Chapter 22
WILLOW
I’m not a virgin.
Obviously.
I mean, I lived with a man.
Shared a bed.
Tried to build a life that was supposed to mean something.
But Dan wasn’t interested in sex. Not really. Not with me. When we touched at all, it was rushed, sometimes humiliating, and often awkward.
And it always, always left me feeling small.
Like I was an obligation instead of a desire.
And when it didn’t work?
Which was honestly more often than not.
That was my fault too.
At least, that’s what he said.
You’re just not good at sex, Willow.
You’re so damn fat.
Just not pretty enough.
You’re cold, Willow.
But when Thatcher looks at me—really looks—I don’t feel any of that.
I don’t feel clumsy or wrong or too much.
I feel wanted.
Sexy.
Womanly.
Powerful.
His gaze drags over my body with heat that makes my skin prickle, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorizing every curve instead of judging them.
Like my softness is exactly what he wants.
And now, the slick warmth pooling between my thighs has absolutely nothing to do with the storm outside.
But it has everything to do with him.
The fact that he’s asking—waiting—makes it worse in the best way.
I lick my lips without thinking.
His eyes follow the movement, darkening.
That’s it.
That’s the moment I decide I’m done being careful.
“I—I don’t want you to sleep on the couch,” I whisper.
The silence stretches, thick and charged.
“No?” he murmurs. “Then what do you want, Baby? Tell me.”
My heart slams against my ribs, but my voice doesn’t waver.
“I want you.”
That’s all it takes.
He moves like something unleashed, a low sound rumbling out of his chest that goes straight through me.
His hand closes in the collar of the flannel I’m wearing—his shirt—and pulls me flush against him.
My hands come up instinctively, gripping his skin, and I swear I’ve never felt anything so solid, so real.
Muscle under my palms. Heat. Strength.
The rough scrape of his stubble when his mouth claims mine.
He tastes like the mountain—clean and wild and unapologetically male—and I melt into it, into him, into the freedom of wanting without shame.
I was freezing before.
Now I’m burning.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to rest his forehead against mine, breath heavy, control hanging by a thread.
“Off,” he growls softly, hands sliding with intent.
And I don’t hesitate.
Not this time.
Not ever again.
“You first,” I tell him, and his eyes go wide.
He sucks in a breath.
I move back and sit on the bed in my panties and tank.
Thatcher’s eyelids drop, and he does what I say.
He takes off his clothes.
And. I. Am. Floored.
I’ve never been to a male review, but I’ve seen that Channing Tatum movie, and I swear to God not one of those men has a thing on Thatcher McCrae taking off his clothes.
I grab the hem of my tank top, and I pull it over my head just as he pushes down his pants, taking his boxers with them.
He groans as I cup my tits.
And I whimper when he takes his cock in his fist.
“Christ, you’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs.
I want to tell him he is too, but I can’t speak. Not yet.
I slide back when he starts towards me.
His big hands reach for my panties.
Good idea.
I need them off. Want them off. Now.
And I’m panting, desperate to be free of the material, but he stops, waiting for something.
When I realize it’s permission he’s waiting for, I swear I almost come.
“Take them off, Thatcher.”
He groans, pulling them off slowly. He kisses my chest, sucks one hard nipple into his mouth, and I gasp.
Then his lips move to my belly. My hips. And he kneels at the foot of the bed, spreading my legs wide.
“Fucking bubblegum,” he moans and I frown.
What?
But I have no time to ask, because Thatcher isn’t finished kissing me.
He leans forward and presses his whole face up against my pussy, and for one long moment, he just breathes in my scent.
My mouth hangs open. I don’t know what to do with this. With him.
But then he licks my entrance with long, determined strokes of his tongue.
I gasp. Thatcher groans, then he slides a thick finger inside. He kisses my pussy, licking his way to my clitoris. Then he sucks.
And I see stars.