an. Written for the 2022 TLS Valentine's Day Fest ❤︎
Another St. Augustine Universe compliant flashback. Tom pulls out every stop for their first Valentine's together.
.
.
1998
"Oh shit."
They'd been having a beautiful dinner, Tom thought, until that urgent and hushed proclamation ripped from Sasha's enticing red lips.
"Do not turn around."
And then she ducked her head and sank deeper into the seat, making business of admiring the glimmering, towering concrete jungle, dusted with snow, spread beyond the hotel's windows. There was but a single reason for Sasha to react this way.
"Who?"
"Bradford!" she whispered.
Well shit. Manhattan was the last place he'd expect to cross paths with the Chairman of Officer Accessions. Quite literally, the Captain who'd signed the final approval on his deferral.
"The hell is he doing here?"
The glare Sasha threw, Tom had to admit, was warranted. Stupid question. This was The Ritz-Carlton. It was Valentine's day. Bradford was doing exactly what they were; taking advantage of the occasion to spend the weekend away from Annapolis with preferred company. Just so happened Tom's big plans seemed to match Bradford's.
Whether he'd recognize Sasha, Tom couldn't be sure. Him, however? Ha. Not a chance in hell he'd skirt by. Bradford had approached personally after receiving two glowing recommendations detailing the belief that Tom was an 'otherwise exceptionally qualified candidate' whom the Navy could not afford to discount through a technicality. Like being a year above OCS selection requirements.
"Tom, what do we do?" she muttered.
"How far away is he sitting?"
Taking the wineglass, Sasha used most of it to obstruct her face while taking a deep and long sip. "Four tables back and he's facing us. Wife took the good seat."
Shit. Their evening had just begun. The empty plate which housed their appetizer hadn't even been cleared yet.
"You've never spoken to him, right?"
She squinted. "Not directly, no. But he's seen my face. He signs the applications…"
Tom's panic began receding. "He does, but he sees hundreds of those..."
Her mandible flexed where she bit down and raised her brows. "You wanna risk it?"
Did he? Yes. Should they? Probably not… but then again, he wouldn't have this happiness had he not chosen risk over responsibility and rules. Plus, what were the chances Bradford would recall her out of the thousand students attending the Naval Academy? Even if, in Tom's opinion, Sasha was unforgettable. Bradford, at most, had seen her formal portrait. Captured all the way back during Plebe Summer, wearing full dress and cover. While Tom would make that connection in a second, he was hedging bets that out of uniform, hair down, fully made-up in her current attire, Bradford wouldn't.
"Why not? Odds are in our favor, I doubt he'll recognize you just from seeing your file a couple of times. You submitted it a while ago…"
Those beautiful red lips tightened, but the set of her brow hinted agreement. "True, but what about you? There's no way he won't."
Tom smoothed the cotton napkin on his lap. "If he comes this way, go to the bathroom. If he asks who I'm with, I'll give him a fake name. As long as he doesn't see you up close, we should be good... Just don't come back until he's gone, and we'll leave separately."
She took a deep breath, and then drained what remained in her glass. The eye contact this time entwined with an energy. The one that burgeoned whenever they were about to do something career endingly reckless… like fucking on his desk after hours.
"Go big or go home, right?" There she was. The Sasha who never backed down from a challenge.
His lip tugged, eyes narrowed and spiked with warmth, and he took up the decanter to pour her another glass.
x x x
He almost hadn't made it to the door. She'd slipped out of the hotel's restaurant first, and only after standing himself, had Captain Bradford recognized him. A nod, of which Tom was more than happy to receive, return, and then leave. It appeared Bradford had the good sense to spend the evening paying attention to his wife, over mixing business; perfect where Tom was concerned. Then he'd walked out, after signing for whatever absurd charge would go on his credit card, and found her looming by the elevators. The doors were still actively closing when he'd pinned her against the wall. Attacked those lips that had driven him insane all night.
When forced to break for air—and to reach the bed—after reaching their floor, Sasha snorted.
"What?"
"You're wearing my lipstick." Reaching up, she wiped the smudges—or attempted to.
"And you're wearing too many clothes," he uttered, tugging on her hand.
The dress was stunning, but when the stupid tight zipper wouldn't comply, he considered ripping it off and seeking forgiveness later. While sex soon after eating was normally a no, the bottle of wine changed things. Or the part where she'd slipped off her heel to run a stocking-clad foot along his inner thigh beneath the tablecloth. He finally got the damn thing unstuck, knuckles brushing her back, before lightly dragging his fingers up over her prominent shoulder blades to slip the dress from her torso.
There was no bra, a thing he'd figured out the minute she'd emerged from the bathroom, but the delicate, black garter belt hidden by the sumptuous fabric was unexpected, and Tom didn't know he was into that until approximately three seconds ago. He'd been well on the way, but now things were rock solid, and he needed her.
"God, you're so beautiful." It was breathy, a thing he'd been thinking but not intending to speak. He held little delusion about his dangerous addiction to this. Her. What they were doing.
Also didn't care.
She turned and unbuttoned his shirt. Tugging it from his wristwatch when it caught. Made efficient work of his belt and pants but stopped him from retrieving the box from the nightstand.
"You don't need to."
Somehow, common sense prevailed, even though he was straining. "What?"
"I got an implant a few weeks ago. It should be good now…"
Oh.
Oh.
"Happy Valentine's," she whispered against his lips.
x x x
Tom had at least made it to the bathroom for a couple washcloths before collapsing again. She'd cleaned the red smudged all over their skin, and now boneless, they lay entangled. Face to face. Almost nose to nose.
Before she'd seen fit to insinuate herself into life, Tom hadn't known he craved this kind of intimacy. Didn't believe a woman could possess the power to strip his by existing. Usually he held back; kept some parts of himself hidden and guarded the way Sasha did, and he wasn't complaining. That's who she was, but tonight something had shifted. That softness he'd basked in on his parents' sofa was back, and it was gleaming. Radiating from her very being. He brushed his thumb against her temple, random, languid, and gentle. She smiled and skirted her fingers across the sharp angle of his jaw. He'd been as close to her as the physical body allowed—but it seemed other barriers were coming down.
"It was about you." Her voice came quiet and soothing. "The fight at Christmas, that's why I won't speak to them. They tried to tell me you're not good enough."
The latter didn't surprise him—anecdotally based on what she'd shared—Sasha's parents had a very clear vision of the life she should choose. A very esteemed one and had he been a politician's son, Tom was sure they'd approve. Often, he questioned how they'd created such a beautiful person at all.
"You know I don't care what they think of me—"
She cut him off, "But I do." At first, it smarted, felt like a barb until she kept talking. "I'm not keeping you from meeting them because I don't want that—I'm keeping you away because they don't deserve to."
Tom was almost terrified by what she'd just made him feel. A surge of poignant emotions he struggled to define. Love seemed inadequate; already established and shared those words, but he'd never been in this position before. A condition where he became convinced that his heart was no longer in his body, but in hers, beyond his control, and should anything happen to her, he didn't know what he'd do.
Her softness faltered, the beginnings of doubt clouding her eyes. "You're not saying anything…"
Snapped from his spiral, his features relaxed. "Move in with me," he murmured. It wasn't a question. "When we get to Rhode Island."
Her eyes shuttered left to right, sweeping his face, and the doubt slipped away just as smoothly as her cheek creased.
"Sounds like a plan."