Page 158 of Holding On To Good

He hesitated. “It’s not romantic.”

“What?”

“My fantasy. It’s not romantic. It’s dirty and fast and something I think about when I’m jacking off in the shower.”

Her lips parted, her eyes glazed and he would’ve bet his left nut she was picturing him doing just that, masturbating to thoughts of her.

“It doesn’t have to be romantic,” she finally said, soft and simple. “It just has to be yours. And when you share it with me, it’ll be mine.”

That was what he wanted. To share his thoughts—his real thoughts—with her. To let her know all the things he’d kept hidden all these years.

But he didn’t want to scare her off. She was jumpy enough as it was, ready to bolt at the smallest complication. Looking for a way out before they’d even begun.

He raked a hand through his hair. “I respect you. I care about you. And I need you to know that the things I want to do to you aren’t because I see you as a plaything or because you’re convenient. It’s not even just because you’re beautiful and sexy as hell, or because whenever I see or think about you, I get as horny as a goddamn teenager.” Dropping his hand, he curled his fingers into his palm and tapped his fist against his thigh. “It’s because it’s you, Willow. Only you.”

Always you.

She exhaled shakily. “I think about you, too. I think about you when I touch myself and it’s not just because you’re handsome and sexy as hell. It’s you, Urban. And the things I imagine you doing to me aren’t always romantic, either. Sometimes they’re hot and dirty and fabulous.”

He shut his eyes, his breathing ragged. The idea of her lying in bed or in her shower, her hand between her legs, of her thinking of him while she made herself come, dragged a low, raw groan from his throat.

“And I really, really want to know,” she continued, “what happens when I walk over to you in your fantasy.”

“I stand up. Turn you around. Flip your skirt up and yank your underwear down and…”

“And?” she asked, breathless, her voice a low thrum of want.

“Come here,” he said again, eyes locked on hers. “And find out.”

She glanced at the desk, as if she knew, without him admitting it, that in his fantasy he bends her over the desk and fucks the hell out of her.

“Do I like it? What you do to me in your fantasy?”

Christ, but she was killing him.

“Come here.” This time it was a growl, low and feral. “And find out.”

That was what she did to him. Made him want to beg. To toss any and all pride aside and take whatever scraps she threw his way.

When it came to her, he was an idiot. Pathetic and weak. Unable to refuse her anything.

But when she began to walk toward him, none of it mattered. Not his pride. Not protecting his heart.

All that mattered was her.

Heart pounding, he watched her get closer and closer. Slowly. Steadily. Each step that brought her to him had the hem of her shorts pulling tight against her thighs, her sandals clicking quietly on the floor.

It was different than his fantasy.

And so much better.

By the time she was within reaching distance he was shaking—fucking shaking—with need. Trying to figure out the best way to get her out of that outfit. Wishing he hadn’t spread the blueprints for the Osterman reno on his desk.

Hoping like hell he could last long enough to make it good for her.

He started to stand but she held her hand out. Gave a quick shake of her head and he froze, fingers tightening on the armrests.

One step forward. Two goddamn steps back.

---