Page 107 of Playboy Pitcher
Blind faith.
“Yes,” I tell her, finally understanding the meaning of those two words. “With a solid enough reason, you can always ask for forgiveness, but you can’t get a second chance to be someone’s hero.”
Willow’s breath hitches, and her shoulders sag. “I hope you mean that.”
I don’t like the finality in her voice. There’s a static clinging to her, and it feels like I’m about to get shocked. “Why are you asking me this? Where were you tonight?”
She gives me a muddled smile. “Being someone’s hero.”
“What the hell does that—?” My lower back is slammed against the counter as she leaps into my arms. I barely have time to brace my uninjured arm under her ass before she wraps her legs around my waist and her arms around my neck. “Willow,” I rasp, because she’s squeezing so tightly I can’t fucking breathe. “You’re shaking. Jesus, talk to me. What can I do?”
“Love me,” she whispers against my neck, the words so soft I barely hear them. “At least for one night. Love me, Ben.”
I freeze. I never said anything about love. What she’s asking is something I can’t take back. Somethingwecan’t take back.
She spoke the word, but the act makes it real.
But one last look at her tear-stained face, and I can’t deny her. She’s my West Palm Willow. I’ve been incapable of denying her anything since the moment she stumbled into that bar and my life.
I don’t think anymore. I can’t. If I stop to think about what I’m doing, we’ll both realize what it means and then do what we both do best.
Run.
So instead, I carry her into my bedroom and lay her on my bed. She doesn’t say a word; she just looks up at me with those soulful eyes. The ones hiding years of solitude and responsibility. They watch me as I remove her clothes piece by piece, slowly baring the body I’ve come to know so well.
I never take my eyes off her as I reach behind me and pull my shirt over my head, tossing it across the room before unbuttoning my pants. Her breathing becomes heavy, desire swimming in the tears still pooling in her eyes.
The first time I touched her, I told her we were two fucked- up sides of the same coin. People who needed pain to feel pleasure.
But I was wrong.
Sinking a finger into her wet heat, I pump leisurely as I take her lips. Sometimes, people like us simply need pleasure to dull the pain.
Willow’s breathing escalates along with her whimpers. Just as her pussy clamps down on my finger, I withdraw it. When she opens her mouth to protest, I claim it, drowning her moan as I position my cock at her entrance and slowly sink deep inside her.
Breaking our kiss, I bow my head to suck air back into my lungs. Fucking hell, I don’t know what this is, but it’s dragging pieces of my soul out of me, breath by breath.
“Ben…” Willow’s soft touch grazes my cheek, and I look up to see the same tortured look in her eye. “Please…”
Please.
Another word I finally understand.
Our gazes lock as I pull out, only to sink back in even more agonizingly slow. Again, and again, and again. Soon, Willow’s body is moving with me, our eyes as connected as our bodies.
“Love me. At least for one night. Love me, Ben.”
If this is love, I’ll do it for the rest of my life.
There are no images to uphold or walls to break down here. And like she said in New York, there’s no Playboy Pitcher or Willow Mays McBaine.
We’re just Ben and Willow.
Man and wife.
Willow’s legs lock around my waist as her fingers dig into my hair. “Ben…”
The word is my name. The sound is a warning.
