Page 73 of Manhattan Kiss

She sits next to me and puts her feet up on the coffee table in front of us, mirroring me. “Yeah, but a lot of kids can’t. And you and…Willow’s mother seem to have a great relationship.”

“Just because things could be worse, doesn’t mean they couldn’t be better.”

“Maybe the ivory tower you have imagined for Willow wouldn’t be so comfortable,” she says, shifting so she can look at me as she talks. “Maybe it’s lonely. Maybe it means she has less empathy for others when she grows. Maybe she wouldn’t have been able to know she can do difficult things if you make it too easy for her.”

I groan. As much as Aurora makes sense, I still live with this guilt that sits in me like silt, weighing me down.

“She has two parents who love her. I think she’s going to grow up the luckiest girl in New York.”

“I just want her to have what I didn’t have.”

“Maybe she does. She doesn’t seem like a child who’s unsettled.”

No, Willow doesn’t seem unsettled, that’s true. But when seeds are planted, they don’t necessarily spring to life immediately. They take time to sprout and grow. I have no idea how Willow’s childhood will impact her. That makes me feel out of control, and not having control makes me feel powerless. I’ve worked very hard to put myself in a place where I’m never powerless. But I can’t do that with Willow.

“Anyone tell you you’re an excellent teacher?” I say, wanting to change the subject.

She laughs and the vibration travels right to my balls. “Yeah, I’m great at hair braiding, even if I do say it myself.”

“You’re great,” I say, “at a lot of things.” I press a kiss to the top of her head.

“A lot of things?” she asks.

I don’t know if it’s the tone of her voice or the way her fingertips lie against my thighs. Maybe it’s the virginal white skirt she’s wearing, or her tan legs that I can barely look away from. It could be her scent—somehow she smells innocent and ball-achingly sexy at the same time.

Whatever it is, in this moment, all I can think about is fucking Aurora.

“Yeah,” I say, my voice hoarse. We’ve only been alone a minute or two, but I can’t wait any longer. I want her. Now.

As if she knows, she slides her hand up my thigh and across my hard-on.

“I’m hard,” I tell her.

“I can feel.” Her hand sweeps up and down my denim-covered crotch, so lightly it’s maddening.

Her gaze flutters to mine, then she reaches for the button of my jeans.

I grab her wrist. That’s not going to happen.

She’ll only do what I tell her. That’s how this works.

“Please, Deacon,” she says. “Let me.”

Fuck. How can I resist when she asks so nicely. I press a kiss to the inside of her wrist and let go of her, then I cup her head in my hands and bring her face to mine. Our mouths are hovering a centimeter apart, like we’re standing on a cliff, ready to jump off.

I don’t know if it’s because we’re here, in the place I’ve called home for so long, or because it feels like she’s been here a thousand times before, but for some reason, I have the urge to pause and just take in the moment.

The moment before the kiss.

She tilts her head and parts her lips, and that’s all it takes—the smallest of movements—and I can’t hold back anymore. I lean into her, my mouth finding hers, my tongue sweeping through her lips to claim her.

She moans, like kissing me is exactly what she’d been waiting for. I get it. I feel exactly the same.

But I want more.

I pull back. “Take off your panties,” I growl.

She rolls her lips together like she’s deciding what to do. Slowly, she stands and hooks her hands under her skirt and pulls off her underwear. She dangles them from her pointer finger, and I reach for them and stuff them in my pocket.