Sandra Brown - Low Pressure

He got up and walked over to the window. Parting the drapes, he looked out. “Stopped lightning.”

“Your actions saved them.”

“I got lucky.”

“You know better. Why weren’t you hailed a hero?”

He sighed. “Because you can’t have a first officer taking over for a captain who’s flying the airplane. He had twenty years’ experience on me. He was an airline golden boy. Give him another few seconds, he would have realized what had happened and what needed to be done to fix it. He would have done exactly what I did.”

“But you didn’t have those seconds to spare.”

He shook his head. “We were going in, and it’s a miracle that we didn’t in spite of what I did.”

“Did the captain own up to his mistake?”

“Yes, but he also took some of the credit for reversing it and saving everyone.”

“You didn’t tell them otherwise?”

“No, we covered for each other. There was no voice recording to disprove us.”

“So why did you leave the airline?”

“While the NTSB was still investigating the event, a reporter for one of the networks went digging into my past and discovered that, in my youth, when my girlfriend turned up dead, I was named a suspect by the police. ‘He was later cleared of all suspicion,’” he quoted, sneering.

“Like hell I was. The implication was that, despite the spiffy uniform, I was still a shady character. The story didn’t sit well with the airline. Even after the accident report had been completed, I was urged to extend my leave. That was as good as telling me to get lost. So I got lost.”

“Letting them and everyone else think—”

“Whatever the hell they wanted to,” he snapped.

“You didn’t care?”

“No.” He crossed to the night table, picked up the bottle of beer, and drained it.

“It didn’t bother you to walk away from it?”

“No.”

“I don’t believe you on either count.”

He turned to her, poised for a fight, ready to argue, but her expression was soft and misty, and it instantly deflated him. He sat down on the side of the bed, bending his head low, and, for a moment, said nothing.

Then, “The airlines have rules and regulations for a reason. From the crew members’ socks to how they fly the airplanes, there are standards that everyone’s gotta adhere to. They’re responsible for the lives of thousands of people every day. To be good at moving all those people, to do it efficiently and safely, everything has to be done uniformly.

“But that word crawls all over me. I tolerated it while I was in the air force. We were at war. I got it. Orders had to be followed. But in the corporate world? Regulation socks ?” He shook his head. “The captain was right: I wasn’t a good fit. So I didn’t mind leaving the structure.” Looking over at her, he said, “But to walk away from the flying was tough. That was bad.”

“You still fly.”

“And I love my airplane. But I miss the big ones. I miss jet propulsion.”

“You could always go back.”

“No. Even if an airline would consider hiring me, which is highly unlikely, I took a position. I gotta stick to it.”

“You could fly corporate jets.”

He waited for a moment, then, acting on impulse, reached across the distance separating them. He slipped his hand beneath her shirt and curled his fingers inside the waistband of her jeans. Pulling her out of the chair and toward him, he said, “Buy one. I’ll fly you.”

Positioning her between his thighs, he pushed up the hem of her shirt, undid the button on her jeans, and spread open the two ends of the waistband with his thumbs.

“Dent…”

“We related on your level, Bellamy. It’s time we came down to mine.”

Then he pressed his open mouth against that wedge of pale, smooth skin.

At the touch of Dent’s mouth, Bellamy’s bones seemed to liquify. Reflexively she reached for something with which to support herself and wound up clutching handfuls of his hair.

“Does this hurt?”

Hurt? He was tenderly kissing the dark bruise on her pelvic bone, made last night when she banged into the iron railing outside his apartment. “No.”

“Good.”

He kissed the spot again then eased down the zipper of her jeans, his mouth moving into the widening gap, doing wonderful things that caused her insides to quicken.

“Dent,” she murmured. “We can’t.”

“We are.” His breath was warm on her skin as he rubbed his face against her. “You taste good.” A gentle suction of his lips pulled her skin against his teeth; he nipped her lightly, making her breath catch.

He angled back and looked up into her eyes, then gave his full attention to each button on her shirt as he pushed it through the hole. He worked his way up from the bottom and, when all were undone, opened her shirt and kissed the slight indentation between her ribs just under her bra.

Using the fingers of both hands, he caressed the loose strands of hair that brushed across her nipples. “That’s been driving me nuts.” Pushing her hair aside and leaning in, he replaced his fingertips with his mouth, first on one breast, then on the other, biting her gently through the lace cups of her bra.

He bracketed her hips with his strong hands, turned her, and pulled her down onto the bed, then leaned above her and claimed her mouth in a kiss so deeply passionate, so uniquely Dent, that she banished her resolve never, ever, to let this happen.

They kissed long and hungrily. While his hands moved over her, he took her mouth boldly, sweetly, teasingly, and continued to kiss her until they were breathless. When they broke apart, he buried his face in the crook of her neck and whispered, “I think you have a talent for this.”

He worked his hand into the opening of her jeans, into her panties, and barely paused to cup her mound before easing her thighs apart, separating and caressing, and finding her ready. Instinctually she raised her knees and angled her hips. With a growl of satisfaction, he slid his fingers deep into her.

Oh, God! This was Dent. The Dent of her most innocent adolescent daydreams and her most erotic adult fantasies, making her whimper with each intimate stroke of his fingers, every breath-grabbing brush of his thumb.

His hair was soft against her breasts, now freed from the lace cups of her bra. Gently and avidly he loved them with his mouth, his tongue, while from low in his throat came sounds of arousal that were altogether masculine.

He wanted her, and for these moments, he was hers. Exclusively hers.

She closed her arms around his head, and arched up to meet the thrusts of his fingers and beg the exquisite pressure of his thumb. She called his name as the first ripple of ecstasy washed through her.

Then came the tide.

Ray had watched the sun go down, and then had given his eyes hours to grow accustomed to the dark. He now felt that his night vision was as keen as that of the coyote he could hear yipping in the hills to the west of the airfield.

A single-engine plane had landed at twilight, but had stayed only long enough to refuel and then had taken off. Shortly after that, the landing-strip lights had been extinguished, leaving only a pale glow coming from inside the hangar.

Ray got out of his truck and jiggled his legs to restore circulation. He did a few deep knee bends, then some curls with his left arm. He caressed the scabbard attached to his belt and kept his hand there as he headed toward the hangar.

The ground was uneven, rocky, and strewn with patches of wild grass and occasional cacti. Fearing a mishap, he didn’t walk fast, but he moved as quickly and quietly as he could.