The Baby Bump

by Tara Wylde

  There’s a long pause. Emmet probably forgot he was talking on the phone. “What’s Northwest?” he finally asks.

  I roll my eyes. “It’s a passenger airline. The family company owns a good deal of their stock. Not enough to be controlling shareholders, but enough to be genuinely interested in the company’s performance. Grandpa bought the stocks back when Northwest was just getting started.”

  “And?” Emmet probes.

  “The company is doing horribly. Everything was going great, they were operating at a comfortable profit margin up until about a decade ago. After that, things have been slowly falling apart. They’ve maxed out their credit line, they’re having employee problems, and most of their planes and other equipment should be replaced, but they don’t seem to have the money to do so.”

  This is something that Emmet, as the head of the company, would know if he actually did his job instead of trusting others to do it for him. Which, now that I’m thinking about it, is also strange. One of his advisors must be watching Northwest. Why didn’t they say or do anything when it was obvious the company was in trouble?

  “So?” Something thumps, probably Emmet taking off his shoes. “If the company tanks, we’ll get a tax write off, or something like that.”

  I take a deep breath. Emmet is too self-absorbed to ever think of a bigger picture or of the different ways that things could go wrong.

  “One, if someone gets hurt because they company was using damaged planes, everyone connected to Northwest will be put in the hot seat. Even if the family is lucky enough to avoid getting sued, we’ll probably never recover from the social media backlash.”

  I pace from one side of the bathroom to the other and then back again. Since the room is only about two steps wide, it’s not a very satisfying experience.

  It seems extreme, but I’ve seen it happen to others. People who use social media aren’t concerned with facts or things like innocent until proven guilty. They only care about their own opinions and what amounts to a vigilante style of justice.

  “The company has been around forever,” Emmet says confidently. “It’ll survive anything.”

  “Dude, I hope you’re right.” I shift the phone to my other hand.

  “I’m always right.” The funny thing is that Emmet truly believes that’s true. He has a knack for forgetting all the times when his mistakes have led to minor disasters. “I still think you’re an idiot for taking a job. If you’re so concerned about this airline, you should have hired someone to check things out.”

  “You’re probably right.” Sometimes it’s easier to just agree with whatever my family says. The only problem is that while this attitude has done great things for helping maintain family harmony, it’s also a factor in why they think I’m a lazy, shiftless, good-time guy. I’m tired of that.

  “And how are you going to prove there’s anything wrong?” Emmet points out. “It’s not like you know anything about business.”

  Ironic, coming from someone who doesn’t know the first thing about the multi-billion-dollar company he’s the head of.

  “No, I don’t have a background in business,” I reluctantly confirm. “But I do know a little something something about planes.”

  At least I should, after busting my butt in college to eventually earn my aeronautical engineering degree. Not that Emmet or anyone else in my family took the degree seriously, or even bothered to acknowledge I earned one. As far as they’re concerned, I spent the entire time I was in college partying, probably because that’s exactly what Emmet and my sister, Siobhan, did.

  “Yeah, how to fly them, but how is that going to help you learn anything? Like I said, you should have hired someone to handle this. I have a couple people who would be great at it. They specialize in troubleshooting businesses. I can talk to them. Than you can go back to the life of Riley and forget all about this working thing.”

  Just like that I’m very tired: tired of the conversation, tired of my family, and tired of the trajectory my life has been on for the past thirty years. The only thing I want to do right now is crawl back in bed with Cassie and pretend, even for just a few seconds, that I’m a normal guy.

  “Look, Emmet, I’ve got to go.”

  “The hottie you’re hiding out from is calling your name, isn’t she?” Emmet’s voice warms considerably. He loves women as much as he hates working.

  “Something like that,” I mutter. “Talk to you later.” I disconnect the call and toss the phone on the counter.

  Cassie

  “Okay.” I let my head fall back against the bed’s headboard and clench the phone so tightly my knuckles turn white. “This is a really big change. Is there a reason for it?”

  “You’re a pilot,” the manager on the other end of the call snaps. “You don’t have to worry about why you’re being told to fly somewhere. The only thing you have to do is concentrate on getting the plane there on time. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir,” I respond. The amount of restraint it takes for me not to tell the guy to take a flying leap while fucking himself causes acid to churn in my gut.

  “The computer says you’re flying with a new co-pilot,” the voice says.

  “I am.”

  “I don’t want to have to make this call twice, so make sure you tell them about the change in plans.”

  In other words, he wants me to do his job for him. Typical. Sometimes it seems like every single person on the Northwest management team refuses to anything but the absolute minimum. Why make a two-minute phone call to Ronan when it’s far easier to have me do it?

  “Is there anything else?” I force the words out from between gritted teeth.

  “If there is, I’ll let you know.” Without another word, he disconnects the call.

  “Bastard!” I toss my cell phone on the bedside table. If I didn’t need this job and wasn’t afraid that the company would sue me for breach of contract, I’d quit today. It’s simply not possible that any of the other airlines have the same haphazard, misogynistic management as Northwest. Working for them is more hassle than it’s worth.

  Speaking of hassle …

  I glance at the closed bathroom door. The sound of running water drifts through it. I bite my lip and try to work out my thoughts about Ronan.

  I don’t regret sleeping with him. But … I’m not at all sure how I’m supposed to face him. I’ve had a few bouts of casual sex in my life, but none have been as intense as what I experienced with Ronan, and it’s always been with guys that I knew I was never going to see again. Those kinds of nights I know how to handle. What I don’t know is how to deal with a guy who I’ve slept with, had the best sex of my life with, and still have to work with for at least a few more weeks.

  Based on how well he flew yesterday and since I doubt he’s signed a contract, I don’t expect him to stick with Northwest once we return to the States. He’s going to jump ship and move onto one of the bigger and better airlines. Lucky bastard.

  The sound of running water ends. A few seconds later, the bathroom door swings open and Ronan steps into view.

  My mouth goes dry and all thought flees my brain.

  Ronan in Northwest’s ugly flight suit looked far better than anyone has a right to. Last night, wearing nothing but shadows and a few narrow bands of moonlight, he was a thing of beauty. Right now, with a bright white towel riding low on his hips, his short dark hair slicked down against his skull, and water droplets clinging desperately to his skin, he looks like a Greek god.

  His eyes meet mine and brighten. His mouth stretches into a wide smile.

  He walks across the short distance that separates the bed from the bathroom. “Good morning.”

  I’m way too distracted by his appearance to be able to answer.

  Acting more on instinct than anything else, I crawl across the mattress toward him. His gaze bores into me as I hook a finger around the top edge of the towel and tug. It unwinds and pools on the floor around his ankles.

  My breath quickens as I star
e at his male glory. “Beautiful,” I whisper.

  He inhales sharply and tenses as I close my mouth over him.

  “Dear God,” he hisses, sounding almost like he’s in pain, even as his fingers tangle in my hair and hold me in place.

  Heart pounding wildly, I moan around him as his hips make a shallow rolling motion, lightly thrusting against me.

  The tip of his cock pushes against the back of my throat as I roll my eyes upward just in time to see him close his eyes and shudder with pleasure. It turns me on nearly as much as the taste of him does.

  His grip on my hair tightens as he increases the tempo of his short, quick thrusts. “Fuck, baby!”

  I tighten my lips, loving how the increased suction causes him to moan my name as if his life depends on it.

  Perspiration builds on his skin as I lightly scrape my teeth along the underside of his cock and cup his scrotum, my fingers lightly tracing mindless patterns on the soft skin as I revel in his sounds of animalistic pleasure.

  “Fuck,” he roars and reaches for my shoulders, pushing me backward onto the mattress. Before I can push myself upward, he crawls up on into it and places a hand on my chest. “Stay,” he commands.

  His gaze holds mine as he uses his free hand to slide my flannel pajama pants down my legs and off the end of the bed before grabbing the bottom of my thin Flintstones T-shirt and rolling it up and over my head.

  I gnaw on my bottom lip as he drinks me in.

  “Beautiful.” He repeats my earlier statement, causing me to blush.

  He drops to his side next to me and runs his mouth over the curve of my breasts.

  “Ronan,” I cry out as he takes first one nipple and then the other into his mouth, using his tongue to tease them into diamond-hard points, triggering sensations that are so intense they walk the line between pleasure and pain.

  His wicked tongue glides lower, the cool air blowing over the damp trail he leaves in his wake striking an erotic contrast to the heat of his mouth as he makes his leisurely way toward the apex of my thighs.

  “Your turn,” he purrs, his velvety voice almost as erotic as his mouth.

  He thrusts a hand between my thighs, guiding them apart.

  I expect his mouth to go straight to my clit, but he avoids it, moving instead to the inner curve of thigh. He nips sharply at the flesh, causing me to gasp before his tongue darts out to soothe the reddened skin.

  “Hey!” He taps a finger against my lower stomach, drawing my eyes down until they clash with his. His eyes glow with primal satisfaction. The corners of his mouth tip up in a wickedly sensual smile. “I want you to watch as I get you off.”

  He doesn’t give me an opportunity to consider his words before his fingers tease my lower lips apart and he lowers his head. His magic lips close over my clit and start to suck.

  My stomach roils. Oh. My. God! It’s too intense. Too incredible! I don’t think I can stand any more of this.

  My back arches off the bed as press against him, desperate for more even as I worry the electric sensations pulsing through me, sizzling against every single pleasure point within my body, will be the death of me.

  “Fuck me,” I cry out.

  Sensing that I’m about to go over the edge, Ronan frees my clit and lifts my leg, hooking it over his shoulders as he rises, the tip of his cock presses against me. I have just a split second to shiver in anticipation before he slams into me, the force of his blow scooting my back against the mattress until the top of my skull bumps into the headboard.

  My pussy convulses around him as he rides me. Our eyes stay locked together. In his, I see all the things I want him to say, but which I sense he never will. My heart aches for him even as my body tenses, preparing itself for the pending climax that builds each time Ronan rocks his hips.

  “Cassie…” He says my name as if his life depends on it. His thrusts become deeper, quicker, until his back bows and he empties into me. I clench around him, holding him fast as my orgasm takes me under.

  Cassie

  “Tell me again why we’re flying to Morocco instead of enjoying a day off in Florence.” Ronan’s voice is tight. He hadn’t been happy when I told him about the sudden change in plans.

  “Apparently my paygrade isn’t high enough to justify that kind of information. I’m supposed to fly where I’m told and not ask any questions.” I study the panel of controls before me. The plane has leveled out and is flying at a good clip. I put it on autopilot. “Feel free to call HQ. You’re a guy, so they might actually answer your questions.”

  “And we’re not getting any time off once we land in Morocco? It’s land, let the passengers unload, fuel up, and go to Johannesburg?”

  “Correct.” His use of the word fuel has my attention automatically shifting to the fuel gage. The needle is right where it’s supposed to be.

  “Does this happen often? Changing plans at the last minute?”

  I shrug and sigh. “It’s been happening more and more frequently. Sometimes it’s to help pick up the slack from a delayed flight and cut back at the number of angry passengers the airline has to deal with. I’m not sure if that’s what Northwest does, or if they simply get hired by some big wig who promises to pay extra if they can make the flight happen right away.”

  “It looks like we’re supposed to have about five hours off. Not enough time for much sightseeing.” But plenty of time for some afternoon delight.

  The thought sends heat rushing to my face and triggers a strange prickling sensation in my pussy. I’ve barely known Ronan for twenty-four hours, but apparently, it’s enough for him to get into my blood. I’m like a junkie who can’t wait to get their next fix.

  “I’m not interested in sightseeing.” Ronan continues staring straight ahead.

  “Oh.” My blush deepens. “What are you interested in?”

  “Finding someplace quiet at the airport and getting a couple hours of sleep. I didn’t get much last night.”

  Strange. I feel fully rested. I can’t dwell on that, I’m more concerned about what his statement means. If there’s one thing I know, it’s that a sleepy pilot is even more dangerous than a drunk driver. One mistake can cost hundreds of lives. More, if the mistake happens at the airport.

  “Is this going to be a problem?” I ask softly. I can handle the flight on my own, but I need a heads up.

  Ronan shakes his head. He glances briefly at me before turning his attention back to the blue sky stretching before us. “No. I’m alert, but I don’t know if that’ll be the case on the Johannesburg leg. I’ll feel better if I can get a couple hours sleep before taking off.”

  I shoot him a stern glance. “I’d strongly advise it.”

  Ronan takes a deep breath. “On the topic of last night…” he starts saying.

  My stomach clenches. I know that we need to discuss what happened and how we’re going to handle it, but I really don’t want to. I haven’t even begun to sort out my feelings on it, or what I want to come of it.

  “I don’t want to talk about last night. Or this morning.” There’s a definite quiver in my voice. I hate how it makes me sound small and insecure, two words I rarely, if ever, associate with myself.

  “Not wanting to talk about it doesn’t mean we shouldn’t have the conversation.” Ronan’s voice isn’t loud, but the undercurrent of determination running through his words makes it powerful.

  I glance down at the control panel in front of me, half wishing that the autopilot will suddenly fail, forcing me to fly the plane manually, that would keep me busy enough to avoid this particular conversation.

  “Why do we have to talk about it?”

  I don’t have to look to know that Ronan has pulled his gaze away from the windscreen and is now staring at me. His stare seems to burn my skin. It takes a great deal of self-control to not slap a hand over the side of my face.

  “What do you want?” he asks.

  I blink. That wasn’t what I expected to come out his mouth. “What do you mean?”
/>   “I want to know what you want.”

  “Why?”

  Ronan shrugs. “Knowing what you want, what drives you, helps me get to know you, the real you. The soft sides as well as the bad-ass chick side of you.”

  I chew on my lower lip. Taken at face value, it sounds like such a simple question, but it’s not one I’ve ever been asked before, or have even thought about.

  “I don’t know what I want,” I tell Ronan.

  “You have to want something. Everyone does. It’s part of the human experience.”

  He might be right. I probably do want something, but when I turn my thoughts inward and attempt to explore what it is, my stomach gets jumpy and nervous sweat tracks down my spine. It’s like staring into a deep, dark abyss.

  I shiver and let my fingers curve into my palms. “The only thing I want is to land this plane in Morocco and then have a safe flight to Johannesburg. As my co-pilot, you should want the same thing.”

  You also want Ronan’s body, a small internal voice I’ve never heard before chortles. You want his hands all over you, his mouth on yours, and his dick buried deep inside of you.

  Heat floods my face. I don’t know where the voice came from, but I can’t argue with it. There’s been a tiny part of my brain that’s been consumed with wondering where and when Ronan and I can hook up again ever since we checked out of the Florence hotel, but I can’t tell him.

  “My wants extend a little further than the next few hours,” Ronan says.

  Feeling uncomfortable, I go on the defensive.

  “What about you?” I snap. “What do you want, since you seem to be such an expert?”

  “You,” Ronan says calmly.

  He reaches out and captures my right hand in his left. His fingers lace through mine and his thumb draws slow, lazy circles on my palm. It’s a good thing I’m sitting, otherwise the completely innocent gesture would make me weak in the knees.