Page 156 of Holding On To Good

Urban sat there, unmoving, while Willow had an internal debate, mulling over his words with a slight frown. Weighing them. Trying to decide if they met whatever specifications she’d set that would deem them trustworthy.

They stared at each other. How many times had they been in this room together, alone? How many hours had they spent in here going over estimates or schedules or any of the million things small business owners were tasked with doing? Side by side. So much time they’d spent together, always at ease. Always comfortable with what they were to each.

Now it wasn’t enough for him.

It would never be enough for him again.

“Shut the door.”

She started at his low, rough command. “What?”“You want to fuck me out of your system?” he grumbled, watching her closely, noting the rush of color in her cheeks. “Best get started.”

Frowning, she crossed her arms. “That’s not what I said.”

Maybe not, but it’s sure as hell what she meant with that bullshit about exploring the attraction between them in a casual, no-strings way.

But only until something better came along.

Someone better.

She thought a few rounds of hot, sweaty sex would purge him from her thoughts. That she could satiate her hunger for him and go on with her life. That she could move on to someone new, as if nothing had happened between them. Nothing had changed.

As if what was between them, what had been between them forever, would simply cease to be because she didn’t want to deal with it.

He was going to prove her wrong.

“I’ve fantasized about this,” he admitted softly. “About us. Here. In this office.”

She blinked rapidly. “You… I… here…”

Christ, but he loved being able to make her stutter and stammer. Loved knowing he was the one who’d put that blush in her cheeks, her color deepening even more. Who was making her breath catch then quicken.

He liked being able to surprise her. Liked treating her how a man treated a woman he wanted.

And he was going to love showing her how good it was going to be between them.

“In my fantasy,” he continued, “I’m sitting here, in this very chair behind this very desk, innocently doing paperwork, when you open the door. You stand there, like you are now, except you’re wearing a dress—”

“Which dress?” she asked, suspicion lining her tone, as if he was making this whole scenario up on the spot to mess with her.

As if he was the liar here. Not her.

“The green one. With the wide neck and the belt that ties. And your brown cowboy boots.”

He was getting hard just thinking about it.

Or maybe that was due to her standing not twelve feet away in a dark blue one-piece shorts thing that ended mid-thigh, nipped in at the waist, the top tied behind her neck. Her shoulders were bare, her hair wavy and wild and bright as the sun.

Or because this really was how his fantasy started, with him sitting and her standing in the doorway. Because if he played this right, he could give her two or three mind-blowing orgasms, prove to her that walking away from him won’t be nearly as easy as she thought, and bring that fantasy to life.

But first he had to convince her to close the goddamn door.

Her frown easing, she took a half step forward, as if pulled on a string by his words—but left one hand on the door handle, keeping the door open.

Holding back from him.

“You like my cowboy boots?” she asked.All he could do was nod.

Liked them? Three of his top ten fantasies about her involved the stacked heels of those tan boots digging into his back while he fucked her.

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