Page 75 of Sweet Distraction

He shrugs, eyes on mine. “Because you seem pretty strait-laced.”

“There’s a difference between being strait-laced and thinking there needs to be something behind sleeping with someone simply because they’re there.”

“I’m thinking that’s a dig, but I accept it.” He looks down where his hand is on my foot before he slowly scrapes its way up my body. I never believed someone could fuck you with their eyes before, but I’m feeling well and thoroughly fucked right now. “Don’t you ever do something just because it feels good, Willow?”

It’s a loaded question and one that I feel right down to the apex of my thighs.

“I like to do a lot of things because they feel good.” I straighten my back and try not to be offended.

“You’re not selling that too well.” He chuckles.

“No. I’m serious. Sometimes it’s the holding out that makes it better in the long run. It’s the wait. The anticipation. The going to piano lessons just so Diana Finklebottom or whatever her name is can brush her boob against you that makes it that much more.”

“So you’re saying a guy like me doesn’t appreciate anticipation?”

“I don’t know. You tell me? Do you?”

“Humph.” He twists his lips, and his fingers trail beneath the hem of my joggers and up the back of my calf.

“I don’t see someone like you ever accepting or wanting a guy like me.”

Accepting him? Wanting him? My stomach twists.

But I don’t say what I’m thinking—that I do want him, despite everything. Despite his past. Despite mine.

“We all pretend to be someone we’re not,” I murmur, not completely sure what I mean by the comment. “I mean, until we meet the right person.”

The silence that follows is heavy, not uncomfortable, but thick with all the things I’m not certain either of us know to say.

“And who, Willow Adams, is it that you’re pretending to be?” His voice is low and seductive. A challenge and an invitation.

He moves first with just a shift of his knee. Followed by a tilt of his head and a look that lingers.

“No one,” I whisper once I’m able to find my voice.

His hand slides up to cup my face, his thumb rubbing back and forth over the line of my jaw. For a second, I forget to breathe. For a moment, I realize the burn his hand on my foot caused has nothing on the way my entire body feels right now. Ablaze.

Then he leans in. There’s no hesitation on his part and just a stuttered breath on mine before he brushes his lips lightly against mine.

Once.

Twice.

Then the kiss delves deeper, coaxing something out of me I didn’t know was still alive. It’s not rushed. Not demanding. It’s reverent. Intentional. Like he’s waiting to see if I’ll pull away.

I don’t.

And I don’t want to think about the dozen reasons I should.

The hunger is still there, stronger than the last time and stoked from the anticipation of this possibly happening again, but it’s subtler. It’s more controlled.

And I’m not sure if that intimidates or excites me.

My fingers reach for the hem of his shirt, fisting the soft cotton like I need something to hold on to. Like I need to feel his skin beneath to know this is real. That he’s real.

But instead of letting me touch him, instead of allowing me to initiate the next steps of whatever this is, he pulls me closer, his hand finding mine and gently pressing it to his chest. Over his heart.

He pulls back just enough to whisper, “No. Just this.”