Chapter 21
Willow
Wyatt's dark eyes challenge me to lie to him so this doesn't go any further.
I should, but I can't. My skin buzzes with longing and anticipation, and I'm way past the point of having any control over this situation. It ended the moment I got in the truck with him.
The atmosphere between us thickens, heavier than it was on the ride over, denser than it was in that damn jail cell, and more electric than it's been in seven years.
Blood rushes hot in my veins. The scent of cheap soap and pine-scented cleaner hangs in the air, stifling any remaining discipline I may have to make a good decision.
Wyatt doesn't flinch. He stands in front of the door, with his rugged stare, daring me to bolt.
My chest rises and falls too quickly. I blurt out, "Are you going to say something?"
He tips his head slightly, a teasing twinkle appearing in his gaze. He taunts, "I was trying to let you breathe first."
"I'm not sure I've done that since I saw you in your cell."
He swallows, his jaw twitching, not missing a beat. "If it makes you feel better, I haven't since I saw you glaring at me through the bars."
A laugh stumbles out of me, unsure and too high-pitched.
He steps closer, peering at me so intensely, my bones feel like they've caught fire.
What am I doing here with him?
We aren't kids anymore.
This is going to end in disaster again.
I shift, needing something to do with my hands, but all I've got is the hem of my wrap and a fast-dissolving grip on my sanity. "Wyatt—"
"Don't." He closes the gap further, his voice low, not tearing his gaze off mine. "Don't give me the speech. Not right now. Not after that truck ride. Not after what I felt when you touched me."
"I didn't touch you," I claim, but it's a lie, and we both know it.
A wicked, slow, dangerous grin curls his lips. He drawls, "Sugar, you grabbed my shirt like you were trying to rip it off and leave me to freeze in the snow."
Heat scorches through my chest and runs straight between my legs.
I cross my arms. "You're imagining things."
He steps so close, the toes of our boots touch. He shakes his head. "No, I'm not. And trust me, I've imagined plenty of things about you, Willow, so I know fantasy versus reality."
Butterflies resume the war they've been fighting in my belly since Christmas night. Every time they destroy a red flag, another one appears to replace it.
This isn't a smart way to start the New Year.
I tilt my chin up. "You think a few sweet words are going to undo what you did?"
He drops his voice lower, sending a wave of shivers down my spine. "No. I think one more kiss might, though."
Brutal silence expands around us until the air in my lungs turns stale.
I don't want to forgive him, but I want him.
God help me. I still want him.
It's the same problem I've had since the day I realized Wyatt was no longer a big brother figure anymore.
His hand lifts. His rough fingertips skim my jaw. "You're still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
I should shove him away and spew every curse at him that's been festering in my chest for years. Instead, I whisper, "You still talk too pretty."
His lips twitch. "Want me to shut up?"
Eight seconds pass and then the ability to jump out of the way of a moving train no longer exists. Years of pain and longing come to a halt.
His mouth crashes into mine with the force of a storm, and the winds are too ferocious to fight.
And there's nothing sweet about it this time. It's hard, deep, filthy, and full of everything we can't take back.
His hand slides into my hair, tilting my head back as he takes more.
My arms go around his shoulders, gripping him for dear life. I kiss him back, sinking into everything that's Wyatt, and remembering how good it feels to be the object of his insatiable hunger.
He breaks the kiss just enough to challenge, "Still want me to stop?"
I breathe against his lips, "Shut up, Wyatt."
A low growl vibrates in his throat. He moves me backward, pinning me to the peeling wallpaper. Every inch of his thick, demanding hard-on fights his denim, pressing against my stomach. He yanks my hair.
My eyes flutter with borderline dizziness.
His mouth trails down my neck while his fingers unzip my jeans. He mumbles, "You still smell like warm amber, jasmine, and sin, all ready to rope around me forever."
"You still talk in cowboy riddles."
"And you still clench your thighs when I say something dirty."
I smile against his lips, then slip my tongue back into his mouth, fumbling with his shirt.
He reaches behind his neck and tears it off, displaying a bruised abdomen more ripped than it was seven years ago.
I wince, staring at the purple and yellow marks.
He tilts my chin up, forcing my gaze back to his. "Don't worry, sugar. My cock and tongue still work just fine."
I stifle a giggle, feeling giddy and drunk, even though I'm not inebriated.
He nips at my ear and murmurs, "I got extra whipped cream, and I remember how to use it."
Bolts of adrenaline shoot to my core. I squeeze my thighs together.
He grunts, grinning. "I told you." He slides his hand under my jeans and over my panties.
I sharply inhale, my insides quivering, sinking into his familiar—and missed—possessive touch. I press my hand to his chest over his heart. It beats furiously under my fingers, reminding me how broken he left me. So I whisper, "I hate you."
"I know."
"I really do."
"Then punish me," he growls, grinding his erection against me and sliding two fingers past my panties. "Scratch me up. Ride me like you're trying to forget me."
Arching into his hand, I groan and pull his mouth back to mine.
He turns us and moves toward the bed without breaking our kiss. Our boots hit the floor, followed by my shirt, his belt, then my jeans. He peels them off, and his voice comes out slightly angry, stating, "I'm taking my gift back." He pushes me on the bed and kneels between my legs.
Gift?
I tense. "Wyatt—"
"Don't, Willow," he warns, then glances up, breathless, eyes ablaze. "I remember everything about you. Every sound. Every taste. Every goddamn look you ever gave me in the dark. And then you ripped it all away. But I didn't say you could have it back. So I'm reclaiming it as mine."
I suck in a breath, thighs trembling under his hands.
He leans in, dragging his tongue up my inner thigh. "I'm gonna take my time, so sit back and say some prayers, sugar."
My voice cracks. "Wh-why?"
"Because I'm not walking out of this motel room until you're as limp as I am and have no more reservations about us." He moves his tongue to the tip of my slit, his hot breath buzzing against my skin.
My hands dive into his hair. I curl my fingers, tugging, and admit, "I hate how much I missed that mouth."
An amused promise barrels out of him. "Then let me remind you how much you need it." He drags his tongue slowly against me, sinfully circling exactly where I'm already aching.
Every flick pulls a gasp from deep in my chest. The quiver in my stomach intensifies, and every nerve I have swells with anticipation.
He murmurs against me, "And, sugar, I ain't stopping until you lose your voice crying out my name." His mouth ravages me like he's starving.
"Wyatt!" I call out against my will. My fingers tangle in his hair, gripping for dear life as I grind my trembling pussy against his face.
He groans, tightening his fingers around my hips. He flicks his tongue until I'm spent, then kisses my inner thighs.
I take ragged breaths.
He taunts, "You always sounded so goddamn sweet when you begged. Let's hear it again, sugar." His mouth latches back on my pussy, and a round of adrenaline sits ready to detonate within me.
"Wyatt! Oh God… Please."
"That's it," he coaxes, pressing his tongue so firmly to my clit, it makes my hips jerk.
"Wyatt!" I whimper, my legs shaking. My heart pounds so hard, I swear the walls echo with it.
"I've been dreaming about your taste since you stole it from me," he snaps, voice tight with hurt. He circles his tongue, pulses it, then flattens it, repeating the cycle over and over.
I fall apart under his mouth again, arching my back and clenching the thread-bare comforter.
He relentlessly flicks, mercilessly owning every drop of my pleasure.
My back bows higher, and I cry out, shattering with an all-consuming pressure so great that I squirt my arousal all over him.
"That's my fucking sugar," he praises, sticking his tongue in my hole and lapping up every ounce he can.
I moan, shaking through it, trying to catch my breath, feeling delirious.
He finally lifts his head and then crawls up my body. His mouth hovers over mine, smelling like my orgasms. "I'm not done," he warns, tone guttural, erection taunting my pussy.
I pull his face toward me, kissing him the same way as I used to, with no reservations, hate, or regret. It's just Wyatt and me, two lovers who were separated from each other for too long.
His hand slides under my back, arching me to him as he shucks his jeans. Then he's fully pressed against me, bare, thick, harder than ever before. He pushes between my thighs.
I gasp.
"Sure you can still handle me?" he teases, brushing his lips over my cheek.
My heart pounds in my throat, craving the things he can do to me. "I'm not scared," I lie.
His grin turns wicked. "There's my girl."
He drives into me in one long, deep thrust.
I choke on a moan, rocking my hips while straining to take all of him at once.
"Damn it, sugar," he barks, pushing my thigh higher, sinking deeper, then withdrawing slowly before slamming back inside.
It pulls another cry from my throat.
"Don't tell me to be nice," he growls.
"Don't you dare," I manage to get out.
Our rhythm turns brutal, but it's honest, built on years of unsaid things and bodies that never forgot how perfectly they fit together.
The headboard hits the wall, banging so hard, it should break the drywall.
My pussy clenches once, then spasms. My nails dig into his shoulders, then score down his back.