17. Willow
17
WILLOW
I t's four in the morning, and the kitchen is eerily quiet, the hum of the fridge the only sound keeping me company. I'm sitting on the counter, spoon in hand, the carton of rocky road ice cream in front of me like a cruel comfort. I can't sleep.
I take another bite, the chocolate and marshmallow sweetness melting on my tongue, the coldness a stark contrast to the warmth of unshed tears behind my eyes.
"Rocky road at four in the morning?" Vincent's smooth voice rolls over me. I peek over my shoulder at him.
He's standing in the doorway, shirtless, his bare chest catching the dim kitchen light. His muscles shift as he crosses his arms, jaw sharp yet relaxed, eyes heavy with sleep but intensely focused on me. The grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips seem hardly secure, and I wonder if he realizes how distracting he is.
Heat creeps up my neck despite the late hour. I glance back down at the ice cream, taking another bite to avoid his gaze, the sweetness turning bitter .
"Couldn't sleep," I say, not meeting his eyes, though I feel him studying me, trying to read the thoughts I've been desperately trying to hide.
He raises an eyebrow, leaning against the doorframe. "I can see that. But ice cream?" He steps into the kitchen, his presence making the room feel smaller, the air between us charged.
"I wanted to crawl in bed with you, but your room was empty," I whisper, stuffing another spoonful into my mouth to stop myself from saying more. "I thought you were gone again."
"I would never leave you on purpose." He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering against my skin. "You know that."
"Do I?" I snap, jerking away from his touch as if burned. The spoon clatters against the counter.
"Willow—"
"Vincent." I narrow my eyes, feeling months of pent-up anger and fear breaking through the surface. "You were gone for two months after I got major surgery."
"You didn't let me see you for two months when your heart was failing and you could have died at any moment." His voice drops to a dangerous growl, nostrils flaring as he steps closer, placing his hands on either side of me on the counter, caging me in. The scent of sandalwood and leather fills my senses.
His eyes, usually warm ocean blue, now burn with icy intensity. "Do you have any idea what that did to me?" His voice breaks slightly. "To know you were slipping away and not even being allowed to say goodbye? "
The air between us crackles. I can feel his breath against my face, see the muscle working in his jaw as he struggles to contain his emotions.
"I didn't want you to watch me die," I whisper, voice cracking. My fingers grip the edge of the counter, knuckles white. "I couldn't bear the thought of you seeing me like that—wasting away, tubes everywhere, barely conscious most days."
Vincent's eyes flash dangerously. He leans in until our foreheads nearly touch, his voice a ragged whisper. "Who said that was ever your choice?"
The words hit me like a physical blow.
"I had every right—" I begin, but he cuts me off.
"No." His hand cups my cheek, forcing me to look at him. "No, you didn't. Not when it comes to us." His thumb brushes away a tear I didn't know had fallen. "You don't get to decide how much of you I'm allowed to love."
Something inside me cracks. The walls I've carefully constructed crumble beneath the weight of his gaze.
"I was terrified," I admit, my voice barely audible. "Not of dying, but of leaving you with that memory. Of becoming someone you pitied instead of?—"
"Instead of what?" His voice softens, though the intensity in his eyes remains.
"Instead of someone you desired." The admission burns on its way out, a shameful truth I've been hiding even from myself.
Vincent's expression shifts, surprise giving way to something darker, hungrier. His hand slides from my cheek to the nape of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair.
"Look at me," he demands, and I do. "I have wanted you every single day since we met. When you were healthy. When you were sick. When you shut me out and broke my heart. Even now, when I'm furious with you—" His grip tightens, not painfully, but possessively. "I want you so much it's driving me insane."
My breathing quickens as his other hand finds my waist, thumb brushing the strip of exposed skin between my tank top and shorts.
"Vincent—"
"I thought I was going to lose you without ever getting to say goodbye," he continues, voice rough with emotion. "Do you have any idea what that did to me? What it still does to me every time I wake up and reach for you, terrified because you’re not there?
I can't speak, can't think past the overwhelming heat of him so close to me. My hands, acting of their own accord, rest against his chest. His heart hammers beneath my palm, a mirror to my own racing pulse.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, meaning it more than I've ever meant anything. "I was trying to protect you."
"I don't need your protection," he says fiercely. "I need you. All of you. The good and the bad. The healthy and the sick. I need to be allowed to love you through all of it."
The last of my resistance melts away. I slide my hands up to his shoulders, then to either side of his face.
"Then love me now," I whisper against his lips.
His response is immediate and consuming. His mouth crashes against mine, hungry and desperate, as if he's been holding himself back for far too long. My legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer as his hands grip my hips.
The kiss is a wildfire, burning away every rational thought, every fear, every memory of the time we spent apart. I can't breathe, don’t want to breathe, not when his lips are on mine, his tongue claiming me with a possessive urgency that makes my body ache. Not when he’s pressing into me, his body hard and unyielding against my softness. His hands slide down to my thighs.
“Vincent,” I gasp, breaking the kiss only for a moment. His name is a plea, a prayer, a promise.
“I’ve got you,” he growls, his voice rough with need. His hands tug at the hem of my shirt, pulling it over my head in one swift motion. The air is cool against my skin, but his hands are warmer, trailing up my sides, his thumbs grazing the curves of my breasts. I arch into his touch, my breath hitching as his mouth finds the sensitive skin of my neck.
“God, I missed you,” he murmurs against my throat, his teeth grazing my pulse point.
“I missed you too,” I whisper, my fingers tangling in his hair. “Every damn day.”
His eyes meet mine, dark and hungry, and I can feel the heat pooling low in my belly.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says, his voice thick with emotion. “So fucking beautiful, Willow. I don’t know how I survived without you.”
His hands slide up my thighs, pushing them apart, and I feel the heat of him as he steps between my legs. His fingers brush against the lace of my panties, and I jerk against him, already so sensitive, so desperate for his touch .
“Vincent,” I whimper, my hips lifting off the counter.
“Tell me what you want,” he says, his voice a low growl that sends shivers down my spine.
“You,” I gasp. “Only you. Always you.”
He doesn’t hesitate, his fingers hooking into the delicate fabric and pulling my panties to the side. His hands are everywhere, touching me, claiming me, and I can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but feel.
His mouth crashes against mine again, his tongue tangling with mine as his fingers slide between my thighs, finding the slick heat waiting for him. I cry out against his lips, my hips bucking against his hand as he teases me, his fingers sliding through my wetness.
“You’re so wet for me,” he murmurs, his breath hot against my ear.
His fingers slip inside me, and I moan, my head falling back as he curls them, hitting that spot that makes my vision blur. He moves his fingers in slow, deliberate strokes, driving me closer to the edge with every touch.
“Vincent, please,” I beg, my voice ragged. “I need you. Now.”
He doesn’t make me wait. He steps back just long enough to pull down his sweats and underwear, shoving them down his legs before he’s back between my thighs. His hands grip my hips, pulling me to the edge of the counter, and I can feel the hard length of him pressing against me.
“Look at me,” he commands, his voice rough with need.
I open my eyes, meeting his gaze, and the intensity in his eyes takes my breath away. There’s so much love, so much desire, so much need that it feels like I’m drowning in him .
“I love you, Willow,” he says, his voice breaking. “I always have. I always will. I will never leave you.”
“I love you too,” I whisper, my hands sliding up to cup his face. “I’m sorry, Vincent. I’m so sorry.”
He kisses me again, deep and slow, before he pushes into me, filling me completely. I cry out against his lips, my body arching as he sinks deeper, stretching me, filling me in a way that makes me feel whole for the first time in so long.
“Fuck, Willow,” he groans, his forehead resting against mine. “I could live in this pussy. Fucking die in this pussy.”
He starts to move, his hips grinding against mine in slow, deliberate thrusts. Every stroke sends waves of pleasure through me, and I can’t stop the moans that escape my lips. His hands grip my hips, guiding me as he fucks me with an intensity that leaves me breathless.
“Vincent,” I gasp, my fingers digging into his shoulders. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”
“Never,” he growls, his thrusts growing harder, faster. “I’m never letting you go again, Willow. You’re mine. Always.”
The counter bites into my back with every thrust, but I don’t care. All I care about is him, about the way he feels inside me, about the way he makes me feel like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.
“Vincent,” I moan, my body tightening around him. “I’m close. So close.”
“Come for me,” he whispers, his lips brushing against my ear.
His words are all it takes. My body shatters, pleasure crashing over me in waves as I cling to him, my nails digging into his skin. He groans, his hips stuttering as he follows me over the edge, his release filling me as he buries himself deep inside me.
We stay like that for a moment, our bodies pressed together, our breaths mingling as we come down from the high. His hands slide up my back, holding me close, and I can feel the steady beat of his heart against my chest.
“Willow,” he kisses my forehead. “I couldn’t leave you if I tried. You are tattooed into my very fucking soul, Princess. Without you there is no me.”
“Vincent-”
“I am telling the truth Willow.” He murmurs into my hair. “You can’t ice me out like that. You can’t push me away. I can’t leave you even if you want me to. You are worse than any addiction, or drug to me. You are my oxygen, Princess.”
“So what happens if we can’t find a transplant to replace my mechanical heart? You can’t die because I can’t live.” I whisper into his chest.
“You’re not listening Princess. Without you I don’t have a life to live. So whatever happens to you, happens to me because you’re it for me.” He presses his lips to mine, softly. “You’re my Queen and what is a King without his Queen? Nothing.”