bar, behind the bar, over any table in this place? I don’t hide a single filthy idea from her.
Slowly, she pries her eyes from mine and turns to Daniel. With a nod, he waves at me and escorts Ilene and Olivia toward the door. On her way past, Olivia says quietly, “Fuck this up and you’ll only live long enough to regret it. Between Hank and me, we’ll put the meat grinder to good use and no one will be the wiser.”
What is it with women and true crime shit? Do they have lessons on how to get away with murder?
Wait, that’s got the potential to be a good song lyric. Oh, shit, no . . . the Dixie Chicks already did that with Goodbye Earl, Carrie Underwood killed her dad in Blown Away and her husband in Two Black Cadillacs, and Garth Brooks did Papa Loved Mama too. Maybe I’ll skip the murder music for now.
Once Willow and I are finally alone, murder is the last thing on my mind. Unless it’s little deaths . . . fuck, I could make her come all night. Make her sing with pleasure for me. That’s the music I’d love to hear. It’d be my new favorite song for sure.
Needing to hold her, I walk to the jukebox and hit J14. Hank keeps this thing pretty updated, keeping classics but adding new tunes regularly. Chris Jansen’s Done pours through the speakers, saying what I can’t to Willow.
She’s it for me.
I’m done for, no doubt about it.
I hold out my hand, and from across the bar, she takes it. I walk her down to the end and around, finally holding her in my arms again. We don’t do any fancy footwork. This isn’t the time for that. For now, I just sway her back and forth, feeling her body pressed to mine. She feels so right, so mine, and I want to soak her up, slide into her soul, and fuse us into one.
“Fuck, I’ve wanted to hold you all night,” I confess quietly. I’m acutely aware of her weight shifting from side to side, her skin which is now covered in fine goosebumps, and the hitch in her breathing at my throaty admission.
She gives me one of those smiles that drives me wild and lays her head against my chest. Her arms go around my waist and mine drop over her shoulders in the tightest, sexiest hug I’ve ever had. She even squeezes me a bit.
“I like this,” she whispers against my T-shirt.
“I like you,” I tell her. Weak words for the thunder raging through my veins, but my racing heart is doing its best to get blood to flow north to my brain.
We sway quietly and I breathe her in. She smells like she’s been working, lemons and beer and bleach, but underneath is her own unique scent, and I take it into my lungs. I sing softly, a grittier, rougher version of the sweet song, and the jukebox plays on, serenading us.
After a few songs, Willow pulls back and looks up at me. Her eyes are begging for something she won’t say. “Bobby—”
I don’t make her ask. I’ve waited long enough already.
My mouth is instantly on hers, exploring and possessing. I trace her sides, brushing along the sides of her breasts before reaching back to firmly grab her ass. She whimpers in response to my tight grip, and I hungrily swallow the sweet sound. I pull her toward me, grinding against her, and a groan of pure bliss vibrates through my chest. I lower my hands to the backs of her thighs, encouraging her up, and lift her to straddle my waist, needing more, wanting to give her more.
Walking backward without breaking our kiss, I find the bar and set her on it. She pulls back long enough to warn, “I am not having sex on my uncle’s bar.”
Devilishly, I grin. “Not tonight, you’re not.”
Her mouth drops open in surprise, and I can’t help but laugh a little. But when she pushes at my chest in protest, I don’t move an inch. “Tonight, I’m going to kiss you, get you drunk on me, and make you so needy that you want me deep inside you. Then we’re going to go home . . . alone.”
Her face falls a bit, which gives me a twisted bit of reassured joy. She does want me.
“Don’t pout. Know that I’m going to be fucking my hand and wishing it were your sweet little pussy