Page 177 of Holding On To Good

She knew that when he came, his expression was both fierce and rapturous.

Knew that when he made her come, he looked triumphant and possessive.

She’d mapped the terrain of his face and body the way she’d always wanted, her fingers free to delve into the thick strands of his hair and smooth over his brow. She’d explored the width of his shoulders and slope of his biceps, her hands traveling along the ridges of his abdomen, her nails scraping lightly through the coarse, springy hair on his thighs.

But there had been unexpected discoveries, too. Little surprises she’d never imagined, such as how unbelievably soft and warm the skin at the nape of his neck was. How incredibly sensitive the spot behind his left ear. How his breath caught and held when he entered her. How it released on a soft burst when she pulled him closer. How his hand trembled as he skimmed his fingers along her cheek. The way he said her name in that moment between her climax and his, his soft tone reverent and awed, her name a plea. A prayer.

It was those secrets she had to be careful of. It was as if with every kiss, every touch and whispered word, new truths between them were exposed.

It seemed as if with every kiss, every touch and whispered word, he wanted those truths revealed.

“Well,” she said, but her voice was thick and she had to stop. Clear her throat. She wished she could finish her glass of wine, but as she had to now drive home, she didn’t dare take even another sip.

Breaking up—whether you were being dumped, doing the dumping or following a set of very practical, extremely smart guidelines—sucked.

And hurt. So very much.

With a deep breath, she set her wine on the counter then picked up her laptop. Forced herself to meet his eyes. “I’ll see you Monday.”

Then, with a nod, she turned.

Only to come up short when he shoved away from the table and blocked her escape.

“What are you doing?” he asked, beardy scowl firmly in place.

And, oh, how she loved that beardy scowl.

Although it seemed out of place at the moment. He should be relieved she was taking this so calmly.

Relieved and grateful. Not pissed off.

“I’m leaving.”

He stabbed a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up above his right ear, adding another level to his whole sexy, irritated look. “Because I made dinner?”

Well, now he was just being obtuse.

“Because you just said you changed your mind about us being together.”

Cupping his hand behind his neck, he ducked his head, his shoulders rising and falling with a deep inhale, as if he was struggling to find that patience that used to be such a big part of him.

Finally, he dropped his hand and lifted his head. “I haven’t changed my mind about us being together. I don’t want less of you,” he added softly. “I want more.”

Willow flinched.

She’d thought he was ending things with her.

And she’d been fine with that. Other than a flash of disappointment in her eyes and a slight tremble to her voice, she’d been prepared to go on with her life as if he’d never touched her in the first place.

But him telling her he wanted more and she goddamn flinched.

This, Urban thought, shoving his hands into his pockets, was why he hadn’t told her he’d wanted to cook for her. If he had, if he’d asked her to have dinner with him, just the two of them, at his house on a Saturday night, she would’ve balked. Would’ve told him that it was too close to an actual date. That it went against the rules of their fling.

He was really starting to hate those fucking rules.

Almost as much as he’d always hated her calling what was between them a fling.

“I want more,” he repeated. “I want to spend an hour or two with you talking or eating or watching a movie. I want to cook dinner for you. I want to spend the night with you.” He couldn’t help but take a step toward her. “I want to wake up with you.”

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