Page 51 of I'll Keep Her Safe

Wyatt

How much more time can I spend around Poppy before I lose my mind? It’s like every time we talk, she reaches into this part of me that needs to feel cared for, that needs to feel seen. A part I didn’t even know existed. I don’t know how, but she sees it, and it makes me want more than I can ever have with her.

I can’t believe she bought us plane tickets to the West Coast, that she cares enough to encourage me to attend the awards show. My mind replays our conversation over and over as I try to drift off to sleep. I’m so glad she’s on board for the catering idea. The guys will love her food, I’m sure of it, and she’ll feel good about using her natural talents to make money. It blows my mind that anyone would try to talk her out of doing what she loves, and breaks my heart that Kurt did just that. And God, he made her lose her job…

I still want to kill him. I’ve never wanted to hurt another person in my life, but I want to hurt him like he hurt her. Worse. I almost wish I hadn’t promised her I wouldn’t do anything. He deserves everything he has coming to him—and more. But Poppy asked me to forget it, so I have to. At least, I have to try.

I had no idea I have such a wicked protective streak. I keep telling myself it’s because Poppy’s young, that I’m doing what I’d do for Bailey, but I know I’m kidding myself. My feelings for Poppy are anything but fatherly.

What she said the other night about it not being too late to be happy… I want to believe her.

And I want her to be the one I share that happiness with.

I roll over, groaning into my pillow. What am I even thinking? I haven’t wanted anything from a woman for years, and I’ve never wanted it this badly before, but Poppy seems to care for me in a way no one else has. She sees through my defenses, and I’m powerless to do anything but let her in.

The thing is, I know I can’t have her, that I’ll never be allowed to have her. She’s seventeen years younger than me, and Bailey would be appalled if I made a move on her friend.

And that’s before we even get to the fact that Poppy would probably be horrified if she knew I was having these thoughts about her.

Would she, though?

I think back to the way she threw the Brussels Sprout at my head last weekend, how her eyes flared with heat when I called her “young lady” and told her there would be trouble—almost as if shelikedthe idea. The way she looked at me tonight when I asked if she’d come to the awards show with me, when I told her it wasn’t a date, like I was convincing both of us. The way she pressed herself into me when we embraced…

God, I really don’t know. I don’t know what she’s thinking or how she’s feeling, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is looking after my daughter’s friend, making her feel safe after Kurt hurt her again. And the only way I can do that is if I’m not physically reacting to her all the time. To the way she moves around my kitchen in that apron, so perfect and pretty. Any man’s wet dream.

I’m wracked with shame as my hand circles my shaft under the covers. I shouldn’t jerk off to the thought of Poppy, but no matter how much I try to picture someone else, I can’t. All I can see is Poppy’s luscious curves, her beautiful red mouth.

How could Kurt be so blind to what he had? How could he be stupid enough to mistreat her? Why would he want to control her?

If she were mine, I’d worship her. She’d have no doubt about how much I adore her, about how sexy and funny and smart she is. I’d never let her question herself, never let her betray herself for anyone else, least of all me. I’d make sure she knows what a queen she is.

So that’s what I do. I imagine all the ways I’d worship her, make her feel good. Remind her what it means to be loved, to be wanted, to be seen for how fucking amazing she really is.

I imagine that when I came into the kitchen and found her baking this evening, instead of talking about that asshole and all the ways he’s hurt her, I focus on making her feel better. I grip my cock and stroke, pushing the guilt aside as the fantasy unfolds in my mind.

“Poppy,” I say, entering the kitchen. She’s in her apron, with a tray of cookies in her hand, flour smeared across her forehead. “What do you need, baby? How can I make you feel good?”

She sets the tray of cookies down as I cross the room. “I needyou, Wyatt.” Her dark eyes beg me to kiss her as she gazes up at me. “I’ve needed you for weeks.”

I take her lips in a slow, passionate kiss, sliding my hands into her hair. Her mouth is warm and sweet and perfect, just as I knew it would be, and she moans as I press her against the counter.

“Touch me,” she begs, taking my hand and placing it on her breast. Her nipples are stiff peaks beneath the fabric of her apron, and I tweak them lightly, enjoying her whimper.

Without wasting another second, I swipe a tray of cookies out of the way and hoist her onto the counter, spreading her legs. She’s not wearing any panties, and the heat pouring out of her is insane.

“You want me to touch you here?” I ask, and she nods breathlessly.

I slip a hand between her thighs and find her soaking wet with need.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter to myself now, slowing my strokes. If I’m not careful, I’ll come on my sheets before I get to the good part.

I drop to my knees in front of the counter, inhaling Poppy’s musky scent. It’s a struggle not to devour her instantly, but I glance up into her dark, hooded eyes, checking for her permission.

“You want me to lick your sweet little pussy?”

“Yes.” Her voice is a needy rasp that makes my cock throb. “Please.”

I swipe my tongue through the wet heat of her, savoring her flavor. She plunges her hands into my hair as I work my tongue through her slickness, sucking her clit until she’s shaking.

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