steps together. “That’s it,” he encouraged. After a few times more, he pulled her to him then back out and spun her around. Soon, he had her feeling like she was dancing on air. After about 30 minutes, he motioned for Brock to take his place while he sat at their table and watched. Brock’s mood became light again.

  He proved an expert salsa dancer. He twirled Fawna, and bent her over his knee with grace. The danced until dawn. They salsaed, they drank, and they chatted about aviation.

  “Wow. That felt so good. Whirling around the dance floor without a care in the world.” She turned as she said it and they made their way up to her new smaller, downtown Chicago apartment.

  He grabbed for her. Pulling her into his arms, kissing her with passion.

  “How about I let you in for a little night-cap?” She teased, rocking a tiny bit from the effects of the alcohol they’d drunk all night. The dancing they enjoyed didn’t douse the effects of the libations.

  “I’d love nothing more.” Brock stood in the frame of the door admiring her figure as he began walking behind her. She was tall and stunning and wasn’t intimidated into not wearing high heels.

  Her sexy long legs teased him. Once she let him in, she slipped off her stilettos and beckoned for him to come closer, and he obliged. Placin
g his hand on her slender waist, he pulled her to him.

  “We going to start from where we left off? More salsa?” Flirted Fawna.

  “What we do next is definitely not going to be the salsa.” He brought his lips down on hers, tugging her body closer.

  “Oh, not that salsa—this salsa.” Fawna grinned and encircled her tonge with his, pressing herself against him. He grazed her lips with his before going back for more tongue dancing.

  “Let’s go, tiger,” she lead him through the living room and down the hall to the bedroom. Her silky skirt rode up her legs a little

  at every movement of her hips, revealing a little bit of her slender long thighs as she moved. Visions of watching her salsa dance with another man (the dance instructor) drove him wild with naughty fantasies.

  Brock's hardness throbbed in his underwear in anticipation of the sensuous dance getting ready to take place between them as they both succumbed to their sexual desires.

  Fawna, filled with liquid courage and a hunger to declare this real love so she could move on from her past, crawled onto the bed on all fours. Her move allowed her legs to spread, revealing her lacy black underwear. He climbed onto the bed with him and she pulled him towards her, taking the opportunity to unbutton his sexy shirt. She peeled it off and he took off her dress.

  She kissed him and rolled onto her back, pulling the weight of Brock on top of her, grinding her hips—wanting to feel his manhood pressing from his pants. After a few bumps and grinds, he pinned her wrists

  to the bed and began nuzzling his lips onto her neck for a love bite. She tilted her head and let out a soft moan.

  Her heart raced under the touch of his skin. He planted feathery kisses on her neck then moved down to her breasts.