Page 31 of Fly Boy
My mouth waters as my eyes lower. I’ve put up a good fight... For months. Sure, I might stare at her a little too long, but it’s never salacious. Or at least, never when she’s been scantily dressed, her body on full display under the moonlight that bounces off the water around her, the dark blue of her wet bikini top doing nothing to hide the hard peaks of her nipples.
I want them in my mouth. I want to lick them, suck them, bite them until she cries out in pleasure, her nails scratching into the back of my head as she pulls my hair.
My dick twitches, pulse spiking as I realize it’s within arm's reach. Phillipa wants me. That’s not me being cocky or arrogantor big-headed. It’s a fact. Each encounter is shamelessly laced with flirtation, toeing a line she shouldn’t, chipping away slowly at my resolve.
After all, cracks make craters, and all I’d need to do is glide forward, wind my arm around her waist, pull her flush against my body, and lower my head.
“You are full of surprises, Wyatt Grant,” she muses. Standing out of the water, she tugs the tie out of her hair. It falls, cascading around her shoulders and rivulets run down her pale skin, goosebumps scattering across her chest as steam billows off her body.
She’s a siren, casting a spell and luring unsuspecting men into danger. And the only poor sucker to be affected by it is me.
“I’ve always wanted a tattoo,” Phillipa continues, unaware of what she’s doing to me. I drag my stare away from her breasts to her face, and her lips curve into a smile, the gray in her eyes so dark they’re almost black. She lifts a hand, trailing it over her collarbone, slow and seductive as she brushes her hair over her shoulder. “But I don’t know what I’d get.”
“It should be something meaningful,” I croak. This I can do, this I can talk about. Tattoos are my life. And most of all, they’re a safe topic. “At least that’s what I think.”
“Do each of yours mean something?” she asks, tilting her head questioningly as she lightly traces patterns with her fingers on the surface of the water. The gentle trickling sound almost stifles my already overstimulated senses, and I swallow, nodding. Her smile widens. “Every single one?”
“Every single one,” I repeat, my voice hoarse.
“That’s amazing.” Sighing, she sinks enough to submerge her shoulders underwater before rising again so the bottom of her bikini top rests on top of the water. “I’ve always wanted one here…” She fingers under one of her breasts. “A quote or lyrics or something. So much of my life revolves around my routines, so asong could be good.” She shrugs. “Either way, I thought it would look sexy, and no one would see it unless…” she trails off, letting the unspoken words hang there, heavy and loud.
Unless we were fucking.
It might not be the exact way she was going to finish her sentence, but I heard her implication, and now, that’s all I can think about. Her on top of me, her tits in my hands, my thumb brushing over the ink that’s newly healed on her skin.
Boss’s daughter.
Two words, and the pool water plummets in temperature, snapping me out of my lust-fueled haze.
“Tattoos aren’t for everyone,” I say, glancing at the space behind her that leads back into the spa. All I’d need to do is swim around, and I can get out.
“Like massages,” she hums.
My gaze snaps to hers, my spine going rigid. “I guess.”
“Why did you leave, Wyatt?” Her tone is knowing, like she’s fully aware of what happened in that room. I inhale slowly, my eyes never leaving hers. Inching closer, she wets her lips. “That was my way of saying thank you for being so nice when we landed.”
“Miss Cartwright,” I warn, my gaze darting around, trying not to look at her. But she’s a magnet, drawing me back each time.
“Pippa,” she murmurs. “Pleasecall me Pippa.”
One name and it has the power to change everything.
“I shouldn’t,” I reply, edging away from her. I need to keep that professional boundary visible. For both our sakes. But with each step I take back, she matches it, closing the gap I’m desperate to create.
“Why not?” The question is much more loaded than a simple one about her name. That pink tongue peeks out again, and I track the movement as it glides across her lower lip. “We both want this.” Her words are breathy as she gestures betweenus, her fingers trembling ever-so-slightly, giving away that she might not be as bold as her words convey. “I’m not stupid. I see the way you look at me.”
Something similar to fear—or nerves, maybe—flickers in her eyes, but it’s gone in her next blink. Yet I latch onto the way her body betrays her with both hands. “Phillipa…”
“I haven’t felt like this before, the way I feel when I’m around you. You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met.”
She thinks she knows what she wants and could handle the fallout if we were to do this. But she’s skating on thin ice, unaware that it’s splintering in her wake. The mask that Phillipa uses to hide behind—the glances, the smiles, the cheeky words—is nothing but armor, and I can see through it.
I need to show her that she’s not in control, that she is in way over her head.
“You’re right,” I say, the admission both sweet and sour on my tongue. Her eyes pop wide, her steps slipping on the pool floor. “I want you. I’ve wanted you from the second you walked onto your father’s plane, and I’ve wanted you every day since.”
Her lips part on a quiet breath, her cheeks growing pink, even in the blue light that surrounds us. This time, it’s me who steps forward, like a predator stalking its prey, a role she so easily falls into.
