Chapter 14 Willa #2
“Willa.” My name sounds like a prayer and a curse all at once.
I lean in again, and this time my lips brush the corner of his mouth. His hands are on my waist instantly, pulling me closer, and I can feel the restraint in every line of his body.
“This isn’t part of the rules,” he manages, his voice rough.
“I know,” I breathe against his mouth. “Just this once.”
I don’t care about the rules or the fake dating or the expiration date on this arrangement. Right now, I just want to feel him.
He kisses me, and there’s this desperation hibernating right beneath my skin, like I’m air or food, drawing and pulling. I can’t catch up. His lips finally slow, and I feel a soft vibration coming from his chest.
I make sounds I’ve never made before—small whimpers and gasps that I can’t control—and I feel his responding growl rumble through his chest. My skin feels hot, hotter than I’ve ever felt.
His hands, which had been sitting on my hips, slide up under my sweater, and the whine I’ve been fighting all night breaks away from me. It’s the neediest, most wanton sound—I didn’t even know I could make that sound.
“Willa.” My name on his lips as he pulls away from me, only long enough to look into my face, asking, begging me to let him keep going. I answer him by reaching up into his hair and pulling him back into me.
More, more, more. I need more. More kissing, more pressure, just more Beau.
Somewhere there’s a little voice trying to tell me to stop, that this might not be what I want, but any protest dies when his hands slide back down to my hips, then lower, slipping under the hem of my skirt. The first touch of his fingers on my bare thigh makes me gasp into his mouth.
“Beau—”
“I’ve wanted to do this all night,” he admits against my lips, his voice hoarse. “Wanted to get my hands on you, wanted to feel your skin.”
My scent perfumes the air around us, and I know he can smell my arousal, can smell how much I want this. Want him. There’s no hiding it, no pretending. If he edged his hand even a little higher, he’d feel my slick as it slips down my thigh.
He walks us backward until my back hits the door, and I make a sound that’s half-gasp, half-moan. His hand slides higher, fingers tracing patterns on my inner thigh, and I’m trembling, desperate, aching for his touch.
“Fuck. Tell me to stop,” he pants between kisses, and I can hear the barely leashed control in his voice.
“Don’t stop,” I whisper.
I feel his hand slip lower, and I think he’s going to leave, be done, and a moment of panic has me reaching for his hand to pull it back.
“Easy,” he says with a chuckle, and he palms the back of my thigh, lifting one leg to rest on his cocked hip, leaving me thoroughly exposed, the short denim skirt wedged around my waist. I’m very thankful for the lacy underwear I threw on at the last minute. “Willa.”
My name is reverent on his lips. The way he says it makes me feel like a goddess. Not very sure what to do with my hands, I fiddle with them awkwardly, then put them behind my back, which makes my breasts jut forward.
“Beautiful.”
His other hand runs along the bottom of my sweater and then over my belly, letting his massive palm roughly make a path to my breast, then to my sternum, and then to cradle my jaw. He pulls me into another bone-melting kiss.
“Give me your hands,” he says, and I do, letting him raise them to just above my head and press them against the hard door behind me. I feel powerless and powerful all at the same time.
I move my hips, desperate for touch, friction, for anything. Then I feel his other hand move up my leg again, finding the edge of my underwear and slipping his thumb underneath, gently stroking.
“Fuck, you’re soaked.”
And as though the evidence of how much I want this, want him, shreds the last bit of gentlemanly behavior he had, he pushes his thumb inside me before running it up over the tiny bud of nerves that pulses with need.
I cry out at the contact, at the pleasure of finally being touched. More slick pours from me.
He pulls his hand back with fire in his eyes and, never breaking eye contact, tastes me on his fingers while I watch.
He closes his eyes and groans. Then lowers his lips to mine and kisses me deeply, and I taste myself and all my sweetness on his tongue.
A painful need to be filled, to come, makes me whimper. “Please,” I beg, not afraid of the clawing desire that would have me on all fours if he asked.
“Let me make you come,” he pleads.
“Yes.”
I’m soaked, desperate, and when his hand finds me again, and his finger slips inside me, I arch against him with a sound I quickly muffle against my shoulder.
“Look at me, Omega. Eyes up here.” The dominance in those words sends a wave of pleasure crashing through me, so sharp I almost climax right there.
He works in a second finger, curling them perfectly, and he’s so big I feel the stretch all the way through me. It’s been a long time since I’ve had sex with anyone, and even longer—six years—since I’ve been with an Alpha.
More slick pours out of me as I imagine what his knot would feel like inside me.
“Baby, fuck, you’re so wet.” The utter want in his eyes makes me bare my neck. He moves his fingers in and out, pumping into me with steady, firm pressure, teasing me, stopping when I want him to go faster, edging me until I’m growling. More, more, I fucking need more.
“Beau…” I gasp as he reads my mind and adds a third finger. He barely starts to move again when I shatter. I fall completely apart in his arms while he holds me, murmurs praise against my skin, works me through every wave of pleasure until I’m boneless and trembling.
When I finally come back to myself, he’s watching me with an expression that’s pure heat. He brings his fingers to his mouth and licks them clean, tasting me, and I nearly come apart all over again.
“You’re going to kill me,” I manage faintly.
“Not the plan.” He leans down, kissing me again, letting me taste myself on his tongue. It only fuels my need.
We kiss until we’re both breathless, until I can feel every firm inch of him pressed against me, and I know he’s barely holding on.
“Unless you want to go inside,” he rasps, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes, “I’m going to need a minute.”
He takes my hand and presses it against the hard length straining his jeans. I gasp, feeling the heat of him, the size, and my fingers flex involuntarily.
“I—” Desire and uncertainty war inside me. I want him. God, I want him. But something holds me back.
“Hey.” He presses his forehead to mine, his breathing ragged. “It’s okay. We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”
The understanding in his voice nearly breaks me. Pulling away from him feels impossible.
We stand there for a long moment, sharing the same space, our breaths fogging the air between us. The moment transforms from desperate need into something softer, more intimate. Something that feels dangerously real.
“I should go,” he finally says, even though neither of us moves.
“Yeah,” I agree, but my body doesn’t want to let him leave.
With visible effort, he steps back. Pulls my skirt down and puts space between us. I watch him struggle to control his breathing, to master the Alpha instincts that are clearly screaming at him to stay.
“Goodnight, Willa.”
“Goodnight, Beau.”
I watch him walk back to his truck, every movement tense with restraint. When he looks back at me, I’m still standing here with one hand pressed to my lips, tasting him, remembering.
And I know—with a certainty that terrifies me—that this is never going to work.
I was lying to myself from the beginning. Lying when I said I could keep my heart out of this. Lying when I agreed to two months with a clean break.
Instead, I just stand here and watch his taillights disappear, my body still humming with pleasure, my heart aching with want, and the absolute certainty that two months will never be enough.
Because I’m already falling for Beau McCrea, and all it took was one date.