Page 183 of Holding On To Good

He wanted to drag her to every room of his house—and a few spots outside—have her on every available surface so that every day, everywhere he went, anywhere he looked, he’d see her. He’d remember.

And every time she was here, every birthday party or Sunday dinner or picnic, she’d remember, too.

But mostly, he wanted her in his bed. Her body laid out before him. Her scent on his sheets. Her head on his pillow.

“Bedroom?” he asked against her mouth, remembering the last time, the only time, they’d had sex at his house how resistant she was to go upstairs.

She nodded. No hesitation. No compromises or addendums to her rules. No pointing out that this was temporary on her part. How it didn’t mean anything.

Nothing to remind him that when she decided to walk away, he’d have no choice but to let her.

His heart thudded heavily and he had to stop himself from throwing her over his shoulder like a caveman and running up the stairs.

Instead, he kissed her again.

Still kissing her he began to walk her backward, not an easy task with his dog whining and racing around them and her hand still in his pants, but he managed to get them all the way down the hall to the bottom step of the stairway without tripping and taking all three of them down.

She wiggled her hand out of his pants and wound her arms around his neck. Lifting her beneath her thighs he pressed her against the wall, his initial rush to get her upstairs and in his bed fading as he rolled his hips. Latched his mouth against the side of her throat.

He flicked his tongue over the rapid beat of her pulse. Sucked gently there, another way of wanting to mark her. A visible reminder that she was his. She shoved at his shirt and he held her against the wall with his hips, leaning back far enough to reach behind him with one hand and pull it off.

Then he kissed her again while she dragged her hands across his shoulders. Lightly scraped her nails down his back. He shuddered and rolled against her and those nails dug into his skin, the sharp bite of pain turning him into an animal.

With a growl, he shoved his hands under her shirt, but while it was loose and flowy from just above her waist down, it was tight around her upper ribs and breasts.

So tight he couldn’t reach her tits.

He yanked his hands free and ran them up and down her back, searching for a zipper… buttons… a goddamn magic lever that would open a portal to her soft, creamy skin and hard, pink nipples, but there was nothing.

As if sensing his frustration, Willow tore her mouth from his. “Zipper,” she said, kissing his jaw. His throat. “Side.”

Shifting her to the left, he dragged his right hand up her side to under her armpit.

She licked him, her tongue gliding up his throat. Nipped at his chin. “Other side.”

He repeated it all on her right side—the shifting, the dragging, finally discovering the smallest zipper tab known to mankind hidden within the folds of the material.

He tugged it down.

Only to have the zipper catch on the silky fabric and stay stuck.

What was with her and these impossible to get into clothes? Jesus. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think she wore them on purpose—that one-piece thing she had on that night at their office and now this shirt.

As unreasonable, as delusional as it was, he couldn’t help but think it was her way of keeping him on the other side of those walls she’d built.

And he wasn’t fucking having it.

“I’ll buy you a new one,” he said, breathing like a racehorse as he wiggled his fore and middle fingers into the space above the zipper tab. “I promise.”

And then he yanked the silky fabric, tearing it along the seam from her armpit to the hem.

Chapter Thirty-Four

In some far-off, distant part of her brain—a part that was still somehow semi-cognizant and not overrun with lust—Willow heard Urban murmur a promise to her. Something about buying her a present later.

Which was nice and all, but unnecessary. Him half-naked and pressed against her like he was, outdid any other gift. All she needed was this. His smooth skin under her hands. The play of his muscles as she touched him. His hot mouth claiming hers.

All she could ever want was more.

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