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. Her Rocky alarm 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 our stories might not be the same, I do understand her loss. “I’m sorry.”
“At first, it was a way to stay close to her, y’know? The little piece I still had of her each time I took to the ice. And then, as I got older, it became an escape.” She lets out a deep breath and tugs her hand free. I’m close to apologizing to her again, feeling like this topic wasn’t a great idea, when she lowers herself down, laying her head on my chest. My body tenses; the foreign feeling of a woman snuggling into me is different, unfamiliar, new. An unexpected comfort given by the simplest of things. Pippa’s delicate frame fits against mine like it is meant to be there.
“Before Nancy, my dad was married another three times,” she continues. “Each new wife after my mom progressively got worse. Wife number two was exceptionally bad, considering she was only twenty. Literally seven years older than me. I think she might have been his mid-life crisis wife. But regardless of age, they didn’t care about me—not that I wanted them to—I was Charles's inconvenient daughter, a roadblock to all his money. So with each new marriage, I spent more time at the rink.”
My hand threads into her hair, running the soft strands through my fingers before they flutter down, tickling my side before I start again.
“And then, when I was fifteen, my dad married Nancy. She was amazing. She was the woman he should have married right after Mom.”
“Did they know each other long before they got hitched?”
Tilting her head up, her eyes sparkle as she nods. “You’re not going to believe me, but before he had his own plane, they met while flying business class to Chicago. She was the CFO of a massive real estate company and had to go back and forth a lot and Dad’s…well, Dad. I think after a couple of weeks of taking the same flights, they noticed each other and got to talking.”
I bark a laugh, and Pippa smiles, the sight almost as beautiful as the girl lying in my arms.
“Anyway, Nancy’s really into ice hockey, not that you’d know it from talking to her, and when she found out about my skating, she took a massive interest in it. Got me better coaches…researched training camps…anything she could to help me with a talent gifted from my mom. ” She air quotes. “So every time I get onto that ice, I do it for my mom, Nancy…” she pauses, her fingers drawing circles just above my hip. “And for me.”
“I love that she’s so supportive of your dream.”
“She really is.” Pippa snuggles in closer. “Both are, actually. Dad would come to every competition if it were up to him. But I have so many, I’ll only let him come to the big ones.” She travels her hand up my stomach, her fingers coming teasingly close to my nipples, making my skin break out in goosebumps. “What about your parents? Are they proud their baby boy is a hotshot pilot?”
I chuckle, the sound not exactly joyful but not quite hollow either. “My dad and Sadie have all my flight stuff in their house—my diploma, a picture of me in my first uniform. They’re a bit disappointed I never worked for a commercial airline, though.”
“How come?” she asks, looking thoughtful.
I shrug. “I’d be able never fly them because I fly private.”
“I have a great idea,” Pippa gasps. Sitting up and throwing her leg over mine, her bare pussy rubs against my cock, her nipples pebbling from the cool AC. “We should get them on my father’s plane… You could take them to Lake Placid or something, go for breakfast while I skate, and then fly us all home again.” She beams, bouncing on the spot. “Oh my god, I’m a genius. Where do they live?”
“Greenwich,” I say through gritted teeth. She claps her hands, wriggling her hips, and my hands land on them, keeping her still as my dick rapidly thickens. “Can you not do that when talking about flying my family?”
Pippa bites her bottom lip, dragging her teeth slowly across it until it rolls out from their grasp. She pivots her pelvis suggestively, and the feeling of her wetness rubbing against me finishes the job. I’m hard as stone, ready to take her again.
She doesn’t let me voice the idea, though, as I watch her glide down my body, taking the sheet with her as she maps my tattoos with her tongue, the pink tip tracing the lines down my chest, over my stomach, the grooves of my muscles. She doesn’t stop her hands from joining in, caressing and trailing down my legs, eyes swimming over my ink hungrily, each sweep like a caress making my cock twitch against my stomach. Arousal and want drip from her gaze as she glances up at me, her fingers coiling around my ankles to move my legs apart.
“Is there a reason why everywhere but your ass and cock don’t have tattoos?” she questions, dropping to place a kiss on the inside of my thigh.
“My hands, feet, and neck don’t have any either.”
Unimpressed, she lifts her head to look at me. “No shit, but isn’t that because there hurts the most?”
I smirk. “Do I look like I’m afraid of a little pain?”
She rolls her eyes, and my skin ignites as she lowers her head, her breath ghosting over my balls as she kisses up to one side of my hip bone. Her hair falls from her shoulder, tickling over my sensitive flesh, my hips bucking upward, chasing the sensation.
“My dick’s too pretty to have tattoos,” I groan when I feel her tits graze over the head of my cock as she nips my skin. Whether it’s on purpose or not, I don’t care. I now want to slide between them, nice and slick from her pretty mouth, and fuck them until I paint her chest with my cum. I moan at the image and lace my fingers into her hair, wanting to guide her to swallow me whole. “Pippa, you’re killing me.”
She huffs a laugh, the warm expel of air like torture. “Patience, Captain. ” She giggles as I growl. “Let me explore your pretty cock. I told you I’ve never seen one that’s pierced…” Her tongue flicks out and licks my crown. My hand balls into a fist, tugging her hair as she looks up at me, a devilish smile on her lips. “…before.”
“You little cock tease,” I mutter when she does it again, paying particular attention to my piercing and that sensitive underside of the head that feels unbelievable when she circles it again. “ Fuuuck , your mouth is…” I grunt when she takes the silver ball at the tip and tugs it with her teeth. “Swallow me,” I command, my voice hoarse. “Take me to the back of your throat. Feel how good it will be when you’re choking around it.”
She fists the base of my cock, pursing her lips as she raises her head to look at me. “Good for who? You or me?”
Her wet heat envelops me as I grit out, “Both.”
I can’t control my hips as they piston upward, pleasure coursing through my body as she hollows out her cheeks. I’m thirty-five thousand feet high, free-falling through a cloudless sky as she sucks me as far as she can, her free hand clutching my thigh while the one still around my cock pumps in time with her head.
Her ass sticks up in the air, her spine straight as she works me over. She looks fucking breathtaking like this, worshiping me with her sassy mouth.
She chokes like I knew she would, her gag reflex triggered.
“Relax your jaw,” I instruct, and she hums, the sound a direct line to my balls.
I should slow down and take it easier on her, but that rational side drowns in the sea of carnal longing to shoot down her beautiful throat, especially when she begins playing with my balls and down to my taint.
It’s electric, the thrill of her hand between my legs. I’m comfortable in my heterosexuality to keep going, even if previous partners haven’t wanted to explore there. It’s not like my brother is exactly quiet about how good the infamous P-spot is, and as she continues farther, my body sings. It’s not penetrating, just the slightest bit of pressure to make itself known, and between her mouth and her hand, I am in heaven.
“Don’t stop,” I groan, cupping the back of her head, guiding her up and down my length, fucking her mouth, her loud slurps as she tries to take me to the base, spurring me on further. When I look down, it’s the end. I detonate at the sight of her frantically rubbing her clit as she sucks me, the act turning her on so much that she needed to touch herself, too.
My release hits the back of her throat, and she moans, her breaths coming in shallow bursts through her nose, her hips grinding as she drinks me down. When I slide from her mouth, she’s panting, her forehead coming to rest my thigh.
We stay like that, sweaty and sated, until she shifts, flopping down beside me, a satisfied grin on her lips, her eyes closing. I don’t give her a second before I’m on her, tasting myself as I push my tongue into her mouth, drinking her groans as her hands fist my hair. My fingers glide down, running through her slick center, gathering up the evidence of her arousal, swirling it around her sensitive clit.
How can something this wrong feel so right? She’s my boss’s daughter, nearly half my age, yet it doesn’t stop me from wanting this. It freaks me out. It’s dangerous and stupid, and the warning bells are ringing—albeit mutely—yet a small part of me wonders how we can continue this when we’re back home.
The answer is we can’t.
I break the kiss much sooner than I’d like, hating and loving the glazed look on her face, her swollen lips, her flushed skin. No one has ever looked as beautiful as Pippa Cartwright. Freshly fucked, tasting of my cum, marked by me.
“I should go,” I tell her, brushing a lock of her hair from her face as she frowns. “People will be looking for you. It’s way past your usual practice time.”
I see her check the alarm clock on the bedside table, releasing a groan when she reads the time. “We don’t have practice on day three of the competition.” Stretching her arms over her head, she yawns. “But I should get up, anyway. Dad will probably be looking for me, and then I have to do the Exhibition Gala before the Medal Ceremony.”
She takes a deep breath, rolling her eyes.
“Hey.” I place my fingers under her chin, turning her head to look at me. “Third place is still amazing.”
She gives me a slight nod as I search her eyes, wishing she would believe that. I want to kiss her once more, but I don’t. Instead, I get out of bed and search around the room, finding my shirt tossed over a chair and my pants in the middle of the floor. The sheets rustle as Pippa adjusts to lean against the headrest, watching me get dressed and shove my feet into my shoes.
Sliding my hands into my pockets, I glance around awkwardly until Pippa laughs and gets out of bed. Her body on display, she stops in front of me, trailing her fingers over my shirt.
“Do you need me to look into the hallway?” She smirks, dragging her nail across my collarbone as she walks around me and heads into the bathroom. Raising her voice as she says, “Make sure the coast is clear for you?”
She returns wearing the hotel’s bathrobe, and I freeze, the all-too-familiar sight making my cock stir behind my zipper. But this time, I know what it’s hiding underneath, and it isn’t a skimpy blue bikini.
It’s Pavlovian at this point, the way I react to her now. A grown man nearing forty should not have this problem, yet here I am, my fingers toying with her belt, using it to tug her closer. Pippa’s hands land on my forearms, the wide sleeves making her hands look tiny.
“Pippa,” I whisper, and her eyes drift closed at the sound of her name. I don’t know what I’m doing, still standing in her hotel room, holding on to her like I don’t want to let her go. Only I have to. “I—"
“I hear the breakfast crepes are to die for,” she interrupts, clearing the fog that has settled overnight inside my head. She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes, like she, too, might feel the heaviness that I do.
“Thanks for the suggestion.” I step back, dropping my hold. “I’ll see you after the ceremony. Back at the plane.”
“Where we return home,” she whispers, chewing on the edge of her thumb, watching as I walk to the door.
Home. Where this won’t happen again.
As my hand reaches the handle, I snap it back, my entire body turning to stone when I hear the sound of my boss’s voice coming from the other side. “Pippa, honey? Are you awake?”
Pippa’s across the room and is next to me in a second, shoving me into the wall as she opens the door, trapping me behind it. “Dad, you’re up early.”
“Nancy and I are going for a walk before breakfast,” he says. “We were hoping you’d join us.”
“That’s nice, but…”
“You’ve been holed up in here all night. We won’t take no for an answer,” Mr. Cartwright insists. I put my eye up against the peephole and peer through it. He’s alone, dressed in his usual suit, waiting expectantly. “Phillipa, I did not raise you to feel sorry for yourself. We are Cartwrights. We dust ourselves off and come back stronger after our setbacks.”
“I know, Dad,” she mutters, running her hand through her hair. “Okay, let me shower, and I’ll join you in the lobby?”
I bristle as he steps forward, close enough that if he stretched onto his toes, he could look behind the door. Plastering myself to the wall, I hear the sound of him kissing her cheek before she tells him she won't be long and closes it behind him.
Amusement dances over her face as she sucks her lips between her teeth and bites down. “Maybe wait until I leave?”
It’s late by the time I walk into my house, my phone a heavy weight in my hand as I stand in the dark hallway, listening to the second voicemail left days ago.
“It’s Dad. I know you’ve been getting my texts ’cause you’re replying, but…” He pauses, the silence thick with a disappointment I can feel through the recording before he sighs. “Listen, I didn’t want to do this over the phone, Wyatt, but we need to discuss this. And I get you don’t want to talk about her, I do, but she still gave birth to you, and… fuck … I wish I wasn’t doing this over the phone…Wy, Fiona’s really sick.”
My hand shakes as I continue listening to the rest of the message. I barely register what he’s saying, the whooshing of my pulse muffling his words.
“Call me back, please. I love you.”
I drop the device from my ear, my thumbs rapidly smashing against the screen as I text him.
Wyatt
I got your message. I’ll call you later.
As soon as it’s sent, I power it down, leave it on the console table by the door, and just stand aimlessly in the dark. His words play on a loop, each time making my blood boil a little more inside my veins. My fingers tingle, my teeth ache as I clench them, and the shaking in my hands becomes tremors.
Over thirty years of her not once showing up, no phone call on my birthday, no check-in to see how her only fucking son was doing, and suddenly, she gets sick, and then what? Expects me to come running?
I’m not heartless. I know it has to be bad if she’s reaching out, but I wasn’t good enough for her to stay when I was a child, wasn’t good enough to keep in contact as an adult, so why am I obligated to turn up for her now? I know how wrong that sounds. I know how much of an asshole that makes me, but on the rare times Fiona is brought up, that hurt little kid she abandoned, locked in the back of my head, is still there. He’ll always be there. Even after the years of therapy, which eventually dulled the hurt and rage and feeling of inadequacy, the scars never truly fade, right?
I’m angry for me. I’m angry at her for calling my dad, a man she dumped a baby with when he was just seventeen, to then leave him all over again at twenty-two, to use him as a pawn to get me to see her.
Fuck that and fuck her.
I rub my stomach, and the small but very noticeable pit that’s formed there twinges with guilt. Snarling into the darkness, I try to shove it aside. I shouldn’t feel guilty. She has no right to waltz into my life when it suits her.
She’s still your mom.
Just because she gave birth to me doesn’t make her my mother. Sadie Grant is more my mom than Fiona ever was.
A light knock sounds behind me, and I almost worry it’s my dad. But Miles is more of a bash-your-door-down kind of guy, especially if his kids are angry or upset. I brace myself anyway, trying to tame the rage that surges through my body as I unlock the door.
Pippa’s gray eyes are wide as she regards me, her eyebrows slowly knitting together at whatever she sees. “Wyatt, what’s…?”
I’m on her in a second, our lips smashing together, my hand gripping the back of her head as I take from her. I swallow her gasp of surprise, deepening the kiss when her lips part. My childhood therapist would say I’m using avoidance instead of dealing with my emotions, but I don’t care. I need Pippa in a way that terrifies me, yet I can’t stop.
Small hands lace around my neck, her body pressing up against me as she sighs, her tongue matching mine as we fight for dominance. It’s aggressive and intense, but it's everything I need as I pour my frustration into the kiss.
Years’ worth of pent-up anger and bitterness.
Months of restraint and unbearable lust.
She breaks the kiss first, pulling back to look at me, her fingers brushing through my hair. “What’s going on?”
I latch onto her throat, sucking her unmarked skin. With a shiver, she tilts her head, offering more space as her nails claw my scalp.
“Talk to me,” she says in a breathy whisper. I don’t answer, I don’t want to answer as I draw back, her eyes glassy, darkened with a hunger I feel to my bones.
“You didn’t come here to talk,” I grit out, lifting her, and she wraps her legs around my waist as I carry her inside. My lips are back on hers as I kick my door closed, flicking the lock blindly before taking her upstairs. I peel her out of her clothes as she does mine, tossing them around like confetti.
Pippa whimpers, panting my name as I taste her skin, licking and sucking wherever I can, each action not sating the urge to claim her, own her, make her mine. We tumble to the bed, a tangle of limbs as we kick off our remaining clothes until we’re naked, and I’m covering myself with the condom before pushing inside her, ignoring the way it feels like I’m finally home.