Chapter Fifteen
I almost kissed her.
I almost fucking kissed her and fucked shit up worse than it already is.
Tossing my towel into the hamper, I walk out of my bedroom and down the stairs. It’s dark, save for the soft glow of the under-cabinet lights in my kitchen as the night sky outside threatens rain.
Gray sweats hang loosely around my hips, my hair still damp from my shower, and my body is still coiled with tension that I’m close to snapping. I know how I’d usually get rid of it. But it’s another Saturday night, staying in instead of going out and getting laid.
My hiatus is going well. Of course, it would be, considering the only person my dick seems to be remotely interested in is the daughter of the man who pays my salary. And it was fully on board when I almost slipped up today at the rink.
Something about seeing her skate with that little girl wearing those blades—the ridiculously bright pink ones with the princess decals Phillipa struggled to stow away weeks ago—made my heart beat wildly. And then she gave me a glimpse of the woman she is when she takes to the ice competitively.
She was a work of art. Fluid, focused, formidable.
Opening the fridge, I stare at practically bare shelves—cold cuts, mayo, and eggs, the main items inside. I grab a beer and pop the cap, carrying it to the living room, and bring it to my lips, as I slump down onto my sofa. My hand finds the remote, but I don’t turn on the TV. Instead, I cling to it like a lifeline, my eyes staring at a blank screen. The sound of the rain splattering against my window fills the silence, my mind far more interested in reliving Phillipa's skating.
I’ve never searched her name on the internet, never looked her up on social media. Never needed to because how does knowing her stats or how well she can skate make me a better pilot? It doesn’t. It’s only extra fuel for a fire that doesn’t need stoking. Yet watching her today, the way her hair whipped around her, the rosy tinge to her cheeks, the smile on her lips… I’ve never seen anything like it.
She looked free. Free from the stress of her last name. Free from the stress of training. Free to love the sport she’s great at.
At least, that’s what it felt like to me. And god help me, I need to see it again.
I strum my fingers against my beer bottle, my skin tingling, my leg bouncing until I set the glass on the side table, and I tug my phone out of my sweatpants pocket. It unlocks, my home screen bright and tempting, the icon that looks like a compass taunting me. I could just watch one competition. See how Phillipa, the coach, compares to Phillipa, the professional.
Before sense takes over, I pull up the internet and type her name into the search bar. Articles upon articles appear in seconds, along with TikTok clips, reels, and YouTube videos…all showing different competitions with Evan. Clicking on one at random, it begins to play, an acoustic version of some Ed Sheeran song filtering from the phone’s speakers.
She’s in a navy-blue skin-tight dress with a silver slash running down the middle, glittering off the spotlight that follows her around. Her short skirt billows with each glide of her blades, fluttering against her legs. Evan flashes on the screen, matching Pippa in a one-piece-looking thing, the pair of them the epitome of elegance, as the camera tracks them around the ice.
She doesn’t smile or show any emotion as she spins into Evan’s chest, her hand reaching up so the back of it can caress his face. I sit up straighter, zoning in on his hand placement. It grips Phillipa’s waist, his fingers coiled around where I had mine barely a week ago.
Jealousy awakens, peeking one eye open before yawning, stretching, and standing tall. They aren’t together, yet the way they gaze into each other’s eyes—sultry and heated—makes my shoulders tense. Or maybe I’m reading into it because as soon as he twirls her away, that gleam I thought I saw is gone.
There is something innately beautiful about the dance. Their movements exact, mirroring each other, telling a story that I don’t fully understand. I shift forward on the sofa, the remote dropping to the floor as I click on a different video. It takes a while to load, and I reach for my beer, downing as much as I can, trying to drown out the small voice telling me I should stop.
It feels strangely wrong, watching her without her knowing. Because unlike at the rink, when I walked inside and found her head-banging like a rockstar, she’d eventually know I was there. Now, she has no clue.
But the video starts, and I can’t bring myself to click off it. This time, the duo is dressed in red. The music is faster, the spins are faster, their legs move faster, too. They’re a whirlwind of color, flying around the rink, the strobe lights flickering off the ice.
A bang pounds on my front door, and I almost lose my phone, my fingers fumbling with the device like I’ve been caught looking at porn. But that was so much better than porn.
The knock sounds again, thundering against the wood impatiently. Shoving my phone back into my pocket, I make my way to the door, unlock it, and throw it open, ready to yell at whoever’s on the other side with the audacity to hammer on it like that, only to stop short.
“Phillipa.”
Her brown hair is stuck to her face, her hands clutching at the top of her jacket, tugging either side together. The rain lashes around her, droplets running down her cheeks, coating her eyelashes, her nose, her lips.
“What the fuck was that?” she growls, and I can only stare at her, dumbfounded. “Back at the arena. What was that, Wyatt?”
I’ve tried not to overthink what I almost did back at the practice rink. I can’t. Not when every fucking night I’ve dreamt about the breathy gasps she made in the pool or the way her body felt against mine. Not when the only way I can sleep is to wrap my hand around my cock and let the fantasy play out until we’re both naked and sweaty, and the high of my orgasm is laced with guilt over what I cannot stop doing.
If I think about what I desperately wanted to do today, with her outside my home, soaking wet, with a look of defiance that makes my cock twitch, it will be game over. To make matters worse, I’m shirtless, and her gaze lowers to my bare chest, her nostrils flaring as she takes me in, and I can feel her stare on my skin like it’s her hands instead.
“Why are you here?” I demand, completely taken off guard. I’m being rude, stuck in my doorway, looking on in bewilderment.
She shivers, a full body shake, before she crosses her arms over her chest, a scowl forming on her face. “To talk.”
“But how?”
Her teeth clatter together, and she lifts her shoulders, huddling closer in on herself. “I had a car drive me.”
“Here?”
“Yes, here,” she snaps, licking water from her lips. “But instead of keeping me out here in the pouring rain, could you let me inside?”
The man Sadie raised me to be finally makes an appearance, and I stand back, gesturing inside. She walks past, her sneakers squelching before she toes them off and shrugs off her jacket. Her socks are see-through, the bright yellow of her polished toes shining through them. Even with her coat, her top is saturated, too, the outline of her bra visible under the darkened fabric.
“Let me get you something to dry off with,” I mutter, heading to the small mudroom next to my kitchen. Discomfort coats my skin as I pull out a fresh towel, one out of four that I own. I’ve told Bowie before I’m practical. I don’t need tons of stuff, but having Phillipa, who probably has a million towels with different thread counts, creates an uncomfortable awareness of just how empty my home is.
There’s nothing wrong with being practical.
I walk back into the hall and pass the towel to her, only to keep hold of it when she tries to take it from me.
“How are you here?” I ask again, maintaining eye contact. Her gaze is piercing as she unwaveringly stares back, keeping us locked together, and I can feel it…the spark I’ve been trying to tame, to no avail. But it won’t overpower me. I won’t let it. “And don’t say car. I mean, how do you know where I live?”
Snatching it from my grasp, she gives me a reprieve from her siren’s song, and quickly runs it over her face and her arms. “I looked up your personnel file.”
“Well, isn’t that a data privacy violation?” I deadpan, running a hand through my hair.
She huffs, her jaw hard as she snarls, “How else was I meant to get you to talk to me?”
“About what?”
I swear I can hear her growl because, of course, I know why she’s here and what she wants to talk about. And now she’s given me no option. There’s no co-pilot. There’s no door—unless I want to lock myself in my bathroom and hope she eventually leaves. She’s forcing me to talk.
Phillipa runs the towel over her chest, her hands covering her tits, and it’s too much. My body feels like it’s on fire, and I’m half-dressed. I turn and storm into the kitchen, needing to get away from her.
“You’re infuriating,” she hisses, the sound of her wet feet following me, mixing with mine on the hardwood floor.
“And you’re a brat for digging through your father’s confidential records just to seek me out,” I snap back.
“What was I supposed to do? Wait until Monday when you fly me back to Colorado?” She huffs incredulously. “Oh, wait, I can’t because you’re too chickenshit to face me.”
Stopping by the fridge, I shut my eyes and inhale, asking the big guy upstairs for the strength to deal with this firecracker standing in my home. Without a glance back, I pull open the fridge. “Beer?”
“What?”
Lifting two off the shelf, I close the door. Her face is screwed up in confusion, watching me as I pop the caps and hold a bottle out for her. “If you want to talk, I need a drink.”
The empty one in my living room is not going to be enough.
“Fine.” The tips of our fingers graze as she takes the glass from my hold, her hands still cold from standing outside.
For fuck’s sake, could I be any more of an asshole?
“Or I can make you something else? Tea, maybe?”
“This is fine.” Shaking her head, she leans against my counter, picking at the label. Her wet hair curls around her shoulders and down her chest, goosebumps breaking out all over her skin. I could offer her something of mine to change into; it would be better than wearing soaked clothes, but the idea of her in my clothes… No.
“Miss Cart—”
Her head whips up, fire blazing in her eyes. “Call me Miss Cartwright one more time,” she snarls. “You and I both know we’re way past formalities, Wyatt. I thought at the very least I was Phillipa to you . ”
I rub my hand over my chin, squeezing the stubble brushing against my skin hard as frustration twists in my stomach. “Phillipa. You shouldn’t be here.”
“And I shouldn’t want to jump your bones, but here we are,” she replies, and I nearly choke on my mouthful of beer at her candor. She smacks down her untouched bottle on my counter, the glass snicking loudly on the granite, before prowling closer. “You said I shouldn’t play games, but you’re the one playing them, Wyatt.”
Okay, so she’s just going for it then.
“You say this yet act differently. You rub up against me in the hotel… nearly kiss me today at the rink.” She jabs a finger at me. “Don’t even try to deny it. I was there. I know what would have happened if the Zamboni guy didn’t interrupt us. I catch you staring at me from across the plane when you think I’m not aware. I can tell what’s playing inside of your head, Wyatt, because mine is picturing the same damn thing all the time.”
I bristle, uncomfortable that she’s managed to see straight through me like glass. I thought my shields were higher, tighter, impenetrable, but instead they’re a flimsy piece of plastic, knocked over with a bat of her eyelashes.
“Phillipa,” I warn, the hair on the back of my neck standing on end as she takes another step forward.
“I can’t have you in my head, Wyatt. I should be focusing on the Grand Prix final, on proving to everyone why I deserve my spot on Team USA. But instead, for the last week, it’s only been on you.”
“So why are you here, then?” I yell, stalking toward her and forcing her back until she’s caged between the counter and my arms. “Why bother coming?”
“I can’t have distractions.” Her gaze bores into mine. “Not when every competition is leading up to my goal. But you're proving to be one the more we’re together. I need that to stop.”
“Then leave .” I watch her throat work on a swallow, watch as her pupils dilate. “All I am is a fascination to you. A shiny new toy you’ve been told you can’t have, and like a brat, you won’t stop pushing until you get it. Did you ever think about what would happen if we were caught? If your father found out?” She blinks once, her gaze steady, her chin held high. I stab a finger into my sternum, injecting an undercurrent of a hiss into my words. “I’d be out on my ass while you would be safe in your castle, the little princess who could do no wrong.”
“Stop calling me that,” she says through gritted teeth, a vein in her forehead popping out.
“Why?” I smirk, closing the almost nonexistent gap between us so there is no way out, just her and me, nose to nose, that I can feel her breath on my lips as she exhales. “It’s what you are. The billionaire's daughter gets what she wants at the snap of her fingers. The billionaire’s daughter who kept pushing and pushing until all that was left was for her to send him careening off a cliffside to his inevitable demise. Because she was too selfish to see the bigger picture.”
“Fuck you,” she spits, her gray eyes darkening. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”
Only I do.
Our chests rise and fall, our breaths uneven as we glare at each other. I’m trying to anger her, rile her up enough to make her leave, only with her proximity, the phantom touch of her body on mine as we stand close, all I can think about is lifting her onto the counter and sinking inside her, fucking that look of defiance off her face.
She moves first. Her hand snaps out and grabs the back of my neck, her lips smashing roughly to mine. She doesn’t make a sound, just forcefully presses her sweet, pillowy softness to the unexpected thin line of my own. It’s no more than a few seconds, but it’s plenty of time to send sparks that jolt and bounce around my body, the current strong enough to wrench my mouth from hers. I grip her shoulder, pushing her away and breaking the kiss. My fingers bite into her flesh as I stare down at her, frustration and anger surging in my veins.
Her eyes are wide, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted slightly as she wets them with her tongue, the pink tip running along them like she’s trying to taste the remnants of our simple kiss. The long, slender column of her throat bounces as she swallows, the movement drawing my eyes to her perfect skin, begging for my mouth.
“Fuck,” I growl before tugging her back, colliding our mouths together with no finesse, swallowing her gasp and then her moan as my tongue delves inside. It’s downright filthy, the baser instinct to take as I taste her. She’s everything I thought she’d be. Sweet and salty at the same time, matching the girl I’ve come to know over the last four months.
Once again, it’s over before it begins, as this time, Pippa’s small hands shove at my chest, her strength sending me backward. Her lips are swollen from my ravaging kiss, her fingers trembling as she reaches up and lightly touches them to her mouth. She looks stunned, unprepared for my actions, but it morphs into a scowl, her eyebrows knitting together as she glares.
“This is what I mean,” she yells, throwing her arms out to the sides. “You can’t say those things to me and then kiss me like that. You can’t keep messing with my head when—”
She doesn’t finish as my lips find hers again. She’s broken the dam, letting everything escape in a landslide. All the lust, all the want, all the need for this beautiful woman in my arms. She whimpers, her hands clutching my forearms as mine thread into her damp hair, the long strands tangling in my fingers. I move away from her mouth but don’t stop kissing her, trailing my lips across her jaw, her neck, wanting to feel her skin, the taste of it, relishing the way she quivers with need when I lick that space at the base of her throat.
“Wyatt.” The sound of my name is a plea going straight to my half-hard cock.
“One night,” I say, my words a harsh whisper of both arousal and defeat. “And that’s it. Come tomorrow, you move on.”
“ You move on,” she goads, leaning back enough to look at me.
“I’m serious.”
“So am I,” she states. “One night is more than enough.”
The fingers in her hair curl into a fist, and I pull it back sharply. Her breath hitches with arousal, cheeks flushing a sexy shade of red. One night would never be enough. But I can’t allow myself more than that. I lower my hands to her hips, my fingers dipping under the hem of her shirt to feel the skin I can’t stop thinking about. She shivers under my touch, and I catalog the reaction for no other reason than I’m a masochist. But if tonight is all we have…
“I’m going to fuck you quick and hard, Pippa. I’m going to make you come, screaming my name, making it so good that you’ll be begging me for more. And if you’re a good girl, I’ll give you what you want. You’ll wish you could have another night with me.”
“Pretty cocky, aren’t you?”
I smirk, my lips twisting into something sinful. “Not cocky when it’s the truth.” I drop my hands and take a step back, my heart beating so hard I wouldn’t be surprised if she could see it. “Now, take off your clothes. Slowly.”
The corners of her lips twitch upward. “Since you asked so nicely, Captain Grant.”
The sound of my title in her soft, almost breathy pitch makes my nerve endings spark. Hearing her say it now sounds wrong coming from her. Not with what we’re about to do. I growl, low in my throat, bending down to nip the sensitive spot between her neck and shoulder. “Don’t call me Captain.”
With a gasp, she exposes more of her neck to me. “But isn’t that what you always want me to call you? Captain Grant? ” she purrs.
“Not tonight.”
Pippa pushes out of my hold and heads toward the kitchen door, her hips swinging salaciously as she crosses the room. Reaching for the bottom of her shirt, she spins, walking backward as she lifts it over her head. She tosses it behind her, and I catch it, the cotton wet in my hands.
Licking her lips, she tilts her head, her voice sultry as she asks, “Which way to the bedroom then, Mr. Sexy Pilot Man?”