The Complete Irreparable Boxed Set

None of that was true, however. Willow intrigued him; he couldn’t figure out all of her responses to him in particular, and she seemed to have such a different perspective from anyone else he knew. Perhaps it was her age, the resilience of youth, but he didn’t remember being so pleasant or casual about his own bad experiences immediately after coming out of them. He only remembered being an angry bastard.

It took him much longer to get to a place even remotely like the one Willow had been in all night, and he didn’t understand.

But it impressed the hell out of him.

The bathroom door eased open and he sat up a little straighter, his eyes jumping to the little entryway she would emerge from, but she didn’t immediately come out.

Then she did, and the erection that had dissipated started to come back to life.

Her clothes had been discarded, and as she approached him, she wore nothing but a light pink bra and panty set—both lace. Her feet were bare, with maroon polish on her toes, somehow highlighting her age in his mind.

r /> God help him, it did absolutely nothing to extinguish his interest.

Her breasts seemed fuller than he remembered them being, but she was probably wearing a push-up bra. Since she had such fair skin to begin with, the pale pink lace only served to enhance his awareness of her near nudity.

Not touching her was going to be absolute fucking hell.

Agreeing to such lunacy was a huge mistake.

Without a word, he reached for the whiskey and took one more swig.

Willow cracked a smile as she approached the bed—and him—and stopped when her legs were maybe an inch from brushing his knees.

Oh, God, up close was even worse. His fingers itched to reach out and touch her skin—it was smooth, he suddenly remembered, and then all the other thoughts were flooding back, the bad ones he had been able to brush off in recent weeks. His hand stung with the memory of smacking her on the ass, and he was consumed with the desire to pull her closer, grab that ass, and yank her into his lap.

Instead of fulfilling his momentary fantasy, he placed the whiskey bottle into her outstretched hand.

She took a much smaller drink than he had, made a face, stuck out her tongue, and put the whiskey back down.

“Gross. That’s…that’s gross.”

“You’ve never had whiskey before?” he asked.

She shook her head, then she looked down at him, seeming to drink in the sight of him slowly. When she finished her perusal, she ran her fingers through his hair and said, “You can touch me if you want to.”

Oh, how he wanted to.

Since he couldn’t do anything about it though, he thought it probably wasn’t a great idea.

Still, he didn’t want her to feel self-conscious…and he really, really wanted to touch her.

Starting just below her breasts, his knuckles skimmed her sides, coming to settle on her hips. Slowly, so she could pull back if it wasn’t okay, he drew her closer, spreading his legs so she could stand between them, then he bent and placed light kisses along her stomach. He felt her quiver, felt her breath quicken, and allowed one of his hands to brush the curve of her ass.

When she moaned faintly, his grip tightened, his fingers curling more possessively around her ass.

Touching was too much so he pulled back.

Then she looked at him, her face clouded with desire, and he only wanted to touch her more.

Clearing his throat, he said, “I think maybe I’ll let you take the reins for a few minutes.”

“Already?” she teased, a smile grazing her mouth—oh, that mouth. He remembered the feel of her mouth around his cock, and it shouldn’t inspire any sort of lust given the circumstances, but it did.

He attempted a smile, but the effort fell short as he shifted in discomfort.

“I’m supposed to be driving you to the edge of reason, remember? Making you want me more than oxygen so I can tell you no,” she said with relish, her eyes narrowing as her nose wrinkled up adorably.

He didn’t know why it surprised him that she might be playful in the bedroom—it suited her—it just wasn’t what he was used to.