Page 2 of Fly Boy
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 thesilver cufflinks, the shinyCOforCartwright Oiltwinkles 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 withourjust-for-tonightarrangement, 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 thatcostumeto 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.
