The fabric clings to her, taunting me with a whole new set of fantasies I shouldn't be creating. But her bare shoulders beg for my lips. Her legs somehow seem longer than normal in her platform sandals, and all I want to do is run my hands up her thighs and past her fluttering hem.
Then there's that damn bow, screaming to the world "innocence," right between her breasts, and I'm convinced she glued it on her dress only to drive me crazy all night.
So I go through the motions, careful not to lean into her family members when they hug me. The strain against my zipper is relentless. I can't get the thought of hiking up that sundress and stealing her innocence until she gasps my name like a prayer and a curse all at once.
By the time she gets to me, I need another cold shower. She pins her soft smile on me like I'm more than I am or someone worth saving. The unfamiliar and unwelcome pull in my chest slowly twists, aching for something I should never have nor take.
"Happy birthday. Surprise," she teases, a slow flush in her cheeks appearing.
I'm imagining things.
I don't move or speak, afraid of what I might say or do. Yet today isn't my lucky day. Her presence only makes it worse.
Her torturous scent flares around me, dragging more buried desires to the surface. My gaze drifts over her body in slow motion, unable to linger in places I should never consider looking at or touching.
When I finally lock my eyes back on hers, hitched breaths flow between her parted lips. Her maroon cheeks highlight the unclaimed fire innocently burning in her blues.
She's pure sweetness with unspoiled grace, and my chaotic thoughts turn so clear, there's no denying it.
I want Willow Cartwright. But it's more than some high school crush.
I don't want a quick fix. I want to ruin her until the sun comes up, breaking her into pieces. And there's another truth I already know, which scares me more.
I'll watch her shatter around my body before putting her back together, only to do it again.
She inhales slowly, that bow I have to stop myself from pulling apart, moving with the action. She rises on her tiptoes and curls her arms around me.
Unlike the others, I don't keep my body away. I tug her closer, wrapping my arms around her waist. My lower body throbs against her stomach, and I murmur in her ear, "Thanks, sugar."
She stiffens.
"You smell good," I add before I can stop myself.
She slowly retreats, pinning an expression full of a million questions on me. A runaway wisp of hair falls across her cheek.
"There's the birthday boy." Chelsea's voice cuts in, causing Willow to tear her gaze off me.
My gut dives. I squeeze Willow's waist and release her, turning just as Chelsea throws herself at me.
Like with the other Cartwrights, I go through the motions, staring at Willow over Chelsea's shoulder, only to receive a sharp pain in my heart.
Hurt floods Willows's face.
It hits harder than any slap could. Buried in her expression is a question she won't ask, and a thousand things I might not be man enough to give.
Or worse...
Maybe I will.
I try to pry Chelsea off me, but she only hugs me tighter.
Willow's mouth curves into a tight smile, and she nods. Then she spins on her heel and walks away.
Chelsea finally retreats, gushing, "It was so hard keeping this a secret from you! How surprised were you?"
"Huh?" I question, tearing my fixation off Willow and giving Chelsea a cool once-over.
Everything I obsessed about for months morphs into the average. Her curled hair, polished and perfect, along with her bold, painted red lips, seem boring compared to Willow's flyaway hairs and soft, pink mouth.
