“Waaaahoooo!”
“ . . . I don’t think . . . you’re supposed to do barrel rolls, Everon . . . in . . . a . . . Lear!”
The night sky rolled around the windshield then the sparkled earth was overhead. The blond man’s fingers on the yoke held their assigned altitude perfectly.
“Less than a hundred feet deviation!” he laughed at the end of the corkscrew. You don’t think? . . . I’m supposed to do barrel rolls in a Learjet? . . .Wahoooo!”
And took them over again. Free of meetings, Everon Student thought. Free of traffic — free of the earth, nothing but exhilaration blasting at 300 knots through the air!
But Everon’s attempt at getting Andréa Buer into the spirit of things wasn’t working. That petulant look seemed to be growing more intense and to deny the intimate acts they’d engaged in only minutes before.
“Come on — relax!” he tried with her. “The Lear was developed from a Swiss fighter! These babies are certified to three g’s but they’ll probably take something like six. We’re not even pulling a g-and-a-half. Enjoy the ride. How often do you get to really let your hair down at thirty thousand feet? — upside down?”
And over they went again.
It’s perfect! he thought. Not too big but not all that small either.
He’d worked very hard to afford the jet. This was the payoff. He was actually going to own it! He’d flown plenty of jets — always for other people. This one would be his! Well, the company’s — but I’ll be the only one flying it! And it was time. He felt — what was the word? Giddy? He laughed and took it over one more time.
There were actually two things Everon liked about this particular jet. The joy of controlling such incredible strength and agility. And the eight-seater’s best-looking female pilot he’d ever seen. He took another look at Andréa as they inverted. Deep brown eyes, long red hair that flew out as they went around . . .
Beautiful!
Granted, she looked better before — without the greenish tinge. Maybe I better cool it, but this sure beats the hell out of flying commercial. I could get used to this!
The jet belonged — for the moment — to Hunt Williams, an independent power producer — IPPie for short. Williams Power owned more transmission lines than anyone else in east Pennsylvania and west New Jersey. A fair number of generating plants too.
Six hours ago they’d had lunch, Hunt with hopes to purchase Everon’s two solar power farms — one, west of Las Vegas; the other, south of Phoenix. Everon said he didn’t want to sell. But he’d be happy to trade Hunt all the solar panels he wanted. Everon wanted Hunt’s jet.
The older executive had already replaced it with a larger model, a Gulfstream. The Lear would be Everon’s first.
The flight out from Nevada had been fun — a vague flirtatious sexual tension right from the start while Andréa took him through the jet’s systems.
Sometime later, she mentioned she’d seen his picture on the cover of Entrepreneur magazine, and some other high-tech rag she couldn’t remember the name of. She nearly purred recalling an old story she’d read in Gliding about his U.S. sailplane distance record out of San Diego. She said she’d been wanting to meet him for a while. Even asked for his autograph, which he thought was pretty funny. That was a new one! He’d obliged, scribbling on a napkin from the jet’s galley.
She gave him a little peck on the cheek when he handed it to her. A gorgeous, lithe female pilot with flaming red hair? It was only good manners to kiss her back, wasn’t it? To Everon, she seemed adventurous somehow, provocative.
But that was as far as it went.
Until he left Cyn at JFK for the trip back home. Then, headed west over New York State, they’d cleared the clouds, looked at each other and simply started kissing.
Things escalated. She turned on the autopilot — not the only thing that got turned on, her left knee against his right, a hand between his legs, up his thigh to let him know what she wanted. He returned the move. He felt the moisture building in the crotch of her tightly-knit pants.
The cockpit was tight but instead of going back to use one of the jet’s roomier convenient foldout beds, Everon kept his position in the pilot’s seat — to retake control if he had to. As she rose from the right seat, Andréa unzipped his fly, slid off her pants and panties in one deft motion, turned her ass sideways and engaged him — sat right down onto his cock, her fingers weaving into his wavy blond hair, taking him inside at twenty-six thousand feet.
Mile High Club? Hell — five miles!
Unbearably romantic, so intense. Linked together — stars above — more alone than two people could ever be on the planet’s surface. Andréa Buer proved to be a wild, insatiable, undeniable woman.
A quarter hour later he thought, Whew!
Unlike the man who smokes or watches cable TV after sex, Everon needed to recover in his own way. Once every muscle in his body had released its tension, he craved something more to cap things off.
They were over Pennsylvania when he let loose of Andréa and took control of the plane. He decided to take the Lear up to thirty thousand feet, near its altitude of maximum efficiency — see what the damned thing would do.
But her sexual aggression had misled him. Believing she would be more adventurous after such a great lay, Andréa surprised him by becoming a real whiner. Now he regretted screwing her, and he was beginning to regret even flying with her too. Shit! Does sex give all women the emotional confidence to whine? He’d never thought so. He leveled out to the tinkling crash of a glass breaking somewhere back in the cabin.
Shit, he frowned at her, “You okay?”
She nodded and gulped, glaring at him, “Please don’t do that again — sir.”
“Hey! What’s this sir stuff?”
Before she could answer, the right wing dipped hard. She shot him an angry glance, thinking what an asshole he was for ignoring her feelings. But the yoke was still level. He had a death grip on it and hadn’t done a damn thing.
“What the hell!” he said as the plane continued to nose over, bucking violently. Everon twisted, pulled at the yoke, trying to bring the nose up.
It appeared to be completely out of his control.
