Chapter 3
Willow
“Oh my God, this is your room? How can you find anything?” Since Brody made it clear to me a long time ago that he’s not attracted to me, I never imagined hearing his deep, rumbling voice in my bedroom, especially while wearing so little.
The fluttering sensations and pulsating of my clit confirms that my body is super flummoxed at the moment.
“You’re not welcome in here,” I say, trying to close the door on him, which is patently stupid because he’s a freaking brick wall. There’s no moving him. “Get out.”
Ignoring me, his eyes widen in horror. “You’ve been here one day, Willow? One day. Fuck. No wonder you have nothing to wear. You can’t find it.”
“I have exactly what I want to wear.” For emphasis, I thrust my chest out just a little bit.
“I told you,” he starts to say as he reaches for me, but I jump back with no idea of his intentions.
My heel trips over some pile of clothing wrapped around a book—don’t ask—and his arm snakes around me yanking me hard to his chest. The friction and impact somehow dislodges one of the pasties from my breasts and I yelp in pain.
With a small whimper I check my breast and see that it’s red, like not its normal pinkish color. Damn, that hurt. As I’m holding it up for further inspection I feel Brody’s fingers digging into my hip.
“Are you okay?” His voice is gravelly, and without thinking—I have to assume—his warm hand comes up to caress my breast. “Shit. Did that hurt?”
He’s asking this while gently rubbing his thumb over my nipple.
My body is officially in overstimulation mode.
Shudders are chasing waves which are running after electrical shocks up and down my arms. My legs, like stilts, barely hold me upright.
Brody is the prude. The monk. The cold one.
The one who plain as day told me—well, never mind that.
Right now, he’s anything but austere. He’s warmth personified.
If heat were a person, he’d be it, and every other particle on earth would look to him for advice on friction. And hotness.
“Yuh huh.” My mouth moves, but I forget why.
His eyes meet mine for a split second before he clears his throat. “May I?” His other hand drags up my ribcage, stopping at my other breast with the intention of removing the other pastie. Since my brain is in a slog, I make no attempt to stop him.
Gently, using two hands to ease the pain he pulls it off and pockets them both, only to brush his thumb over that nipple too.
Now we’re just two people standing and staring at my nipples while he caresses them with the attention and softness a mother would use to pamper a sick baby.
And I have only one lucid thought in this precise moment. What the ever loving fuck is going on right now?
“Um…I think…they’re good.” They agree by rising to the occasion.
“Ya. They’re good,” he mumbles to them and not to my face.
It feels like an hour passes with him taking care of me before he finally looks up at me.
His eyes are dark, full of concern and…regret.
It doesn’t make sense. But as his eyes search my face and he leans in, I think for the briefest second that he might kiss me.
That he might want to kiss me. It’s absurd.
His citrusy musk scent washes over me, cradling me. I used to feel safe around Brody. Like I could trust him. That he would never disappoint me. Gah. Life sucks.
“Can you just…not?” I mean for it to be firm. To push him away. But my voice comes out all airy and puffy. Like, how can a voice sound like it’s crying? Well, mine does. Normally I’d expect him to razz me about that, but given the last few minutes, I don’t know what he’s going to do.
“Willow…” His eyes dart back and forth before closing and he lets out a long, rocky sigh. His fingers dig deeper into my waist before he leans closer.
And for one gloriously awful second I think he’s definitely going to kiss me.
But then he whispers against my temple, “I’m sorry,” and exits the room.
The final image I have of him leaving is of his backpocket where the tassels are softly whipping his ass.