The Hot Pilots by T. E. Cruise

nibble at her pink nipples, and she
     gasped, riding him even faster, her thighs flexing and hips pumping. They were both sweating now. The bed was rocking with
     their exertions. He groaned and squirmed as she ground herself against him, their bodies making wet, slapping sounds. He heard
     her first, soft moans, almost like whispers, and smiled. They were old flying buddies; knew each other’s sign language by
     heart: Her whimpers told him that she was poised at the brink, and he took pleasure in concentrating on her; on starting her
     on the downward slope until she was out of control.
    Her moans increased, as did her urgent bucking, and then her hot, wet mouth that had been pressed against his ear, lifted
     away. She orgasmed with her spine arched and her head rocked back, so that he was able to see her flushed face. Her eyes were
     closed, the lids tinged with blue. Her lips, which had been pressed together in a thin line—almost a grimace—abruptly blossomed
     wide to free her shrill cry.
    He held her—cradled her, really—through her diminishing throes and flutters. It was when she was lying limp and docile on
     his chest that he cupped her ass and thrust into her, growling—then moaning—as he came.
    “It’s always so good between us,” Linda whispered, sounding amazed. “Hasn’t it always been so good?”
    “You know it has,” Steve said. They were lying side by side on the bed, sharing a cigarette. He had the black, plastic ashtray
     from the nightstand balanced on his chest.
    “Steve?” she murmured, lightly tracing around his nipple with her fingernail.
    “Yeah?” he asked, exhaling smoke. As she tickled his nipple his cock stirred but stayed where it was: He wasn’t goddamned
     Superman, for chrissakes.
    “What would you say if I told you I was pregnant?”
    “Holy shit!” Steve sat bolt-upright, spilling the ashtray to the bed.
    “Hey!” Linda twisted away from the spilled ashes.
    “Are you? Are you pregnant?” he demanded, thinking guiltily of the times—like just now—when he’d made love to her bareback.
Just one more chance
, he prayed.
Get me out of this one, and I’ll never do it again
—
    “Of course I’m not pregnant,” Linda said, righting the ashtray and trying to scoop the ashes off the sheet. “I’d asked you
     what
if
.”
    “Well that was quite a scare you gave me,” Steve muttered, relieved.
    “Excuse
me
,” she replied, sounding pissed off.
    “What are you mad about?” Steve asked. He took the ashtray from her and ground out the cigarette.
    “Who said I’m mad?” Linda groused. “I’m not mad …”
    Steve shrugged.
    “Okay!” she blurted, moving away from him to sit cross-legged at the end of the bed. “Maybe I’m upset over how you reacted
     to my ‘what if.’ Like my being pregnant would be the worst thing in the world.”
    “Well, it’s not like we’re married,” Steve pointed out.
    “Well, maybe we should be,” Linda said carefully. “We’ve been together a lot this past year. And a lot’s changed … Like the
     fact that you’re going to leave the Air Force, even if you have been dragging your butt about doing’ it—”
    Steve frowned.
    “What?” Linda demanded. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
    Linda had been the only person outside of his family who he’d told about his decision to leave the military, and she’d been
     happy over the prospect of his coming back to L.A., but then Jack Horton had recruited him for the spy plane project. Since
     then, Steve had ben stalling Linda, making up all sorts of excuses to avoid telling her that he’d changed his mind. Putting
     her off hadn’t been difficult because she was so busy in her own career, going off on assignment for months at a time, and
     when they spoke on the telephone it was easy for Steve to rationalize that he ought to wait to tell her in person. Now, here
     she was. He knew he had to face the music.
    “Linda, there’s been a change. I’m staying in