Not just the skin.
All of her.
I slide the belt free, eyes on her the whole time.
She doesn’t look away.
Doesn’t move.
She just stands there in that little T-shirt of mine she put on before we boarded the plane for the return flight, and her comfy leggings.
Her cheeks are flushed.
Her pupils are wide.
It’s like she’s been fighting her own storm inside.
My jeans hit the floor. And my cock’s already hard. Aching.
“Come here,” I say, rougher than I meant to.
She doesn’t hesitate. Crosses the space between us and stands in front of me, looking up like she wants to crawl inside my chest and stay there.
“I need to touch you,” I whisper. “Need to remind you, you’re safe. That you’re mine.”
“You don’t have to remind me,” she whispers back. “I haven’t forgotten. But I still want you to touch me, Thatcher.”
That’s all it takes.
I pull her to me like the world is ending, and she’s the only thing worth saving.
And maybe she is.
Willow’s breath catches as her body collides with mine—soft meeting hard, curves melting against muscle.
My arms go around her, one hand threading into the back of her hair while the other slides around her waist and holds her steady.
“I have to know something.”
“What?”
“How long has it been? Before me, I mean.”
It’s fucking barbaric of me to ask. But I have to know.
“You mean since Dan?” Her eyebrows go sky high.
“How long since that piece of shit touched you?”
“Thatcher,” she breathes. It’s barely a sound, but it shoots straight through me. “Dan hasn’t touched me in over a year. Andno one—no one—has ever touched me like you. No one has ever made me feel the way you do. I need you, Thatcher. I want you.”
Fuck. Me.
I keep my hands on her arms and squeeze as I drag her clothed body flush against my naked one.
Then, I kiss her because I need to. I need to show her that I am the only man who can make her feel that way.
And more? I need her to believe it.
