Page 192 of Holding On To Good

For him.

Only for him.

She’d end this madness she started with her drunken kiss and showing up at his house after her date with Finn and her ill-conceived fling idea.

She’d walk away. Not yet, but soon.

It had to be soon.

For both their sakes.

“Willow,” he whispered, lifting his hand to trace his fingertip across her lips. “Willow…”

It was just her name. She’d heard him say it a hundred times over the years. A thousand. Had heard him say it in almost every tone—joking when he teased her in his quiet way. Joyful when he’d been offered a scholarship to play ball at Penn State. Businesslike when they discussed a project. Shocked and grief-stricken when he’d called after his parents’ accident.

Remorseful and the slightest bit defensive when he’d told her he was engaged to Miranda.

But this was as different and new as all things between them seemed to be lately. This was low and unsteady. Worshipful as a prayer. Like she was something rare and precious. A gift made just for him.

It was just her name, but it had her heart filling.

Had all her old hopes and dreams and stupid, silly fantasies of a future with him, of forever with him, roaring back to life.

And she knew, with the startling, ugly clarity that came with unwanted truths and harsh realities, that she was only fooling herself.

Knew that she was doing what she’d promised herself sixteen years ago she would never do.

Clinging to what would never be.

There would be no tomorrow or the next day or next week for her and Urban.

There was only tonight.

And she was selfish enough to want to make the most of it. To have more of him while she still could.

She wanted to devour him. She wanted his hands back on her. Wanted his cock back in her mouth. In her pussy. She felt wild and untethered and needy enough to beg, and that desperation, that greed, had her lurching to her feet and attacking the poor man, unbalancing them both.

Luckily Urban was there with a hand on her hip, steadying them. But it wouldn’t have mattered to her if they’d landed on a heap on the floor. All that mattered, all that could matter, was what happened next.

All that mattered was that he touched her with the same urgency flowing through her veins. That he kissed her with the same hunger burning in her belly.

Except Urban wasn’t cooperating with the whole hungry, urgent agenda. He obviously sensed her panic. Could probably feel it crawling along her skin. Taste it in her frantic kiss.

Oh, he didn’t refuse her, and it wasn’t due to lack of want on his part—he was still, or maybe once again, half-hard, his cock pressing against her lower belly in a definitely interested way.

But even with that interest, he wasn’t taking what they both wanted. What they both needed. No, he was doing his best to soothe her. To fix whatever was bothering her.

That he knew, without her having to say one word, that something was wrong, didn’t surprise her.

He knew her. Too well. And his insight told him to put on the brakes. Take a step back.

Fix whatever was wrong.

The hand once again in her hair was now gentle. The fingers caressing her waist, light and soothing. And he kept trying to slow down their kiss, turn it into something sweet and languid.

They’d switched metaphorical positions. He now stood on the ground.

And she was teetering and tottering on that tightrope.

---