Page 32 of Fly Boy
We do the dance she started, step for step, until her back reaches the side of the pool. She bumps against it, gasping. Lifting her hands out of the water, she places them on my pecs, her touch burning my skin, the tingles worse than any needle.
I want it. I need it. But I can’t have it.
Yet I allow myself this tiny piece. Enough to sate the thirst I’ve never been able to quench and prove to her that what she feels is no more than a schoolgirl crush.
I find her hips beneath the water, my fingers curling around them like they belong there. She shudders, her eyes flutteringshut for the briefest of seconds before they snap open like she doesn’t want to miss a moment of this.
I’m aching, throbbing, desperate to push against her, let her feel exactly what she does to me. My hands slide up the sides of her body, a soft moan seeping out from her lips when I reach the spot she teased me with before. My thumb brushes along the curve, imagining the ink permanently placed on her beautiful, unmarked skin.
“Wyatt,” she whispers, her gaze dropping to my lips, waiting for me to kiss her.
I lean forward, pushing a leg between hers, pressing against her hot, bikini-clad pussy, hating how much I like this, how I’m taking it much further than I intended. She sucks a sharp breath when I move closer, our chests almost touching.
The rumble in her throat practically vibrates into my skin as she tips her head back, exposing the expanse of her neck. I could do it. I could lean down and kiss, suck, bite her throat, grind her on my thigh until she came.
Her fingers flex, digging into my pecs as I bring my lips to her ear, the faint smell of the massage oil still lingering on her skin as I whisper, “Don’t play games you can’t win, little girl.”
Chapter Twelve
One second, Wyatt ispressed against me, the feel of his hands on my skin electric, and the next, he’s across the pool, hauling himself out of the water. Inch by glorious inch is exposed as he pulls himself onto the edge, water splashing around him as he stands.
When he said he knew what was on every part of him, I didn’t expectthis.No space is untouched apart from his face, neck, hands, and feet.
The man is a literal walking piece of art I want to study, major in, and become an expert on.
My heart races, feeling like it might burst, as I sag against the side of the pool. I’m transfixed, watching him go, stuck in the water like a vat of glue, unable to do anything but stare, my mind complete mush.
Shoving a hand through his hair, he storms toward the door, his bare feet slapping with each step like booming drums inside my ears. The door closes behind him, the pool area becoming eerily silent as I blink at the spot where Wyatt disappeared. My legs shake with a mixture of adrenaline and arousal pumping through my veins. A gentle breeze against my clit would cause me to detonate.
He barely touched me, barely grazed where I’d teased him about a tattoo, yet I felt more alive than I ever have in my entire life. And then his thigh. Oh, to all the sexy tattooed-covered gods above… Hockey players on Team USA don’t have muscles like that.
So then, what the hell happened? I was there. I’m not blind. Hewantedme.
Hetoldme.
I kick out my feet, letting myself sink into the pool, the water submerging me as I shut my eyes and hold my breath. Why is he fighting this? I know what he did. He tried to turn it around, tried to prove that I couldn’t handle what he could give me.
But he is wrong.
So damn wrong.
My mouth opens, and bubbles rush out as I scream, the sound muffled by the water. I’m frustrated. Not only do I have the world's worst case of blue balls, I have no idea what to do about it. He’s only made my attraction worse.
Sure, at first, it was superficial. Months of teasing here and there just to get a rise from the uber-stoic and professional Captain Grant. But now I’ve seen behind the curtains he keeps shut tight.
The worry in his gaze when we landed, the chivalrous side of him carrying my bags, the protectiveness of him wanting to take the bed by the front door. The fact that every tattoo on hissculpted bodymeanssomething to him and is not just a generic drawing that lacks emotion.
He’s piqued my curiosity, unlocked this need to know him in a way that’s more than the man who flies my plane.
Discomfort lodges inside my chest, and it’s not because I’ve been submerged for a while, pushing my lung capacity to its limits. It twinges and sort of reminds me of when I was younger and was…
Holy shit. It’s a sensation I haven’t felt since my mom passed away, when my dad stopped uttering the word ‘no.’ It’s a sensation I get every time I can’t stick a landing on the ice. It’s how I feel when I don’t get something I desperately want.
God, I really am a brat.
I’m laughing as I break through the surface, gulping in air and panting at the night sky. I’m determined, as determined as I am when I’m skating.
Wyatt Grant, I’m coming for you.
