21. Temptations On The Sunset Horizon
Temptations On The Sunset Horizon
~WILLA~
I nto the changing room on unsteady legs, my skin still humming from River's touch, from his promise in calling me Dandelion like I'm something delicate and wild all at once.
The sundress whispers against my thighs as I carefully hang it on the provided hook, trying not to think about how his eyes tracked every movement when I spun for him. How his voice went rough on "beautiful," like the word cost him something to say.
Twenty-three hours and—I check my phone—seventeen minutes left.
The numbers mock me, counting down to something that feels bigger than just medical clearance.
My fingers shake as I reach for the last item in the pile River selected, barely glancing at the white fabric.
My mind's elsewhere, caught on the memory of his teeth on my lip, the careful pressure that made my whole body light up like struck flint.
The material is softer than expected, some kind of silk blend that slides through my fingers like water.
I'm already stepping out of my jeans, mind replaying the way River's cock pressed hard and insistent against me through his denim.
The way he didn't apologize or make excuses, just let me feel exactly what I do to him.
My pussy clenches at the memory, and I have to bite back a whimper as I pull my tank top over my head.
I'm so lost in sense memory—his hands on my back, the rumble of "good girl" in his chest—that I don't really look at what I'm putting on.
The fabric is minimal, requiring some adjustments, but my brain interprets this as just another style choice.
Straps here, elastic there. The boutique carries all kinds of modern cuts, after all.
It's only when I'm reaching behind to figure out some kind of complicated back closure that I catch my reflection in the full-length mirror.
And freeze.
This isn't a romper.
Or a dress.
Or anything remotely suitable for public wear.
It's lingerie. It has to be. Delicate white lace that barely covers anything, all strategic panels and sheer mesh that leaves nothing to the imagination.
The bra pushes my breasts up and together in a way that makes them look fuller, while the matching panties—God, can they even be called panties?—are held together by tiny bows at each hip. A garter belt circles my waist with straps that dangle loose, waiting for stockings I don't have.
"Oh fuck," I breathe, staring at my reflection in horror. My skin looks pale as cream against the white lace, every curve and valley on display. The shop lighting catches on the delicate embroidery, making the fabric seem to glow. I look like a virgin sacrifice. Or a wedding night fantasy. Or?—
"How's it going in there?" River's voice carries through the curtain, closer than before. He must be right outside.
I spin away from the mirror, hands flying to cover myself even though he can't see.
"I'm—it's—" My voice cracks, and I clear my throat. "I'm not sure this one is meant for... outdoors."
There's a pause.
Then, carefully neutral:
"What do you mean?"
My face burns hotter than the October sun. How do I explain that I accidentally put on something that belongs in a honeymoon suite, not a daytime ride?
That I'm standing here looking like every wet dream he's probably tried not to have about me?
"Maybe you should..." I swallow hard, gathering courage. "Could you come in? Instead of me coming out?"
Another pause, longer this time.
I can practically hear him processing, weighing options.
"You sure?"
No. Yes. I don't know.
My body makes the decision for me, nipples tightening visibly through the sheer lace at just the thought of him seeing me like this.
"Please?"
The curtain moves slightly, and River peeks his head in. His eyes find mine first, some question there, but then his gaze drops and his whole body goes rigid. His pupils blow wide, black swallowing green until only a thin ring remains.
"Christ," he breathes, and the word sounds punched out of him.
I cross my arms over my chest, which only succeeds in pushing my breasts up further.
"I didn't realize what it was when I grabbed it. I thought—I wasn't paying attention and—" I'm babbling, cheeks flaming, unable to meet his eyes. "Maybe it doesn't fit right? I know I'm too curvy for something like this?—"
"Stop." The command cuts through my nervous rambling.
River steps fully into the changing room, one hand reaching back to carefully, deliberately pull the curtain closed. The small space shrinks with his presence, his pine and earth scent mixing with the perfume of my embarrassment and— God help me —arousal.
He approaches slowly, like I might bolt.
Maybe I would, if my legs weren't locked in place by the intensity of his stare.
He's not looking at me like I'm too much or not enough. He's looking at me like I'm a feast and he's been starving for years.
His fingers trail whisper-light along my bare shoulder, following the delicate lace strap. The touch is barely there, but it sends lightning down my spine.
"You look," he says, voice dropped to a register that vibrates in my bones, "like the most wanted dessert that I'd gladly devour."
The words should sound silly, maybe even cheesy.
But the way he says them— rough and honest and hungry —makes my knees weak. He leans in, and I watch his chest expand as he takes a deliberate, deep inhale. His exhale comes out as a growl, low and primal, the sound of an Alpha catching the scent of an Omega in heat.
Goosebumps race across my skin, and I can't contain the needy whimper that escapes.
My body recognizes that sound, responds to it on a cellular level. Every nerve ending lights up, and I feel myself getting wetter, the borrowed panties no match for the slick beginning to gather.
River's hands clench at his sides like he's physically holding himself back. But his eyes—his eyes devour every inch of exposed skin, lingering on the swell of my breasts, the dip of my waist, the barely-there fabric that pretends to cover my pussy.
"Dandelion," he murmurs, and my name has never sounded so much like a promise.
River moves closer still, each inch of diminished space making my breath catch, until I can feel the heat radiating from his body without quite touching.
His head dips, and I tense, expecting his mouth on mine.
Instead, his lips find the curve where my neck meets shoulder, barely a brush of contact that somehow sets every nerve alight.
"So soft," he murmurs against my skin, the words vibrating through me.
His lips trail up, mapping the column of my throat with reverent pressure.
Each kiss is deliberate, controlled, but I can feel the restraint thrumming through him in the careful placement of his hands—still at his sides, still not grabbing me the way his eyes promise he wants to.
When he reaches my collarbone, he pauses. His tongue darts out, tasting the hollow there, and my knees actually buckle. Only pride keeps me upright, that and the wall at my back.
"Can I..." His voice is wrecked, barely more than a rasp. He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, and the hunger there makes my stomach clench. "Can I have a glimpse of what it'll be like to appease you?"
The formal words contrast with the raw need in his delivery. Appease me. Like I'm something divine requiring tribute, not a half-naked mess in borrowed lingerie who can barely remember her own name under his attention.
I try to form words, but his hooded gaze pins me in place.
Those green eyes are more black than color now, focused on me with an intensity that makes me hyperaware of everything.
The lace scratching against oversensitive nipples.
The changing room's recycled air moving across too much bare skin.
The way my pussy throbs in time with my heartbeat, already so wet I can feel it beginning to coat my inner thighs.
"Willa." He lifts one hand—finally, finally touching with intent—and his fingers catch my chin, tilting my face up. His thumb traces my bottom lip, the same lip he bit in the boutique's main room. The memory makes me shiver. "I need to hear your words, Dandelion. You can use them, yes?"
It's gentle but firm, making sure I'm present, I'm choosing, I'm not just swept along by hormones and proximity.
The care in it, the way he waits despite the obvious strain of holding back, breaks something open in my chest.
"Yes," I whisper, then clearer: "I want..." The words tangle, too many wants crowding my throat. Want his hands, his mouth, his weight pressing me into the wall. Want to know what sounds he makes when control finally snaps. Want to be claimed and cherished and—"I want a glimpse of him...of us."
The pronoun shift matters.
Not just him but us, acknowledging what we could be together. His thumb presses slightly against my lip as his breathing roughens.
"Fuck, the things you say." He moves then, decisive and sure. One hand cups my face while the other finds my hip, and he walks me backward the two steps to the opposite wall. My back hits the cool surface and I gasp at the contrast—cold wall, hot Alpha, my burning skin caught between.
His mouth finds mine with none of the earlier restraint. This kiss is hungry, possessive, years of want condensed into the slide of lips and shared breath.
He kisses like he's trying to crawl inside me, like he can somehow imprint himself on my soul through pressure and need alone.
My hands fly to his shoulders, clutching at his shirt as he angles my head where he wants it. His tongue traces the seam of my lips and I open immediately, eager for more of his taste—pine and coffee and something uniquely River that makes my head spin.
He makes a sound— approval or relief or pure want —and deepens the kiss. His hand slides from my jaw to circle my throat, not squeezing but holding, pinning me in place with gentle authority. The possession in it, the careful control, makes me whimper into his mouth.