I mean, I lived with a man.
Shared a bed.
Tried to build a life that was supposed to mean something.
But Dan wasn’t interested in sex. Not really. Not with me. When we touched at all, it was rushed, sometimes humiliating, and often awkward.
And it always, always left me feeling small.
Like I was an obligation instead of a desire.
And when it didn’t work?
Which was honestly more often than not.
That was my fault too.
At least, that’s what he said.
You’re just not good at sex, Willow.
You’re so damn fat.
Just not pretty enough.
You’re cold, Willow.
But when Thatcher looks at me—really looks—I don’t feel any of that.
I don’t feel clumsy or wrong or too much.
I feel wanted.
Sexy.
Womanly.
Powerful.
His gaze drags over my body with heat that makes my skin prickle, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorizing every curve instead of judging them.
Like my softness is exactly what he wants.
And now, the slick warmth pooling between my thighs has absolutely nothing to do with the storm outside.
But it has everything to do with him.
The fact that he’s asking—waiting—makes it worse in the best way.
I lick my lips without thinking.
His eyes follow the movement, darkening.
That’s it.
That’s the moment I decide I’m done being careful.
“I—I don’t want you to sleep on the couch,” I whisper.
