Page 68 of Holding On To Good

He was here, right here, tempting her to toss aside self-preservation and her pride for a chance at what had never been.

“Willow,” he murmured. It was an entreaty. A question.

But it was the way he drew out her name, the wonder and pure want there as he lingered over the consonants, softened the vowels, that had her stepping toward him.

Toward what could be.

His fingers tightened on her for a moment, then he let out a low breath. Continued easing her closer, rubbing circles on her skin with the rough pads of his thumbs. And, oh, God, it was patently unfair how such a simple touch could resonate through her entire body, building anticipation and desire. Have her yearning for more, more, more.

She kept her eyes open and on his as he drew her onto her toes. As his own eyes darkened and he lowered his head. Her lips parted. Their breath mingled.

They stayed that way for a moment, anticipation building. Her willpower waning.

His lips brushed hers once, soft as a sigh, light as a feather. Sweet and hesitant and barely there.

He leaned back as if to gauge her reaction, looking for her consent to continue, his expression taut. Nervous.

She wasn’t in this alone. She wasn’t the only one who was scared.

She wasn’t sure if that made it better.

Or worse.

Before she could decide, his head was getting closer once again, but not because he was lowering it.

Because she was rising onto her toes.

Only to fall back to her heels at the sound of the backyard gate opening behind her.

Urban jerked his head up, his gaze flickering with surprise.

Willow didn’t want to look. Some inner awareness had kicked in and was warning her she absolutely did not want to turn and see who Urban was frowning at.

Too bad she’d never been very good at doing what was best for her.

The man in front of her being the ultimate proof of that.

Bracing herself, she glanced over her shoulder.

And saw Miranda Watterson gingerly making her way up the limestone path in a navy blue and white polka-dot, halter-style dress and a pair of four-inch heels.

It wasn’t until Willow stepped back that Urban realized he’d settled one hand on her waist. That he still had his other hand wrapped around her arm.

Wasn’t until he’d let go and she took another step, putting more distance between them, that he realized how badly he wanted to pull her to him again.

The best thing you can do is let me go.

He couldn’t. Not now. Not after everything he’d kept locked in the dark all these years—lust and want and an indefinable need—had burst out like untamed animals. Her scent their first breath of freedom. Her eyes their wide-open sky. Her bright hair the warmth of the sun.

His fingers curled in his pockets, the feel of her soft skin lingering there. He inhaled a deep, careful breath. Let it out slowly, exhaling until his stomach hollowed, his lungs emptied.

But the want remained, embedded in his bones, sluicing through his veins. Reminding him of what he’d been so close to having. Pushing him to step closer to Willow once again. Trail his fingertip down the back of her arm, his voice a whisper.

“Willow, I…”

But the right words never came easily to him and he had no idea how to finish that sentence. No clue what to say to make this better. Was afraid he’d only make it worse if he tried.

That he’d give too much of himself away.

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