Her fingers threaded through my hair, her nails lightly scraping my scalp as she tugged, sending a shock wave of electricity down my spine. I gave in to her demand, and she arched under me as I settled between her thighs.

This was where I wanted to live, to exist—in these moments where nothing outside these walls could touch what we were building inside them. Where we always should have been.

My hand gripped her hip, then slid up her waist and over her ribs, committing her curves to memory as I brought my mouth back to hers. I kissed her slowly, like we had all the time in the world, because we did. I wasn’t going anywhere—not when I had her.

I lost myself in her, drawing out every sigh, every demand for more, fighting the primal need to have her in every possible way. She broke our kiss only to reach between us and pull the hem of her shirt over her head.

“Willow,” I warned, keeping my eyes on hers.

“Cam.” She dared me with those hazel eyes, then stripped the shirt from her arms and threw it to the floor beside her couch.

“You’re killing me here,” I growled, hoping for a little mercy.

“Good,” she whispered before taking my lower lip between her teeth and biting gently.

God, I could feel the lace of her bra through my shirt. “Do you have any fucking clue how hard it is to keep my hands off you?”

She gripped my hand in hers and put it on her breast. “Let me help you out.”

My hips instinctually rolled against hers, and I groaned at the feel of her filling my palm perfectly. Everything about Willow fit almost too well, too perfectly. My thumb grazed her nipple, and she gasped. I should have stopped us, should have reminded her that we had somewhere to be. Instead I made her gasp again.

“Please,” she whispered against my lips. I loved that sound.

The strands of my self-control frayed. It had been almost six weeks of dates and working together, of dinners and lunches, of good-night kisses that lasted until both our lips were swollen and aching. Three weeks since I took her up to the mine. I could have lied and said I wasn’t counting, but I was. Counting and savoring every single minute, and yeah, waiting for the other shoe to drop. For something—anything—to be wrong between us. Instead, everything with Willow was the easiest kind of perfect I could have hoped for.

Which was why it would hurt even more if this fell apart. If she decided she couldn’t handle the scorn of the town she loved—and she shouldn’t have to. I could do everything right for the rest of my life, and it wouldn’t balance out my past in Alba’s eyes.