Page 54 of I'll Keep Her Safe

“Very nice,” he agrees.

My phone buzzes with a text, and I pull it out to check. It’s Daisy, sending a picture of her and Sugar snuggled on the sofa. Wyatt was right. She was shocked to learn what happened with Dave, and told me how disappointed she was that we wouldn’t be working together anymore. We’ve made plans to catch up when I’m back in the city, and she offered to watch Sugar while we were out of town.

I show the picture to Wyatt, who grins, then I slide the phone away and turn my attention back to the house. There’s a guest book on the counter with instructions for how to operate things like the hot tub—there’s a hot tub?—and what to enjoy in the local area, but what really catches my eye, in the scorching August heat, is the glimmering blue water of the pool through the glass doors.

“Do you think we could swim while we wait for the others?” I ask hopefully, and Wyatt shrugs.

“I don’t see why not.”

We grab our bags, heading to our rooms so we can change. Along the hall we find multiple large bedrooms, each with their own bathroom, and we separate to change into our bathing suits. I’m so excited by the huge four-poster bed and claw-foot tub that I don’t even consider how muchmoreexciting it will be to see Wyatt in his swimming trunks until we’re out by the pool.

And suddenly, the view over the valley pales to nothing. Not when I have Wyatt here, his complexion golden, nipple piercing glinting in the sun, ink covering the contours of his muscles like a map to his soul. Every tattoo has meaning, I’m sure, and I want to know them all.

Instead, I settle for removing the wrap around my hips and lowering myself onto a pool lounger. I’m in my favorite swimsuit: a shimmering emerald-green two-piece with white ruffles along the hem. It’s both cute and sexy, at least I think so, but what I really want to know is what Mr. Mathers thinks.

His gaze flashes on me, then away, as he pretends to study the pool. Or maybe he actually is studying it, I don’t know. It’s beautiful out here, the pool area paved with large slabs of stone, lavender bushes in planters beside us. They hum with bees, their flowers fragrant.

I force myself to focus on them while applying sunscreen to my face and body. Being a natural redhead, my skin burns easily, and as I rub the sunscreen over my legs, I wonder if I can use that to my advantage.

“Wyatt?” I ask, shielding my eyes from the sun so I can see him properly. He stands at the edge of the pool, hands on his hips, that massive tree tattoo spreading across his back. I want to get up and touch the leaves, feel the way they dip over the muscles and tendons under his skin, like I did when I massaged his sore back. I didnotmake the most of touching him when I had the chance.

He glances over at me, shielding his eyes, too. “Yeah?” he chokes out.

“Would you mind…” I hold out the sunscreen and motion to my shoulders. “I can’t quite reach.”

He stares at me, unmoving.

Ah, maybe I’m pushing him too much. I don’t want to make him uncomfortable.

I shake my head, setting the sunscreen on the table beside the lounger. “Don’t worry.” As long as I don’t turn over, I’ll be fine.

Wyatt exhales long and hard, then strides over, picking up the bottle. “You’ll burn in this sun,” he admonishes, and in that moment he really does sound like a father. “Turn around.”

I wriggle around on the lounger so my back is to him, and he lowers himself behind me. The sunscreen makes a squelching sound as he squirts it into his palm. Then there’s a long pause where nothing happens. I sweep my hair over one shoulder and glance back to find him staring at my back, his jaw locked. I’m about to ask if he’s okay, when his hand meets my shoulder. It’s nothing at first, just the gentle movement of his fingertips as they massage sunscreen into my back. His movements are stiff and awkward—mechanical, almost. Like he’s trying to touch me without touching me.

But something happens when his hands move lower. He lets out a long-held breath and his hand melts into my skin, cupping the curve of my waist. There’s something about feeling the warmth of his palm spread over me that forces me to swallow a moan. When he shuffles closer, and his breath fans over the back of my neck, the heat that’s simmered in my belly for hours bursts into flame.

Then his hand leaves my skin, and I almost shiver, despite the heat. It can’t be over. I need more.

“All done,” he says, in a voice so low and rough I almost don’t recognize it. Shit, he’s as turned on as I am.

“Uh,” I begin, grasping for something to say that will keep him touching me. “Could you…”

I swing my legs under me and shuffle down on the lounger, so I’m lying on my stomach. The bottom half of my bikini is a G-string that exposes my ass, and his eyes trace the curve of my backside. I fight the urge to grin triumphantly.

“Would you do the back of my legs, too?” I’m playing with fire, I know that. I have a much more modest bathing suit I could have worn, but I chose this one intentionally.

Wyatt freezes beside me, his reluctance to take this further clear, but I can feel something else. Heat, rolling off him in waves. The way he’s pulsing with energy that needs to discharge somewhere, somehow.

He rises from the lounger, and just when I think he’s about to walk away, he lowers himself to kneel on the stone beside me. The sunscreen squelches again, and his warm hands meet the backs of my thighs.

Holy shit.

He’s using both hands now, one on each thigh, and he’s not kidding around—fingers firm on my flesh, thumbs sweeping up my inner thighs. I can’t help myself—I lift my ass ever so slightly, urging him higher. His hands follow, as if they’ve got a mind of their own.

“Like that?” he rasps, and before I can stop it, a whimper slips from my mouth. I cringe, expecting him to stop, but it seems to encourage him. His thumbs sweep higher, closer to the spot I’m aching for him to touch, the spot that’s already wet despite me having been nowhere near the pool.

“Poppy?” he says, as if seeking permission, and I nod.

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