Chapter 26
WILLOW
Ever stare at the sun a moment longer than you know you should?
That reckless second where you take in all that heat and light and fire—and it burns in the most beautiful way?
Yeah.
That’s what this is.
It’s that rush of gold behind your eyelids.
That moment where your chest forgets how to breathe and your body forgets how to not feel.
It’s too much and somehow not enough.
It’s a little overwhelming.
A little painful.
And completely divine.
Because even when it ends, it doesn’t really end.
The heat stays.
The aftershocks ripple.
The light lingers in places no one can see.
That’s what it’s like to have Thatcher McCrae make love to you.
To have him lay claim to your body—even if it’s temporary.
Cause when he touches you?
He does it reverently.
Thoroughly.
Like your body is a language only he speaks fluently.
And now?
Now I’m boneless, wrecked in the best way, my limbs humming, my pulse still catching in my throat as I lie tangled in his flannel sheets and his scent and his presence.
My skin is still tingling.
My soul is still floating.
And somewhere in the dizzy, golden haze of it all, one singular thought cuts through.
Only—it’s not even a thought.
It’s more like a feeling.
Raw.
Full-bodied.
Surging through my chest like light through stained glass.
What is it?
Just this.
Holy. Freaking. Wow.
And I’ve never felt anything like it.
Not just the pleasure—though, God, that was enough to shake something loose inside me—but this aftermath.
This warmth.
This peace.
And then—he moves.
He pulls out of me gently, and instinct kicks in before reason can catch it.
My body tenses. I feel the warm, unmistakable evidence of what we just shared, and suddenly I’m spiraling.
One sharp second of panic.
A lifetime’s worth of shame tries to claw its way to the surface. Whispering all the things I’ve been conditioned to fear.
He’ll leave now.
He got what he wanted.
You were a fool to think this meant more.
I brace for it.
For the cold shift.
The regret.
The distance.
But it doesn’t come.
Instead—he turns around.
Doesn’t walk away.
Doesn’t throw on his clothes or make some offhand comment.
No, he reaches beside the bed—his expression unreadable, focused—and he grabs the soft cotton undershirt that had ended up on the floor earlier.
And then?
He cleans me.
Gently. Tenderly.
Carefully patting the fabric between my thighs, murmuring something too low to catch as he does it.
He’s not rough.
Not rushed.
Not the least bit ashamed.
It undoes me.
That simple act.
That unexpected softness from a man who’s all sharp edges and muscle and scowl.
I blink up at the ceiling, throat tight, vision blurry.
No one’s ever done that for me.
No one’s ever cared enough to.
And this? This feels dangerously close to caring.