Page 52 of I'll Keep Her Safe

“Fuck me, Wyatt, please.”

Again, I have to slow the movements of my hand. Just imagining Poppy begging me to fuck her makes my balls draw up tight. What I wouldn’t give to hear her say those words for real.

In my head, she slides off the counter and takes my face, kissing me hard. Her tongue tangles with mine, making my blood burn hot. Then she turns around, lifting her skirt and poking her bare ass out as she leans over the counter. I slide a hand across the soft curve of her ass, using my other hand to free myself from my jeans, checking again that she’s okay with what I’m doing.

God, even in my fantasy I can’t help but treat her right.

“You sure you want this, pretty girl?” I ask, teasing her wet, swollen entrance with my fingertips.

She looks back at me over her shoulder, eyes smoldering. “More than I’ve ever wanted anything.”

Fuck me.

I grip her hips and thrust into the tight heat of her. As I tug my cock, I have to be careful not to cry out at the imagined sensation of Poppy’s pussy gripping me. Nothing could ever feel better.

“Oh, God,” she whimpers, pressing back into me. I slide my arms around her middle, loving how close we are. Then I pull out and slam back in, sending a nearby tray of cookies clattering to the ground. Neither of us cares.

“You like that, baby? My cock deep inside you?”

“Yes.” She twists her neck to kiss me as I grind into her. “Harder. Fuck me harder.”

Shit, I’m so close, pumping my dick fast at the thought of fucking Poppy, that I’m not even sure we’ll make it to the end.

Another hard thrust, then another. I love the sight of her breasts bouncing under her apron, and I drag my mouth over that soft spot right below her ear as she pants out my name, saying, “Yes, Wyatt. I’m coming so hard.”

And before I can reach for a tissue, I explode into my hand, onto my sheets, imagining what her face would look like as she comes, how her pussy would feel clenching around my cock. I’m not even sure I muffle my moan, I’m so lost in the fantasy, but it’s the hardest I’ve come in forever. Shit, I can’t even remember the last time I jerked off.

It only takes a few seconds for the sweet afterglow of my orgasm to give way to shame. I jerked off to the thought of fucking Poppy, in her apron in the kitchen, like a depraved creep. I’d sworn I wouldn’t let myself do that, but that promise went right out the window. As I wipe the sticky mess from my hands and rise to change my sheets, anger burns through me. Anger at myself. How could I do something so wrong? How could I justify it?

The only consolation is that Poppy will never know. And more importantly, my daughter will never know. She’ll never know the things I pictured doing to Poppy.

She’ll never know that I’m falling in love with her best friend.

20

Poppy

“So, I kind of forgot,” I say, as I buckle myself into my seat on board our flight to Sacramento, “but I’m not a great flier.”

Wyatt waves this away. “You’ll be fine.” He shoves his bag into the overhead compartment, then wedges himself into the seat beside me, and it reminds me what a big guy he is when I see his knees jammed into the back of the row in front.

I grimace. “I should have gotten us better seats.” Though, in all fairness, I got the best seats I could afford at the last minute.

He places his hand on my arm. “These seats are perfect.” I direct a wry smile to his cramped legs, and he laughs. “I’m used to it.” Then he withdraws his hand, and I have to fight the urge to ask him to put it back. To comfort me through the upcoming ordeal.

I don’t know how I forgot what a terrible flier I am. I guess since I haven’t been on a plane in years, it was easy to forget. That, and I was so eager to do this for Wyatt that I let myself overlook it.

But now, as the crew announces what we’ll need to do in the event of an emergency, my gut roils with nerves. I mean, it’s not a great start is it, focusing on the absolute worst-case scenario? Why not spend a little time riffing on how wonderful our destination is first to ease us into it?

You’ll be fine.

I repeat Wyatt’s words, but they don’t stick. To distract myself, I fiddle with the in-flight magazine, flipping aimlessly through the pages, but by the time we’re taxiing down the runway, I can hardly breathe.

We’re going to die. I know we are. I’m going to die without telling Bailey about the business. Without getting to kiss Wyatt.

That’s what stings the most, actually.

This past week, I’ve focused on getting ready to test the catering idea with his crew next week, and even though I’m still livid at what Kurt did, I refuse to let it stop me.

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