Afraid to Fly

by L. A. Witt

  I kissed him like it was the first time—hungrily, breathlessly, pushing him down into the mattress as he held on to handfuls of my hair and my shirt. An annoying spasm knifed its way along my spine, but Clint was panting and shaking, so I ignored the pain and kissed him some more. Despite my stupid back and everything that had been churning inside my skull since last night, losing myself in his kiss relaxed me. All the apprehension about what this was and what we were doing and what I might do to fuck it up—none of that mattered right now.

  He tugged my shirt free from my waistband. Once it was loose, he slid his hands under it, and we both sighed as his palms ran across my bare skin. Jesus, I needed to feel more of him. I came down a little, so my chest touched his, and kissed his neck. He tilted his head back. His fingers curled against my sides, almost enough for his nails to bite in, and goddamn, even through our clothes, I loved the way his hard-on felt when it rubbed mine.

  In fact, I loved how his skin felt against mine, and right now, there was too much in the way. Carefully, so I wouldn’t jar my stupid back, I sat up, still straddling him. I peeled off my shirt, tossed it aside, and reached back to disconnect the TENS wires, but Clint caught my arm.

  “Wait. What are you doing?”

  “I’m . . .” I swallowed. “Just taking off the wires. So they don’t get in the way.”

  “But doesn’t that keep the pain down?”

  “It helps, yeah.”

  “My God—don’t take it off, then!”

  “But . . .” I glanced at the box in my hand. “The wires. I don’t want you getting tangled up in—”

  “Relax.” He kissed me and grinned. “I’m pretty sure I can navigate around some wires. If it’s helping the pain, leave it on.”

  I hesitated.

  “I’m serious,” he said. “Let’s get these clothes off, though.”

  With our clothes on the floor, we lay on our sides, facing each other, and set the TENS unit on the narrow sliver of sheets between us. The wires were draped over my waist, a vague reminder that I wasn’t as naked as I wanted to be right then.

  “This all right?” he asked.

  “You tell me.”

  He cupped my ass and kissed me softly. “It’s perfect.”

  I shivered. “Even with—”

  “Perfect.” He brushed his lips across mine. “Just let me know if I bump it or something.”

  “Don’t worry about it.” I combed my fingers through his hair. “It takes a beating every day.”

  “Good to know.” He slid closer, and his fingers closed around my cock, and to hell with talking. We made out, and we stroked each other, and I didn’t know if this had gotten his mind off anything, but it had sure as hell pulled my focus to him and nothing else.

  Anything you want right now, I wanted to tell him. As long as you feel good. Anything.

  But talking meant breathing and it meant not kissing, and his kiss was too good to pass up. There was something different about him tonight too. Something . . . unrestrained. Like he wasn’t in any rush, but he was more relaxed than he’d been before.

  I knew the feeling well. He’d been keeping a card tightly against his vest for too long, and tonight he’d shown it, and now that he knew that card hadn’t chased me off, his relief needed to go somewhere.

  One of his recent comments echoed through my mind:

  “It’ll take more than back pain to get rid of me.”

  I grinned into his kiss. Likewise. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.

  We stroked each other faster until I was breathing too hard to keep kissing him, so I pressed my forehead to his and concentrated on what I was doing with my hand.

  “That feels so good,” he breathed.

  “Mm-hmm. Always does when we’re in bed.”

  “So does.” Then he pushed me onto my back and climbed on top. Though his chest was against mine, he held himself up enough to keep from putting his weight on me.

  As soon as his lips started down my jaw toward my neck, I damn near came unglued.

  Yes, please. Yes, lower. Lower. Oh fuck, lower . . .

  I could barely breathe as I watched him trail soft kisses down my chest and midsection. Anticipation wound me up like nothing else, especially since I knew how good he was, and he didn’t disappoint—he took my cock between his lips, and I was in heaven.

  No one sucked dick like Clint. He’d get me off, there was no doubt about that, but he was in no rush. There wasn’t an inch of my cock or balls that his lips and tongue didn’t tease. Little kisses, soft licks, squeezing with his lips, swirling with his tongue—he was relentless and patient at the same time. Like he could’ve done this all night. And the sounds he made were unreal. He moaned like he was the one getting sucked off, and that would’ve been a turn-on all by itself. Coupled with the magic he did with his mouth? I was a goner. Completely his slave right then.

  Just . . . please . . . keep . . .

  “Oh my God, Clint.” I bit my lip as I combed my fingers through his hair, and he bobbed his head over my cock. “You’re fucking amazing.”

  He moaned, driving me wild with that vibration against my insanely sensitive skin.

  And then he wasn’t fooling around anymore. His lips focused on the head. His tight grip slid up and down the shaft. Faster, harder—he wanted me to come now, and I didn’t fight him. I gave in completely, letting him take me higher, higher, higher, until I must’ve been levitating off the bed and halfway to the stratosphere, and then—

  Oh. Fuck. Yes.

  It didn’t even matter that my friend and his wife were right down the hall—I doubted I could’ve made a sound if I’d wanted to. Sheets bunched in my hands, and air stayed just beyond my lips, spinning, spinning, spinning, and Clint didn’t let up, and spinning, spinning, spinning . . .

  My hands relaxed. The air came back. My body sank back to the mattress. Before I could even be sure which way was up again, Clint was over me. I dragged him down into a deep kiss. His mouth was vaguely salty from getting me off, and I wanted nothing more than to do the same for him. I closed my fingers around his hard dick, and he rewarded me with a soft, helpless groan.

  He started rocking back and forth, pushing his cock into my hand. It was almost like he was riding me, fucking me.

  “We’ve got some lube,” I said. “I can put—”

  “N-no. This—” He released a ragged breath. “No, this is perfect.”

  In that case . . .

  I tightened my grip and pumped him in time with his thrusts, adding the slightest twist to my strokes. “Like that?”

  “Uh-huh.” He screwed his eyes shut and bit his lip. Holy shit, he was sexy like this—moaning, trembling, the cords standing out on his flushed neck. I’d never been so overwhelmed with the need to make someone feel good. Hell, with him, I was drunk off that need. Just the thought of making him come—feeling, hearing, seeing him come—made me dizzy.

  He kissed me, but then broke away with a gasp. “Oh God.” His head fell beside mine, and his shoulders rose each time he thrust into my hand.

  And then he whimpered.

  And threw his head back.

  And shot semen all over my hand and stomach.

  And nothing—nothing—had ever been as sexy as watching him come right then. The way his eyes flew open and lost their focus. The way his lips parted and no sound came out. Muscles tensing beneath his skin. I was so caught up in his orgasm, I forgot for a couple of seconds that I wasn’t coming right along with him.

  Then he exhaled and sank down on top of me. He kept his weight on his forearms, but his hot skin pressed against mine. He buried his face against my neck, and his breath came in sharp, cool huffs across my sweaty skin.

  With my clean hand, I stroked his hair.

  “I feel a hell of a lot better now,” he murmured.

  “Good.” I kissed the top of his head.

  After a moment, he pressed his lips to my neck. Then the underside of my jaw. And finally, my lips. I wrapped my arm a
round him, and our lips moved lazily together. His body was still feverish and trembling, and I secretly hoped my back would hold out for another round. I was exhausted, and I wasn’t twenty anymore, but damn, this was amazing.

  One more round? Even if we don’t come? That’s not too much to ask, is it?

  If we did, I’d pay for it tomorrow on our flight, but even that seemed like a small price. I’d already had him once, and I already wanted him again so much it hurt.

  Even if we don’t have sex again, I still have you in this bed tonight. That’s all I need.

  Clint pushed himself up on his arms.

  Our eyes met.

  Oh my God.

  I touched his face.

  I love you.

  The clock said 3:31.

  Clint was out cold. We’d settled into bed with his head on my shoulder and his arm slung over me, but we’d separated once our combined body heat became too much. Now I was on my back, he was on his side facing away from me, and my stupid brain was going a million miles an hour. I couldn’t make it shut up.

  He’d woken up twice, both times shaking and sweating. The second time, he’d taken a few deep breaths, then gone into the bathroom and gotten sick. He’d apologized profusely, and I’d assured him it was nothing to be sorry for or ashamed of. And it wasn’t like he’d woken me up, since I hadn’t been sleeping anyway, but I kept that part to myself. He was rattled enough without catching on to my anxiety-fueled insomnia.

  Now, fortunately, he was asleep. For his sake, I hoped that lasted the rest of the night. I listened for the slightest twitch or murmur that sometimes preceded one of those violent nightmares, but at least for now, he was still and silent except for his slow, steady breathing.

  Beside him, I was wide-awake, staring at the ceiling and, in between listening for him to stir, sweating bullets over what was happening between us.

  I was getting in way too deep. At the same time that I wanted to jump in headfirst and see where it went, I wanted to pull back and run like hell. I was utterly terrified of falling in love with him. And yet, I wanted to.

  I didn’t know what I should do. What I wanted to do.

  Tonight, the only thing I knew for sure was how good it felt to fall asleep next to Clint. I wasn’t nervous anymore about him being there when I had a nightmare, and I’d gotten used to him having them. We’d relaxed into something that had always been a massive challenge in relationships before this one.

  I absently stroked his hair.

  What the hell was happening? We’d started dating a couple of months back, and suddenly . . . this. We were talking about our haunted pasts.

  I understood what he meant when he’d said what happened to him counted as need-to-know, and I couldn’t imagine having to hold on to that kind of thing by myself. Bottling up an incident like that and keeping it out of a partner’s sight was excruciating. I knew guys who’d done it because they didn’t want their wives to know what they’d seen or done in a war zone. I knew others who’d had no choice because even hinting about what had happened meant talking about classified information.

  I firmly believed Clint wouldn’t have opened up to me about it if I hadn’t had the proper clearance, but he knew as well as I did that now I could destroy his career with one phone call. It was unnerving that he’d trusted me enough to tell me.

  Which meant we were a lot closer than I’d realized. And I didn’t know how I felt about that. I’d had plenty of sex with men over the years but never let myself get attached to one. Not since Dion had died. The minute feelings started to materialize, I was gone.

  Except this time. Emotions had shown their faces, and I was still here. I’d been here long enough to be invested, which meant when Clint exited stage left, I was going to be in a world of hurt.

  I refused to let myself cling to the hope that he wouldn’t leave. I was as fucked up in the head as I was in the body, and one of those two things was usually enough to send someone packing before we’d gone too far. My last girlfriend had stayed around for a year or so, but being with a man like me got old fast.

  Sighing into the stillness, I wiped a hand over my face.

  Emotionally, we were disasters. Ten years later, I still didn’t go a day without thinking about Dion. Clint’s marriage had crashed and burned so recently, the wreckage was still smoking. Who were we kidding if we thought this thing could take off without going up in flames?

  And physically? Shit. Most women I’d dated had gotten tired of “no, really, it hurts my neck,” and the men got bored with gentle blowjobs and languid handjobs. One guy’d been perfectly happy without fucking, but had decided it’d been enough of a concession that he shouldn’t have had to give up sex entirely on nights when I could barely move. I’d been with two people who’d decided without mentioning it to me that if I couldn’t give them everything they wanted, they had carte blanche to get it elsewhere. Which had been fine—I rarely dated exclusively—right up until they each had decided that since their needs were getting met elsewhere, I was more trouble than I was worth.

  “Just once,” a former fling had complained, “I want to have sex without being reminded that you’ve got all these injuries.”

  Three years later, that one still hurt, and we hadn’t even been that close. It was just the kick in the balls about being defective. Damaged. Broken.

  I gazed at Clint in the near-darkness, and resisted the temptation to kiss his forehead. So far, he’d been a saint about everything. Limited sex life? No problem. PTSD dreams? Something to commiserate over. Nights where I was lucky to stand up, let alone get it up? Movie night. He took it all in stride as if this was how normal, functional relationships actually happened.

  For now.

  I was fine with people being temporary fixtures in my life and in my bed. Clint, though . . .

  I closed my eyes and released a long breath. I was getting too invested. Hanging way too much hope on the stupid idea that this might be the one time falling in love didn’t end in disaster for me. Or that he’d be that one person in a million who could cope with someone whose life was ruled by pain.

  The last time I’d started getting close to someone, I’d gone off the deep end of stupid. Anything she’d wanted in bed was suddenly doable. Even if I was blinking back tears or praying I could stay hard despite how much it hurt to breathe, I’d given her anything she wanted because I was less afraid of the pain than I was of her leaving.

  And ultimately, she’d left anyway.

  Same as everyone before her.

  And everyone after her.

  And eventually . . .

  Inevitably . . .

  Clint.

  If being in pain all the time and being fucked up in the head had one advantage, it was that a sleepless night was easy to excuse. If I had circles under my eyes and couldn’t form a coherent sentence until my seventh or eighth cup of coffee, I could wave off any concern with a muttered “back was bugging me” or “you know . . . nightmares.” As much as those things sucked, they were useful smoke screens when I didn’t want to admit I’d been an emotional train wreck.

  So, as we said our good-byes and Maxine dropped us at the airport, no one questioned me. Clint and I shuffled into the airport, made it through the lines, and after another debacle of getting through security—seriously, why did I always end up behind the assholes who wanted to argue with TSA?—we made it to our gate. By this point we were both out of patience, though neither of us turned it toward the other. His jaw was tight, and I was quietly stewing, but no sniping or snapping between us, so that was a plus.

  Once we’d acquired some more coffee, we both started to relax a bit.

  He sipped his and turned to me. “How’s your back doing today?”

  “Eh.” I grimaced. Truth was, though it hadn’t been what kept me up all night, it sure as fuck wasn’t feeling great now. I couldn’t say what had set it off—something during security? lack of sleep? moving wrong when I’d picked up my bag?—but it definitely hurt.
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br />   Clint nodded toward the podium, where a couple of airline employees were cheerfully handling a thin crowd of customers. “Why don’t you see if they have upgrades? The last flight was almost empty in first class.”

  I pursed my lips. It did sound pretty tempting.

  “Go for it.” He offered a hand. “I can watch your bag.”

  I hesitated, but then gave him my bag and went up to the podium.

  Fifteen minutes later, I returned to where we’d been sitting. “They had first-class upgrades, but only one seat.”

  “So did you take it?”

  “What? No. Of course not.”

  “Are you kidding?” His eyes widened. “Those seats will be so much better for your back.”

  “Yeah, and you’ll be sitting alone.”

  Clint scowled. “I’m going to be a nervous idiot no matter what.” He motioned toward the counter. “Take the upgrade so you can be comfortable.”

  Oh, it was tempting.

  But after spending the whole night wondering how long this thing would last? And knowing that taking the seat meant leaving Clint to endure the flight alone? When he’d come to San Diego because of me in the first place?

  “I’ll be fine,” I said.

  “But—”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  He held my gaze, but then shrugged, and God bless the man, he didn’t bring it up again.

  I wondered a few times if I’d made the right call, though. Especially when we started to board. On the way through first class, I stole a glance at one of those wide, plush seats that no doubt reclined until they were almost horizontal.

  Should I have upgraded?

  I should have upgraded.

  Fuck. Why didn’t I upgrade?

  But . . . Clint. I wasn’t leaving him alone for the flight.

  We took our seats in row twenty-seven. After he’d put on his seat belt, Clint closed his eyes and released a breath. A hint of sweat gleamed at his hairline.

  “You all right?” I asked.

  Eyes still shut, he said, “I could ask you the same thing.”

  “I told you—I’ll be fine.”