Chapter Eleven
I press my back to the door and my hands to the front of these ridiculous swimming trunks Phillipa gave me. My heart beats wildly beneath my ribs, my pulse thrashing in my ears as my skin overheats, the tops of my shoulders still covered in oil. What was I thinking? Joining a fucking couple’s massage with someone I cannot stop thinking about. Inappropriately.
I groan, knocking the back of my head against the wood as a man wearing the hotel’s logo and carrying a bundle of towels walks past. His smile falters as he looks at me from over them. “Is everything okay, sir?”
“Pool,” I say, my tongue thick in my mouth. Clearing my throat, I try again. “I’m looking for the pool.”
He perks up, his eyes brightening as he gestures behind him. “Down the stairs and to the right. You can’t miss it.”
“Thanks,” I mutter as he walks away, leaving me alone with the awkward situation currently in my shorts.
My nostrils flare as I push against my hard dick, the embarrassing reaction in response to hearing those little moans and mewls from the girl lying practically naked in the bed next to mine. I was a live wire, ready to blow the second she dropped that robe right in front of me and stood there, hands on her hips, confidence coming off her in waves in the smallest bikini I’ve ever seen.
I knew it was a bad idea from the second I realized—a little too late—that we would be in the same room. But she was trying so valiantly to get me to stay that, against my better judgment, I couldn’t say no. What’s one more line when so many have already been crossed today?
The touching that I shouldn’t have done when she was panicking on the plane.
The lodge that we shouldn’t be sharing, which, quite frankly, even the least romantic man can tell is a haven for couples.
And now, a massage that required us to be around each other wearing what is essentially underwear. So many boundaries skirted around, ones that employer and employee should never cross in less than twenty-four hours.
Pushing off the door, I shuffle toward the pool, hoping that somewhere in this high-end spa, I’ll find one of those ice baths I can drown myself in. I don’t pass a soul as I travel downstairs to the lower level where the changing rooms are, cursing myself for not grabbing my uniform when I left abruptly, too nervous that the poor girl massaging me would see my impromptu erection.
But don’t people pop boners all the time when getting a massage?
“Fucking hell,” I mutter, scraping a hand down my face before looking up, my attention snagging on a sign above my head.
I stalk forward, following the arrow to the grotto pool, and push open the door. Pan flutes and warm air come flooding out of the room as I walk inside, the wall sconces barely giving any light to see around me. Eventually, my eyes adjust, and I spot three lounge beds near the poolside, the blue lights under the water rippling off the stone walls, shimmering on a rack filled with white towels.
I lift one from the pile, the fluffy material like butter, and carry it under my arm, setting it on one of the loungers before sitting on the edge of the pool. Dangling my legs in the water, I lower myself down into the warm pool, and I breathe a sigh of relief. No one is here to see my shame or witness my spiral. It’s just me and a slow-motion replay of that robe falling to the ground.
Shoving off the side, I duck my head under the water and start doing laps, noticing on my fourth one that there’s a break in the wall, hiding a doorway leading to what appears to be outside. It opens easily as I approach and swim into the cooler air. The night sky makes the underwater lights seem even brighter, the beams waving in time with each ripple I create as I move.
I’m alone. The entire place tidied away—parasols folded down, sun loungers missing cushions, side tables clear of any clutter guests might leave behind.
I turn onto my back and float aimlessly, staring at the sky as I drift toward the far end. It’s made of glass, creating the infinity effect, and I shift to my front, leaning my arms against the side, and look out at the vast forest around us.
Crickets chirp, the water trickles, and I feel at peace for the first time since stepping foot in this place. The tension disappears from my body, melting away with every breath I take. Finally, my head clears, and I try like hell to forget those sexy noises Pippa made.
I don’t know how long I stay here, eyes shut, listening to nature, but the rush of water cascading over the glass edge of the pool startles me.
Glancing over my shoulder, my heart damn near stops as I see Phillipa wading out from the door in the water, her head tilted up, lips parted as she regards the sky. Her long brown hair is tied up on the top of her head, loose and messy, with strands wisping around her shoulders, looking like she’s been freshly fucked.
My mouth dries, my skin buzzes, and my brain short circuits. What the fuck? I like that look more than I should. And worse, I wish I could see it for real.
She lowers her gaze, smiling politely, like she’s only just realized she’s not alone, before doing a double take. “Holy shit, Wyatt, is that you?”
Her eyes are wide and alight with a mixture of disbelief, shock, intrigue… You name it, she’s probably feeling it. I can tell what she’s thinking right now because no one ever expects what they see when I take off my clothes.
Her gaze travels down my upper back, sweeping across every inch of my skin that’s more ink than creamy flesh. She licks her plush pink lips before sucking the lower one between her teeth, a slight crease on her brow as she slowly cuts through the pool, coming closer.
I stand, turning in the water that’s shallow enough at this end for it to reach my hips. I can see, more than hear, her gasp as I reveal more of myself to her. My chest is like my back. My entire body is like my back, covered with colorful and monochromatic art from my collarbone all the way to my ankles.
“Not what you were expecting, right?” I say, itching my neck, the silence and scrutiny of her stare setting me on edge.
“Holy shit,” she whispers again, reaching out like she’s going to touch me but stopping short before she does. “You're beautiful.” Her eyes do another intake of my ink, bouncing from design to design until she blinks. She works on a swallow, her gaze locking onto mine before lowering to my front again. “I mean, your art, your skin…” She sucks in a ragged breath. “Wow.”
I’ve had a lot of compliments from women whenever they’ve seen my tattoos. Hell, even the odd man who’s caught a glimpse in the gym has admired them, but the way Phillipa looks at me like she’s cataloging every piece…it’s different.
Something primal wants me to puff out my chest, show off like a peacock, parade around like some show pony.
“Can you turn around?” she asks, and I quirk an eyebrow. “I want to see your back again.”
This is inappropriate , a voice inside my head warns, but I find myself spinning for her all the same. I rest my arms out wide on the pool's edge like before but stay standing, allowing her to see me.
The cool night air nips at my skin and water droplets land on my back before I feel her finger press against the one under my shoulder blade. I fight to suppress a shudder as her nail scrapes down the faded image of a robin, the color a lot lighter than the others surrounding it.
“That was one of my firsts,” I tell her, the words slipping easily from my lips as she moves on to another. “My grandma was obsessed and doodled them on anything she could. After she died, I found one of her drawings when helping my dad clean her apartment and got it made into a tattoo.”
“That’s sweet.” I can hear her smile even though I can’t see it. She pushes on an area of skin near my spine—an eagle chasing a jet. “What about this?”
“I got that not long after I graduated. The eagle is meant to symbolize power…freedom. Whereas the plane is for adventure…ambition…” I shake my head as a smile plays on my lips. “I guess freedom, too.”
She chuckles before continuing her path. “How did you know that was the one I was talking about?”
Each brush of her hand is like lightning, a conduit for things I can’t think about—things that would be far too easy to do if I were to spin, reach out, and grab her. We’re walking a tightrope high above the clouds, both of us starting on opposite ends, teetering on a wire that suspends over a dangerous unknown.
Instead, I drop my arms and slip away from her, water flowing around my waist. “I know what tattoos are on each and every part of my body.”
Her eyes widen. “Wait, every part?”
I smirk, not answering her question. She barks a laugh, kicking her long, slender legs off the ledge of the pool, careening backward, the back of her head fully submerged, her chest pushed out of the pool.
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 arrogant or 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 a song 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. “ Please call 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 between us, 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.
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 fluttering shut 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.”