She cries out, and both our bodies enter a craze of flushed limbs and desperate need. That pleasure in my spine grows unbearably hot, coiling into something I’m struggling to hold back. My mind scatters, my pace becoming chaotic.
“Yes, baby,” Willow cries. “Yes. I’m?—”
When Willow’s entire body tightens, legs locking around my waist and drawing me into her, tying us together as her handstug at my hair, and the softest, sweetest, “. . . coming,” falls from her lips, I fucking unravel.
Burying my head in her neck, the power of my release flies from my lips and lands upon her skin. Light flashes behind my eyes, white and blinding. My cock pulsates as I spill a seemingly never-ending climax into my pants. I’m gripping the sheets so hard they may tear, and Willow claws into my shoulder with what I imagine must be the same intensity. Her locked legs tremble around my hips, her heart pounding fiercely against my chest.
“Willow,” I whisper against her jaw. “Willow.”
I can’t stop saying her name, I think I need the reminder she’s here. She’s real. I’m tasting her skin and touching her body. It’s her breath against my ear, her thighs I just lost myself between. Even with the barrier of clothing, it’s the most soul-baring experience of my life.
I’m fucking raw—undone. Ruined.
It takes an embarrassing amount of time for me to regain my strength before I finally rise onto my arms and pull back to gaze down at her. She blinks at me, pupils blown and eyes half-lidded. She slips a swollen lip between her teeth before she bursts with a giggle and hides her face in the pillow.
I sit back on my knees. “What? Did I do something wrong?”
Her gaze snaps to me, brows drawn in concern. “No, Wes... No.” She props onto her forearms, smiling wistfully. “You’re incredible. I’m sorry. That reaction was all me.”
“Why?” I ask, running a hand through my hair, chest still heaving as I attempt to catch my breath.
“I just...” She lifts her head toward the ceiling. “I can’t believe I orgasmed from dry humping.” Willow laughs, covering her eyes. “I feel like I’m in high school.”
“That . . . um . . .” I clear my throat. “That wasn’t a normal thing for you?”
“No, Wes. That is the first time that’s ever happened to me. I was assuming we’d have to do a little hand stuff to get all the way there, but...” She sighs, face flushing. “It’s been a while, and you make me feel so...” She swallows, shaking her head with a sheepish grin. “You made it easier.”
“You made me less afraid.” I bite down a grin of my own.
I track her body, watching as she relaxes, turning from lust-hazed to sleepy and sated. Her legs are still open, and my neck heats when I realize there is a wet spot at the center of her panties that I can’t tell is from her or me.
“Yes, Weston. You made me come.”
My cock stirs at her velvet voice, and I’m damn-near ready to do exactly that again. I drop my head, noticing the much larger display of wetness across the front of my pants. “Well...” I swallow. “You did the same to me.”
She giggles, hiding her face again. I want to pull her hands away so I can see it, because in all my time on earth, nothing has felt quite so triumphant as being the reason for her laughter.
“I think that’s hot,” she murmurs.
“You do?” I ask, just as another rumble of thunder rocks the roof, startling me.
Willow remains calm, head tilted as she studies my reaction. “You really do hate storms.”
“It’s the noise, mostly. I don’t like abrupt, menacing sounds. The lack of control and feeling of chaos, I think.” I close my eyes, breathing deep. “You’ve been a phenomenal distraction. Thank you.”
“Happy to be of service.” She turns on her side, nuzzling her face into her palm against my pillow. “Why don’t you change and then come lie down beside me?”
I nod, darting into the closet and throwing on a fresh pair of underwear before crawling into bed next to her. She lifts up, andI assume it’s a cue for me to extend my arm over her pillow. Sure enough, she curls into me, placing her head against my chest.
Willow’s body fits into mine perfectly, like it was made to be right here. I don’t question myself as I run my fingers through her hair, or circle my thumb over the soft skin of the thigh she has slung over my hips. Nothing about it feels forced. Only warm—safe.
“I like holding you,” I whisper. “It’s easy.”
“I know you struggle with touch,” she whispers back. “How does touching me right now feel?”
I sigh, staring at the ceiling. “Touch often feels like a manipulation tactic to me. I spent so much of my childhood studying my father’s body language, trying to gauge when he was going to scream or leave or throw a punch. No touch of his was ever soft or tender. There was no care or warmth or compassion. It was always a threat, a force. A way to ensure we conformed to his demands.” Memories flood my mind, racking me to my core.
I swallow, pushing them down, and continue, “My mother’s touch was supposed to be soothing. I know she intended to hold me with love, but every hug she gave me felt like an apology. A futile attempt to shield me from the pain she knew he was causing and could never quite save us from. When she slept beside me at night, it wasn’t for my comfort, but for hers. It was an excuse to stay away from him. But when he came hunting for her, I got caught in the crossfire.” Emotion pricks at my eyes, and my throat grows heavy. “She’d scream, ‘Not in front of him! Don’t let Weston see this!’ knowing he didn’t care what I witnessed. So... when my mother held me at night, even though I know she loved me, that was manipulation too.”
