Just FYI, this is definitely a NSFW chapter - at least at the end. Remember that this is a pre-honeymoon for Mike and Kat and you'll have an idea...
So much for the vacation, Mike thought after the phone call.
The flight to Lambert St. Louis International had been uneventful. Of course, getting out of the airport, even with Hughes’ connections, had taken time, and getting to their hotel even more. Traffic from the airport to the hotel had been murder; he’d been away so long, he’d forgotten about timing and traffic patterns. If only he’d taken a little more time in Boston - there wasn’t any rush to get here. No, he’d simply forgotten. That’s why OSOL gave you a guide, jackoff, he reprimanded himself. Ask questions!
At least there was a bright spot at the end of the smog-choked rainbow. The Four Seasons itself was a dramatic glass structure rising by the Mississippi, only a few blocks north of the Gateway Arch. They had mercifully whisked through check-in, and were soon settled into their suite on the 19th floor.
“Michael, do we have plans tonight?” asked Kat.
“No, the show’s not until tomorrow night. Why?”
“It’s been a very busy few days. I don’t feel like going out,” she admitted.
“Suits me. I’m for dinner, then take it easy. Don’t I remember seeing a restaurant in the hotel? Or do we want to go out?”
“There is one, called Cielo,” said Stasia. “I had asked. They serve Italian cuisine. There is room service - or I‘m sure we can arrange a private chef…”
“No, if we’re in St. Louis, we’ve got to have barbeque.”
“I can ask the concierge?” said Stasia.
“That’ll work. Take a half hour to freshen up, change, then we’ll hit the desk and see what we can see. And don’t dress fancy! Barbeque, especially ribs, can be messy!” So they had divided, cleaned, and reformed, refreshed and ready for dinner. Jack was ready first, in jeans and a sports jacket that easily concealed his piece. Mike was thinking of going heavy; this was St. Louis, after all. But he eventually settled on ensuring that Stasia’s pink Tanfoglio Lady Witness 9mm was loaded and in her clutch. He didn’t want to actually carry tonight, and having to rely on a pink gun would help; after the traffic clusterfuck, the need to kill someone was running high.
The concierge naturally tried to steer them to the in-house restaurant. “Italian, I can get anywhere. Hell, I can do Italian!” Mike insisted.
“What you want is Pappy’s!” said a desk clerk. Her nametag read Emily.
“Pappy’s Smokehouse, out on Olive Street. Best barbeque in town! And you have got to try their five-way!”
“Sounds kinky.” The clerk had the decency to blush. “How do we get there?”
“It’s not too far, only twenty blocks west or so.”
“We just flew in, and it’s been quite a day. Can we get a cab?”
The concierge, trying to recover Mike’s good graces, said, “Sir, I can have the hotel limo bring you there and back. It’s a complimentary service that comes with the Presidential Suite.”
Emily interrupted. “And they shouldn’t be sold out, either! The Cards aren’t in town this week.”
“Sold out?” said Kat.
“It takes a long time to do barbeque right. When they get busy, they run out of food early.”
“Then let’s stop jawing and move! Emily, thanks!” Mike called over his shoulder, following the suddenly eager-to-please concierge to the VIP exit.
The limo was prompt, and delivered them to the restaurant quickly. It was an unimpressive brick building with a plainly-lettered sign above the door. “That’s a good sign,” said Mike, pointing. A bright neon “OPEN” was still lit. “Let’s get in before they change their mind.”
The interior didn‘t reflect the plain exterior. The walls, painted yellow above and red below, were covered with pictures, photographs, and t-shirts. Around the ceiling ran a shelf with what appeared to be every barbeque sauce known to man. And, to top it off, a life-sized pink ceramic pig stood in front of them. All this before they even began to take in the family-style dining room. It was a large space, liberally filled with tables covered with red-checked tablecloths. To the left was an ordering queue, with handwritten menus mounted above. They examined these for a few moments.
“’Pulled pork‘? ‘Beef brisket’? Michael? And what is an ‘Adam bomb‘?”
“What the hell - Frito pie?” added Hughes. “Haven’t seen that in years. Doesn’t matter, I’m going for the Adam bomb - that must be the five-way.”
“Let’s just go order,” said Mike and, suiting action to words, moved up to the register.
“Evening. I think two rib combos. What do you suggest for the meats?”
“I’d go with the brisket, pork, or the turkey.”
“Turkey? Okay, brisket and turkey it is. Sides. How about a beans, a slaw, a sweet potato fries, and potato salad. Four soft drinks. And the junkyard dog behind me wants an Adam bomb.”
“Sides for that?”
“Surprise me,” said Jack.
“And your name?”
“Mike,” he answered, the question in his voice.
“We’ll call your name when it’s ready. Should be just a few minutes, we’re not real busy right now. Y’all just go have a seat.”
True to her word, less than five minutes later Mike heard his name, and turned around. A server saw him and came, bearing a heavily-loaded tray. The platters were unloaded and, with a minimum of conversation, attacked. Jack, with the zeal of a man long denied, didn’t say two words until the platter was more than half gone. Then, groaning, he sat back and said, “You’ll have to finish it. I can’t eat another bite.”
Shortly, satisfied and full, Mike sat back. “That is something I have missed! What did you think, Kat?”
“Different, very different.”
“Did you like it?”
“I liked the, I think it was beef?”
“Brisket. That was very good, very tender. And the turkey, too.”
“I enjoyed the slaw, too,” added Stasia. Though, it appeared that she was annoyed that the napkins were paper, not cloth. Very undignified. And very difficult to stay clean. “Very similar to something we made for the sheik, but sweeter.”
“It’s made from cabbage, so that doesn’t surprise me.” Rolling slightly, they rode back to the hotel and went to bed.
Now, after Nielson’s call, Mike lay awake. Part of him itched to return, to get back to the valley, to finish preparing for the mission. He needed that rush, he knew. The heat of battle fulfilled his sense of duty, as well as satisfying his appetite for destruction. It was when his two halves merged most completely, and he could allow the rage that flowed through him free rein.
But he hated planning, he hated preparation, and he hated waiting. He always had, even in the Teams. The sense of his edge slipping away frustrated him, and got him too focused internally. It took a real effort to drag his attention back outwards to the needs of the day. He much preferred encountering a situation and dealing with it.
They’d stay for the show, then fly back. That was the plan.
“Michael?” Kat’s sleepy voice brought him back.
“Did someone call?”
Options flashed. Lie, say nobody called? No. Tell her some of the truth, that it was Nielson checking in? No. “Nielson. The nukes might be in play.” Even as he said it, he felt the rightness. If he was taking this girl - no, dammit, woman - as his wife, she would share his life fully. That meant being included in planning and executing missions. He hadn’t thought it out, before, but as a supersaturated solution would crystallize instantly, so too did his decision. He felt her tense.
“How soon? Do they need you now?” She hoped not. She was enjoying her time away from the valley too much to want to return quickly. Once they returned, these idyllic nights next to her Kildar would end, at least until the wedding. Though, perhaps - it wasn’t uncommon for a prospective bridegroom to ‘come through the window’ and spend nights with his betrothed. After all, the handfasting ceremony carried the force of law among the Keldara; the couple were as good as married. Perhaps, as the Kildaran, she would be able to reverse the tradition and come through Mike’s window? It bore some thinking on…
“A few days, and they will need us, but there’s plenty of time. We’ll head home tomorrow, after the concert.”
“Good.” She snuggled closer to him. “I am ready to go back to the valley, but don’t want to leave your bed just yet.” She made sure that her ass pressed up against his middle. Down, boy! he thought.
“It won’t be for much longer,” he said, stroking her hair. “I don’t know that I could keep your honor intact if we kept this up, anyway.”
He felt her smile. “Nor I yours. Stasia asks me, every morning, if I have taken you yet.”
“And what do you tell her!”
She pinched him, hard. “The truth! That you cannot keep your hands off me and that I am a ruined, ruined woman!” Laughing, she added, “I don’t think she believes me.”
“Brat!” He whipped himself over her, pinned her, and began a manic tickle attack. She writhed and howled beneath, laughing and trying ineffectually to force him off. He relented quickly, though - her tickle response was extremely high, and he worried that she wouldn’t breathe for laughing. Still atop her, he said, “Give up?”
“Never!” And with surprising skill, she seemed to levitate from the bed, now grasping his arms, flip him in midair, and land, straddling him.
“Damn! How’d you manage that?”
“Didn’t the Chief tell you I was working with him?”
“I don’t think you learned that from Adams,” he said. “Certainly not the landing.” She glanced down as if suddenly aware all that was between them were their thin nightclothes.
“No, that was my own.” Her voice turned seductive, moving her hands along his arms. “There is something else, something I would like to try.”
“Yes,” she said, leaning down to kiss him. “There is. Don’t move.” She kissed his neck, and his chest, her long hair trailing, her hips moving rhythmically into him. It had been days since his session with Stasia, and Mike was instantly aroused.
“Kat, what are you -”
She kissed him again. “Shh. I want to do this.” Kissing, again, her hand crept under his waistband and brushed his member. He was hard under her hand, and slowly, inexpertly, but with increasing confidence she began to stroke him. Her mouth continued its journey down his chest, hair tickling him.
She used her other hand to tug his boxers down to mid-thigh, bunching against her legs, straddling one leg and grinding against him. She didn’t hesitate a moment, Mike noted in a remote corner of his mind as she took him into her mouth. Most of his thoughts were occupied by the beautiful woman giving him her first-ever blow job, and trying to remember how to hold back.
Baseball statistics, he thought, her tongue active along his dick. WHIP is walks plus hits divided by innings pitched, was the desperate thought, her hand gently cupping his balls. It was no use resisting; she had been part of his fantasies, admitted or not, for too long. At least he could give her a choice. “I’m going to come,” he managed to gasp, trying to pull her off him. She pushed his hand away, instead pulling him deeper into her mouth. He felt it before he erupted, pumping down into her throat. Amazingly, she swallowed it all, and when he finally relaxed back, spent, she came up for air smiling.
“Tinata told me you liked this,” she whispered.
“God, honey, that was fantastic!” He hugged her, then let her settle against his shoulder. “Do you want a drink? There’s got to be something in here…”
“No, Michael. I think, yes, I think I like the taste. Now. You will sleep.”
And he did.