Page 58 of Fly Boy
Digging my knees into the bed, I lean up, pushing him down, his hands coming to my breasts, taking one in each.
“Who knew Wyatt Grant looked so good on his back?”
He growls, bucking off the bed, and I squeal, panting with each new sensation, my eyes fluttering closed as my head tips back. My thighs burn, sweat coating my body as I writhe on top of him, my hand finding his lower abs, helping me balance, while the other explores, reaching behind to play with his balls.
His sounds are erotic, the moaning and groaning in my hotel room only growing louder. Leaning slightly forward, I reach up, my back bowing as I drag my hands through my hair, the long strands winding in my fingers as I grind my clit against his pubic bone. Jolts of pure arousal fuel my movements, my hips rolling and circling as I ride him like he asked. All I’m missing is a cowboy hat to hold above my head.
“Fuck, Pippa,” Wyatt rasps, urging me on as he snakes his hands around my back, his fingers biting into my ass cheeks that it’s sure to bruise. “Take my cock, baby.”
It’s never been like this with anyone else before. It’s never been so raw and wild. My inhibitions and reservations about maintaining my mask are gone when I’m with him, and that scares me, especially when I look down, finding his hooded gaze on me.
He reaches up, clutching the back of my neck and drags me down, our mouths coming together in a violent clash of teeth and tongues. I can taste myself on his lips, something that should be gross, considering where he’d been moments ago, but it only heightens my arousal.
Wyatt’s all about stealth as he flips me over, somehow keeping us connected, and fucks me with a fervor like no other. He grabs my thigh, pushing it up until he’s got me in a split, my leg flat against my shoulder.
“Jesus fuck,” he growls. “Look at you.” His thumb finds my clit, rubbing it madly as he pumps harder. “I want you to come like this so bad, bent in two, taking my cock so well.”
“Wyatt,”I whimper, my body trembling, knowing at any second I will if he continues his assault with his fingers.
“Squeeze me, Pippa. Squeeze this pretty cunt around my cock, milk me for everything you’ve got.”
There are no words, no sounds, as he pinches my clit between his thumb and forefinger, thrusting hard enough that I move up the bed. I grip his shoulders, my nails digging into his skin, leaving marks I wish could be as permanent as his ink as I come with a choked scream, spasming around him, triggering his own orgasm.
His head buries into my neck, grunts and groans filling my ears. He releases my leg, my muscles aching as I lay it straight, hooking it around his waist at the last second, keeping himinside me. I can feel the periodic twitches of his cock as we breathe together, our bodies aligned, the feeling on his heart beating in his chest matching mine.
Wrapping my arms around him, I trail my fingers down his spine, feeling the way his muscles jump under my touch. He shivers, his breath puffing against my shoulder as I hold him, until faintly I hear, “I’m so fucked.”
My fingers still, just a fraction, not enough that he’d notice I’ve heard him. Because I did, and the thing is… I’m fucked, too.
Chapter Twenty-One
“Favorite soda?”
I turn my head slowly to look at Pippa, my face impassive as she smiles at me from across the bed. HerRockyalarm tone went off thirty minutes ago, a five a.m. wake-up call not the best when falling asleep at one, after hours of fucking her into the mattress.
“Really? Out of everything you could ask, you ask that?”
“It’s called pillow talk,” she deadpans, rolling onto her stomach, making her tits push up.
I link my hands behind my head, using its weight to stop myself from reaching over and running the tip of my finger over the swell like I want to. I should be satisfied. I had them in my hands for long enough last night that I shouldn’t need more, but apparently, I’m a glutton for her.
“It’s what people sometimes do after sex, Wyatt. So answer the question.”
“Your pillow talk needs some work, Pippa,” I say, looking up at the ceiling. “Soda’s soda, I don’t have a favorite.”
She playfully slaps a hand on my stomach, leaving it there as she shifts closer. “Okay then, since you’re such an expert, you ask me something.”
“Why skating?” I say without missing a beat.
I glance at her from the corner of my eye, watching as she chews on her lip. She’s quiet for a few minutes, and I worry it’s something I shouldn’t have asked. The feeling multiplies when, instead of answering, she starts to follow the outline of Apollo’s Chariot on my right pec.
“Apollo’s job was to pull the sun across the sky,” I tell her as she fixates on it, breaking the awkward tension I created. “Sometimes I feel like that’s what I’m doing when I’m flying.”
She looks at me from under her lashes, her lips twitching at the sides.
“I skate because of my mom.” She pauses, and I wait for her to continue as her eyes return to my chariot. “She was a semi-professional skater, and I was obsessed with her—the way she moved on the ice, how beautiful she looked, how easy she made it seem.” A soft smile lightens her face. “She bought my first set of skates when I was three…” Pippa’s gaze darts to mine, twinkling as she says, “If you think those pink ones were bad, these were bright yellow, with gold stars, and I think there was a moon on it or something.” Shaking her head, she dislodges the memory. “She taught me everything until she died.” With a rough swallow, she moves her touch to a different tattoo. “I was eight.”
Shifting my hands from behind my head, I cover hers with mine and press them against my tightening chest. While ourstories might not be the same, I do understand her loss. “I’m sorry.”
