Page 161 of Holding On To Good

He smoothed his free hand up her side, searching for some magic button that would have her clothes falling off with the flick of his fingers. “How the hell do you get out of this thing?”

“It ties…” She gasped as he pressed his thumb against her clit. Lifted her hips as he rubbed circles there. “Behind my neck.”

Except he wasn’t willing to stop touching her, not even for a moment, not even if it meant getting her naked. Not when she was undulating against his hand like it was the best thing she’d ever felt. Not when she was so hot, the material growing damp with her wetness.

“Untie it.”

She immediately lifted her arms as if unable to refuse him anything.

As if she liked when he got bossy. Got off on him commanding her.

Jesus, but that was heady stuff. Learning these new things about her—the things she liked. The fantasies she had. What turned her on even more.

Part of him wanted to test her, wanted to see how far he could push her, but he was shaking with need, rubbing his cock against the incredibly soft skin of her inner thigh, so fucking hot for her, he was half afraid he was going come all over her legs.

Testing her, pushing her would have to wait.

But he did lean back so he could watch as she reached behind her neck, the movement thrusting her breasts forward. Gentling his touch on her, he took his cock in his free hand, stroking them both slowly as she undid the tie and peeled the top down, leaving her naked from the waist up except for a black, strapless bra. Her pale skin glowed against the dark material, her nipples poking through, her breasts mounded above the cups.

“The rest,” he said.

She reached behind her again, this time at her lower back, and a moment later he heard the soft snick of a zipper. Leaning back on her elbows, she lifted her ass up and shimmied the outfit down her legs. He stepped back, giving her room to kick the clothes aside.

She reclined on his desk in her bra, black, lace panties and a pair of strappy, tan sandals—not her cowboy boots, but they’d do—all long limbs, subtle curves and pale, smooth skin.

He nodded at her bra. “Unhook it.”

Sitting up, she shook her head. Grabbed his wrist and tugged his hand between her legs. “More.” She rolled her hips against his fingers. “Harder.”

Her own demands, except hers were soft and breathless. More entreaty than command.

Maybe he could test her after all.

Maybe he could make another fantasy come true.

Maybe he could make her beg.

Sliding his hand from her, he shifted back. But he couldn’t stop touching her. Not completely, so he let his fingertips trail along her upper thighs, just under the hem of her panties.

“Take it off,” he told her.

They stared at each other. It was a risk, this battle of wills. Willow never took well to being told what to do and when she was pushed, she shoved back. Harder.

But her eyes were dark with want. Her breathing fast and irregular. And when he forced himself to slowly withdraw his hands from her legs, she whimpered, the sound of disappointment seeming to wrap around his dick and squeeze.

She swallowed and shifted, the movement jerky. Frustrated. “I could just take care of myself, you know.”

“You could.” And he’d love to see it. Another time. Yet another fantasy. “Or you could do what I tell you.” He lightly traced his fingertip across her pussy. “And let me take care of you.”

She was trembling, her entire body strung tight as a bow, but still she fought it.

Fought him.

“Give me what I want,” he said, the words tumbling from him on a wave of lust and desperation. Fuck. At this rate, he was the one who’d be begging. “Just this once. Give me what I want.”

Willow fought the urge to squirm. To scream.

She was on fire. Her heart racing. Her muscles tense. Every inch of skin hypersensitive and tingling, as if it was too tight. Unable to contain the building want inside of her.

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