Fly Boy (Not Suitable For Work #3)

Chapter One

October

“Your captain has turned on the seat belt sign. Please ensure they are fastened and your tray tables are stowed away. We’re about to experience some turbulence.”

My hips stutter, my momentum faltering as I stare up at the beautiful girl on top of me pretending to be a flight attendant. Throwing her head back, her long blonde hair tumbles around her as she releases a loud moan.

“Make the contents of my cabin shift around, Captain Grant.” She drags her hands up her stomach, stopping when she reaches her tits, playing with her nipples, and her eyelids flutter. Fingers digging into her thighs, my body tingles with sweat and embarrassment as she continues to ride me like I’m her personal joystick.

“More thrust,” Rebecca groans. Leaning forward, her hands land on my chest as she bounces harder with an added twisted motion. “We need more thrust.”

“What?” I grunt out, my eyebrows knitting together, well and truly confused.

She blinks, giving me an isn’t it obvious? look before panting, “Get on top, Captain.”

Right. Could she not have just said that?

Flipping her over, she gasps as I push back inside, the angle different and hitting her exactly where I need to finish this off. Never again am I telling a woman my occupation. It used to be funny—a cheeky pilot innuendo here and there—but when you’ve heard one, you’ve heard them all.

“You are cleared for landing,” she cries, her back bowing off the bed, hands fisting the sheet. My molars ache as I grind them together, my dick vehemently trying to ignore her euphemisms.

Quickening my pace, I piston my hips like I’m a damn machine. I lift a hand to grip the headboard, bracing myself as I pump harder, the frame banging against the back wall in time with my movements and her never-ending wails.

“Captain, captain, caaaaaptain.”

She slaps a hand to my pec as she comes. Incoherent screams and moans fill my room, loud and echoing like she’s trying to wake up my neighbors.

It’s nearly five in the morning, for fuck’s sake.

With one more thrust, the whole ordeal is over, and I finish with a snarl, filling the condom with my release, some of my dignity joining it. Leaning my damp forehead on my outstretched arm, my eyes fall shut as I catch my breath. Delicate fingers trail up and down my sides, the sensation soft, soothing, sweet.

“You’re a very bad man, Captain Grant. If anyone were to find out, you’d be in trouble.”

“What?” I snap, rearing back, my body instantly hit with a cold wash of fear.

Rebecca smiles as her hand falls away and drops to my mattress. “I said that was the best sex I’ve ever had.”

I stare down at the woman in my bed, someone so vastly different from the one whose voice just flooded my mind.

“Next time, I want to pretend I’m the naughty air hostess, and you’re fucking me in the cockpit.”

In your dreams, sweetheart. It’s not like there’s enough space for me to even do that. Certainly, the plane I fly isn’t big enough. It would be awkward and sore, and one of us would get a cramp… And why am I getting hung up on the semantics of a fictitious scenario when my heart is beating so fast that, at my age, I could worry about it being a sign of a heart condition?

I swallow, brushing off her inaccurate fantasy. But the voice still echoing inside my mind is harder to ignore. It was too lifelike, too real, like she is the one here with me, not Rebecca.

But it’s just a reprimand coming from my guilty conscience, mutating and morphing to sound exactly like the girl I shouldn’t be thinking of, designed to drive me insane.

“Sure, whatever.”

Sliding out of her body and off my bed, I make my way to the bathroom to discard the used condom and get ready for work.

Next time won’t be happening.

This time was a mistake, too.

Reaching into the shower, I turn on the faucet, letting the water warm up for a minute before stepping inside. Heat rains down my head and over my body, the scalding realization that I no longer want to do this just as potent as the water.

Sex used to be fun. Sex used to be sweaty and hot and downright dirty, my partner for the night coming more times than I could count, leaving my home satisfied and sated and sore in all the right ways. Only now, I’m left feeling dirty and unsatisfied, each time spent with a different woman ending the same way—her walking like a cowboy and me hating myself more and more.

Especially when the image of someone unobtainable and off-limits crosses my mind, lingering there, taunting me, wriggling and writhing, only getting worse each time I try to squash it.

Frustration gnaws at my insides as I reach for the shampoo and lather up my hair. Maybe I need a hiatus, a break from sex, go without it for long enough that the next time I’m with a woman, my systems have rebooted, and it’s back to what it used to be—scorching, sizzling, sinful fun with a pretty face and a nice rack.

Cursing under my breath, I finish up, my chest gleaming with water as I switch off the shower and step out to dry off. Walking back into my bedroom, towel wrapped around my waist, Rebecca’s gaze heats as it travels down my bare stomach, propping herself up on an elbow.

“Coming back to bed, Captain?” she purrs, dragging her hand lazily over the empty side of the queen-sized mattress. Shaking my head, I continue to my closet and pull a clean white shirt from the hanger before sliding my arms inside.

“I’ve gotta get to work,” I say as I open a drawer and take out a pair of boxer briefs. I hear the bed creak as I drop the towel, letting it collect around my feet. Quickly, I shove on the underwear and the pair of black suit pants I’ve draped over a chair.

“Are you sure? Maybe you could call in sick?”

I eye her as I move to my dresser, lifting the epaulets and tie from the top and quickly adding them to the shirt. Sliding in the silver cufflinks, the shiny CO for Cartwright Oil twinkles as I fasten them to each buttonhole.

“Sorry.”

I turn to find Rebecca pouting, the bedsheet wrinkled around her waist and her perky tits on full display. She runs a finger across one of her nipples in a clear invitation, and I bite back a groan of frustration.

I don’t have time for this.

Continuing my pre-work routine, I grab the pair of overpriced black dress shoes imported from London and go over to the bed.

“Boo, I thought we could have gone for breakfast,” she whines as I sit on the end to tug on my socks. The mattress dips behind me as she shuffles forward, pressing her chest against my back. She huffs in annoyance as I shrug off her touch, bending down to push my feet into my shoes and tie the laces.

“It’s nearly five-thirty in the morning, Rebecca. Nowhere would be open.”

“I’m sure we could find a twenty-four-hour diner or something.” Her fingers walk up my spine, each press against the cotton of my shirt, sparking irritation.

“There’s nothing like that here.” I stand, walking back to my dresser to grab my belt.

I don’t know why I’m arguing with her. Just say no. Tell her to get dressed—end of discussion. The buckle jingles as I feed it through the loops on my pants, her eyes glued to my every move before she throws back the bedsheet. She stands, revealing her entire naked body, her hair tousled as she sashays closer.

“Maybe I could come back when you’re home, and we can go for another round?”

“No can do,” I tell her, turning to grab my watch.

“Why?” she presses.

“Because…” I pause halfway through closing the clasp on the strap. Typically, the women I take home are on board with our just-for-tonight arrangement, yet she's changed her tune somewhere between leaving the restaurant bar last night and now. I look around the room and say the first thing that comes to mind. “Because this isn’t my house.”

She recoils as I blink, dumbfounded by the most idiotic thing I could have said. “What? Whose is it then?”

My attention darts to the small framed image hanging on the wall just over her head, the five happy people in the picture smiling back at me. I zone in on one person and say, “My brother’s.”

“Your brother’s?” she asks skeptically and takes a step back. Her narrowed eyes flick to the closed wardrobe. “Then why were all of your clothes hanging in the closet?”

“Because he lets me stay here when I’ve got night stops,” I explain quickly.

Damn. That’s the fastest I’ve ever thought before.

“What the hell, Wyatt. You told me you’re based at Westchester County Airport.” She glares at me when I don’t answer. “Oh my god, are you even a pilot? Or do you wear that costume to get women to sleep with you?”

For some reason, that makes me bristle. Do I look like a man who’d need a character just to get himself laid?

“Rebecca…” I begin, but she snarls at me like a cat hissing in anger.

“You’re a real asshole, you know that?” She flies across my room, snatching her dress off my floor. Covering the front of her body, she marches for the door, turning back just as she reaches it. “Fuck you.”

I wince as the door slams behind her, smacking harshly in the doorjamb. It ricochets back open, and I hear her footsteps thundering as she descends the stairs. Then, a second slam as she tears out of my house.

Walking over to my bedroom window, I peel back the curtains. The early morning sun casts a soft glow of yellow across the tops of the neighborhood houses, and I watch as Rebecca hops on one foot, haphazardly dressed, angrily shoving on her shoe. She pulls out her phone from her purse, which she must have left downstairs, to call a friend or, presumably, get an Uber.

Lifting it to her ear, she looks back toward the house and glares when our eyes meet, her middle finger thrusting sharply in the air. Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she storms down the pathway toward the quiet street. Thankfully, it's too early for my neighbors to be out to see the irate woman pausing and kicking the wooden post at the end of my lawn, the red mailbox wobbling on the spot.

I let the curtain flutter back into place, shaking my head as I go downstairs. The house is quiet, the soft hum from the fridge the only sound as I walk into the kitchen. From across the counter, my phone buzzes, dancing across the granite with each vibration.

“You’re up early,” I say in greeting, tugging the device from the charging cable.

“And so are you,” my brother replies.

Opening a cabinet, I grab my mug and pod, holding my cell between my shoulder and ear as I begin to make my morning coffee. “Considering I start every Friday at this time, that isn’t surprising.”

Slotting the little disk into the top of the machine, I press the start button, and it whirs to life.

“Man, your shift pattern sucks. Working the entire weekend, only to be off Tuesday through Thursday? What if you wanted to go away for the weekend?”

“Then I request the time off like everyone else,” I reply sarcastically. “I’m not the only one on Mr. Cartwright’s flight crew.”

“Could you not swap rosters? It’s just shitty that your workweek starts when most people’s end.”

“I practically work three days a week, Bowie. Turn around trip to Colorado on Friday. Back and forth to Lake Placid Saturday. Then another Colorado trip Monday morning. And the odd one midweek if Mr. Cartwright needs to go somewhere last minute.”

“That sounds so boring.”

“Hey, it stops me from going out to a bar every Friday and Saturday night to pick up women.”

“Instead of that restaurant you always seem to find them at? Y’know, the one that the owners only need to see you walk through the door, and they start making the same damn thing you eat every time you go there?” Bowie snorts.

“I do not order the same thing each time I go there,” I argue with a roll of my eyes. “And they do not know who I am just because I’ve been there a few times.”

“Whatever, dude. I heard they’re going to put a plaque on a seat at the bar dedicated especially to you.” Bowie barks a laugh down the phone. “So what happened last night? End up leaving with a dessert you didn’t order?”

Leaning on the edge of the counter, I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I swear, sometimes I don’t know if I’m talking to you or Teddy. But yeah, you’re not wrong. I popped into Giannino’s for my usual, ” I say, emphasizing the last word, earning a snicker from Bowie. “And didn’t leave alone.”

“I knew it,” he says triumphantly. “So…”

I blow a long and tired breath through my lips. “I think I might be getting too old for one-night stands.”

Bowie’s chuckle tickles my ear. “That bad, huh? I thought playboys like you never got too old for them. It’s like the Peter Pan Syndrome or whatever.”

“Don’t think that’s what it is, Bowie,” I say, going to the fridge. Lifting a carton of milk from the door, I turn it around and stare at the use-by date. “I can still use milk if it’s three days past its expiration date, right?”

“Sniff it.”

“I’m not sniffing it,” I balk. Closing the door with my foot, I pour a healthy amount into my drink before throwing the rest down the sink. “I’ll just hope for the best.”

“Why are you letting it expire? Isn’t milk like a fridge staple?” Pulling out a drawer, I grab a spoon and stir my coffee as Bowie continues. “Oh, wait. I forgot. You’re a perpetual bachelor, so you probably never use all of it anyway.”

I frown. “I’m not a—”

“Are you using your World's Greatest Pilot mug right now?” he asks, and I pause, the text on said mug catching my eye as I bring it halfway to my lips.

“No.”

He huffs a laugh. “Don’t bullshit me, dude. You have two mugs; that one and one you barely use because it doesn’t hold the right amount of caffeine you like to guzzle in the morning.”

“That’s a—”

“And...” he interrupts again, his voice teasing, “you have, like, two of everything else. Two plates, two forks, two knives. There’s no wonder you never have guests, Wyatt. You don’t have anything for them to use if you were to feed them.”

“Fuck you, man. You’re making me sound like a sad loser.”

“If the shoe fits…”

“I’m practical. I don’t need multiples of things when it’s just me here half the time because the other half, I’m flying.”

I can almost feel his shrug down the line. “Except for when you’ve had one-night stands.”

And even then, they never stay for coffee in the morning.

“So, what happened with this girl?”

With a groan, I take a large mouthful of the smooth, dark roast before I start. “Nothing. She was perfectly lovely, perfectly sweet. We had a nice time.”

“But?”

“But I’m getting too old for this,” I say for the second time, yet it still doesn’t feel as right as I thought it would. It’s like it’s an excuse for the funk I’m in. Which should not be happening. I’m in the prime of my life, for fuck’s sake.

“Seriously? I always thought you could give Teddy a run for his money with how many women you take home. It’s like you guys were in competition or something.”

“He could never beat me,” I joke, then frown at the odd brag. But I can’t help the smile that breaks out when I think about our youngest brother. “Maybe when I was his age and before he met his wife, but now…”

I sigh, letting the thought die as I sip my coffee.

“Now you’re ready to settle down, too.”

I blanch, nearly spitting the hot liquid across the kitchen floor. “Hell no. But thirty-nine and sleeping around sounds…” Sad? Pathetic? Technically, I don’t sleep with every woman who floats my way anymore. And before Rebecca, it had been three months since I’d last hooked up.

“You’re a very bad man, Captain Grant.”

It’s that. That voice, that longing, that thing that has the power to destroy everything I’ve built for myself. Never in my whole flying career have I been tempted in the way I am with her. An attraction that came out of nowhere. An attraction I can’t stop. An attraction that makes no sense, yet she’s the one person I can’t stop thinking about.

My boss's daughter.

Checking my watch, I drain the remainder of my drink, set the mug in the sink, and grab my car keys and flight bag. “Sorry, I need to head to work.”

“Not to worry,” Bowie replies, and I suddenly stop short, my hand on the front door handle.

“Shit, did you call for something? I just realized I made it all about me.”

My brother is quiet on the other end of the line for a beat. “Nah, it’s all good. Just wanted to speak to my favorite brother.”

Stepping outside, I turn and lock my door, chuckling as I say, “I’m going to tell Teddy you said that.”

“You do, and I’m denying it.”

Unlocking my vintage Range Rover, a car my dad restored when I was in college, I slide into the driver's seat. Once I click the speaker icon on my phone, Bowie’s voice joins me inside my car. “Anyway, don’t overwork that autopilot button now. You need to actually do something to justify how much your boss is paying you.”

“Fuck you, dude,” I snort before saying goodbye, hanging up, and making the short drive to the airstrip.