Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59395 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59395 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
“Assuming Studio B is still interested.” My teeth scrape my bottom lip. “But I like where you’re going with this. You’re really good at taking control of situations.” I tilt my head thoughtfully, thinking of all he’s overcome. “Your father was a force and he tried to take control from you. He failed, Tyler. “
There’s an almost angry tic to his jaw. “Are we talking about my father again?” He doesn’t give me time to reply, adding, “I do like control, Bella. In all things.” He doesn’t give my mind time to run with the obvious implications of his words. “But maintaining control at all times can sometimes become burdensome. I require a release. I find I just need a good unattached fuck, and I’m better for it.”
I blink. “I—you—”
“It works. You should try it. When you were against my office door with me between your legs, were you thinking of anything else?”
“Sex comes with complications.”
“Not if you set the rules in advance. It’s sex. Just sex. And nothing more.”
In other words, I’ve been put in my place. I’m an employee. Outside of that, I was just sex to him. Because sex is just sex to him. And I am nothing to him, not on a personal level. That’s what he’s telling me. I crossed a line, speaking to him in a too-personal way. I can spread my legs for him, but not dare speak to him of his private matters.
The flight attendant stops by again. “Refills on your drinks?”
“Yes,” Tyler says. “For both of us.” He doesn’t look at her. He’s focused on me, a crackle in the air, a mix of sexual tension and his anger.
But not my anger.
I’m not angry. Anger will get me nowhere but embarrassed and hurt. “I’m tired. You can have my drink.” I lower my seat and roll to my side, giving him my back.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Bella
I wake to the announcement that we’re preparing for landing, and find Tyler awake and working on his MacBook. The need to pee overcomes any discomfort I might feel over our earlier conflict. Him and his “I fuck” mentality did not sit well. I lay there in my seat for a good long while and replayed our conversation. With each mental repeat, my anger had stirred a bit more and blossomed into something not very pretty. He knew what he was doing when he started talking like that. He was looking for a reaction. And he got one. I shut down. Not my normal behavior, in fact, some, Tyler included, would likely call me rather dogmatic about my feelings and confrontational. But at the time we’d had the exchange, I didn’t feel like pushing back really won me anything but further embarrassment. By the time I was over the embarrassment side of things, it was too late to respond differently with the same impact.
Tyler continues to click away on his MacBook as if the flight attendant has not made any announcement at all, still unaware that I’m awake. “Tyler,” I say.
His head lifts, and when his eyes fall on me, there is a punch of energy between us. “Bella,” he says softly, his voice gentler now, his tone almost regretful, an extreme contrast to the harshness of his mood earlier.
“We’re about to land,” I say. “I need to pee.” He doesn’t move. He just keeps staring at me and when Tyler Hawk stares at you, it feels as if he sees inside you, right to your soul. It’s intense. For some, unnerving, but as he said—practice matters, and I’ve had plenty of practice dealing with Tyler’s laser focus on me.
Well, not quite in this setting, I realize as time stretches. Truly, this is a close, intimate setting that adds a level of intensity to the moment, but then everything with Tyler is intense. This entire experience of traveling with him is unexpected. Certainly, telling my boss I need to pee, telling Tyler Hawk I need to pee, seems to be becoming a habit I never thought I’d form. When he still hasn’t moved or said something—anything, really—I pull out my father’s playbook. “If I were my father, I’d say I need to pee like a Russian racehorse.”
It works. Tyler speaks, “How does a Russian racehorse pee?”
“Exactly,” I say, lifting a finger. “That’s what I always say. My father’s reply would be ‘a lot’ to which I would say ‘isn’t it a lot for all racehorses? They’re all big.’ Then he’d say, ‘you take all the fun out of jokes, Bella.’” I firm my voice. “What I’m saying to you right now, though, Tyler, is that I need to pee like a Russian racehorse. I need you to lift your tray, please.”
The flight attendant walks by and says, “Tray up, sir.”
Only then does Tyler’s tray go up. Now the new dilemma. Do I pass him front first or rear first? My bladder doesn’t have much time for me to debate. I’ve been front first with him while asking him to lick certain parts of my body. I don’t need a reminder. I go rear first, and I do it quickly. I hurry to the bathroom and it’s a bumpy walk. The plane is jolting about, and I truly, truly have a moment, sitting on that toilet, when I think I might die like Elvis Presley. Face forward with my pants down.