Page 137 of Holding On To Good

“Hold on,” he murmured.

Before she could discern his meaning, his intent, he crouched and picked up her foot.

Wobbling, she grabbed his shoulders for balance as he undid the strap at her ankle then plucked the sandal off and set it aside before moving to her other foot and repeating the process.

He straightened, his head bent, his hands going to the button of her jeans.

But he was clumsy, his fingers fumbling and unsteady. His lack of finesse, the proof of how much he wanted her, pierced something in her heart, a bittersweet ache that spread through her chest.

Reminded her that, no matter how many times she tried to tell herself otherwise, no matter how badly she wanted to believe she could be with Urban and then go on as if nothing had changed, by the end of the night, she wasn’t going to be able to walk away unscathed.

He finally freed the button and they both exhaled, the sound mingling with the soft whoosh as he tugged down her zipper. He slid his hands beneath denim and silk, palming her hips, his fingers curved on her ass. It was a brand, the heat of him, imprinting her skin, possessive and oddly intimate.

He hooked his thumbs along the waistband of her jeans and panties and dragged them down, down, down, those warm, rough palms eliciting goose bumps where they skimmed along her outer thighs, then behind her knees and down her calves. At her ankles he tugged the material free of one foot, then the other, and straightened again, this time trailing his fingers up her shins, over her kneecaps, then the middle of her thighs. The muscles in her legs, in her core, contracted and she reached for the bottom of his shirt wanting skin on skin.

He grasped her wrists, took them in one hand and slowly raised them over her head.

“Stay,” he murmured, his voice gruff and thick with desire. His body rigid with it.

Her arms tensed. Her fingers curled. She didn’t want to stay. She wanted to move. Wanted to strip his shirt off, shove his jeans down. Wanted to touch him until he was hot and breathless and aching.

Until he was out of control.

But there was something erotic about being naked while he remained fully dressed. As if seeing her, touching her, meant more to him than his own pleasure.

As if seeing her, touching her, was his pleasure.

Inch by inch, the muscles of her arms relaxed. Finger by finger, her hands loosened.

She didn’t concede control easily. But this was Urban.

She knew him.

Trusted him.

Sensing her acquiesce, he slowly let go of her wrists.

And she kept her arms raised.

His eyes flashed, dark and sinful. Watching her face, he trailed his fingertips down her arms, a light, ticklish touch that had her shivering in response. He skipped his fingers down her ribcage to the indentation of her waist before sweeping up to cup her breasts. Then his mouth was on her, hot and moist, his beard a soft, sensual abrasion against her skin. He stroked slow, languid circles around her areola with the hard tip of his tongue, ever tightening circles that tempted and teased and turned her breathing ragged. Had her arching into his mouth. With a grunt, he licked the tip of her nipple then sucked hard.

She jerked in sensation and started to lower her arms again—she wanted so badly to touch him—but then remembered his earlier command and kept her hands up. Seeking more, searching for even a small amount of relief from the ache in her center, she pushed her pelvis against him.

He gripped her hips, his fingers kneading her ass, his thumbs brushing the outer edges of the curls between her thighs. Close, so close to where she wanted his touch, to where she was increasingly needing it. Close, but still out of reach.

She rotated her hips, trying to twist into his hand but his grip tightened and he firmly pressed her hips against the wall. Held her there, immobile, as he licked, sucked and gently bit one breast, then the other, until she was a squirming mass of heat and need and sweat-sheened skin.

Until she was reduced to begging after all.

“Urban… please…”

Her heart thumped as he kissed his way between her breasts then down her torso. Hands sliding up and down the backs of her thighs, he paused to dip his tongue in her belly button then skimmed his mouth along her lower stomach, the scrape of his whiskers making her hotter. Wetter.

He kissed her left hipbone, then her right before lowering farther, his fingers drawing circles on the sensitive skin behind her knees. Smoothed his hands slowly down her calves as if nothing was more important to him than learning her body. Feeling each and every centimeter of skin. Molding each muscle. Tracing every bone.

Willow leaned her head back against the wall, her body no longer her own. Each breath was bated, waiting for his next touch to release it. The beats of her heart matching every brush of his lips. He caressed her inner thighs, soft touches that tingled and tantalized. Had her legs falling open as if of their own accord, an invitation. A plea.

At the first stroke of his tongue at her center, she rose onto her toes as if trying to escape the shock of it. The unadulterated pleasure. But he followed her, rising up, hands opening her legs even more, clever tongue and mouth licking and tasting her most intimate place. She was adrift, with nothing to hold on to, so she clasped her right hand around her left wrist, pulling both straight up. Arched into his mouth, helpless against his sure, firm, languid strokes and her rising need to find release.

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