Perfectly Imperfect

Huge, larger-than-a-handful tits.

Fuck, I want to see her face. I’ve felt this before. A jolt to my senses I’ve experienced before followed by a protectiveness I’ve never felt before … not even with Jenn.

I sit in the chair to her left, just out of her eyesight, and wait for her to move. The way she has her head tilted now, I can’t see her face through her long thick brown hair. I take the time to study the rest of her, trying to place her body. Her thighs look like the kind that would cushion my hips as I powered into her body. Her body—ripe, full, and all woman—has my groin tightening.

Not much could take the attraction away from this timid little mouse. God, when was the last time I saw a woman who caught my attention at a glance? I glance back over at the couple in the corner, the man, and I remember. Except, if I’m right, it wasn’t the woman at his side that time but the one sitting full of fear to my right.

I was lost in thought when the Buchanan brothers walked into the lobby. Because they’re used to seeing my face when I come to see my attorney, Steven, I get a nod of acknowledgment, but they wisely don’t make a scene that greeting me would cause. My mystery woman fumbles to stand, and I watch as her bag snaps and crashes to the floor.

“Oh, God.” I hear her whispered words, but they’re so low, had I not been studying her so fiercely, I would have missed them. I feel her anxiety soar through the roof as she moves to collect the items scattered around her.

The desire to protect this woman—this familiar stranger—is so fierce. There’s a roar in my ears from my blood pumping so rapidly through my veins. I don’t even know this woman and watching her obvious struggle both physically and mentally is making my chest hurt.

And the moment I watch in horror as her heel catches on her broken strap, knocking her from her feet to her back in seconds, I feel like I’m being stabbed right in the chest.

What in the hell is wrong with me?

“What a mess, Brad. Aren’t you thrilled you’re finally going to be rid of … well, that?” My contemplation snaps from the woman prone on the floor over to the couple from earlier. What the hell? That explains some of the anxiety and visibly shaken demeanor from the mystery woman.

“Willow? Are you okay?” Randy questions, stepping forward at the same time Stacy starts squawking from her desk about some call he must take. Right, I’m sure.

Willow. I test her name out, repeating it a few times. Beautiful. Then it hits me, confirmation that this is someone I have met before. Brad Tate. His arrogance is something I’m shocked I didn’t place before, but seeing this woman—Willow—I remember with clarity exactly when the last time a woman instantly caught my attention. However, now I have a name to place with the face I’ve thought about too many times to count. A stranger who had once again captured me in her web without even uttering a single word. That connection. I felt it simmer before, but now, now, it’s a raging fire. I had ignored it before because it was clear she was spoken for then, but now … now, I’m not sure. I know damn well that Randy Buchanan is in family law, so why else would they be meeting with him?

“Kill me now.” I hear the gasped words thick with pain, but even that can’t hide the velvet tones that roll over my overheated senses. God, she even sounds like a dream come true. Husky voice made for sex.

“I’m sorry, Willow. I have to take this,” Randy explains and offers his hand to help her up, but I move quickly from my position and stand next to her before addressing Randy.

“Allow me.” My voice is thick with desire. Desire for a woman whose face I haven’t even seen in years. I clear my throat and wait for Randy to move so I can help her … help Willow.

“It’s all right, Mr. Masters. I have it. Won’t take but a second, right, Willow?” he states before bending once again to offer his assistance. Assistance I don’t want him to give her. I should be the one to help her. It should be my hands to touch her. No one else. Fucking hell, what is going on with me? I feel like I’m seconds away from beating my chest and pissing on the floor. I don’t even know if this is the same woman. Yet I’m acting like an animal just at the memory of what I felt only once before when I was sucker punched with just a gaze from across the room. Surely, this isn’t her. I just need a vacation. To slow down. Right?

Thinking quickly, I take a small step forward and stop Randy before his hands can touch her. “That might be, Rand, but it looks like you’re needed elsewhere.” I lift my hand, mentally making sure my fists are relaxed, and point over to a very vocal Stacy while she continues to huff in annoyance. I’m sure it’s because she’s not the center of attention. Randy nods once and moves away. I wait for a beat before bending down and balancing my weight on the balls of my feet before offering my hand to her.

That’s when I finally see her face.

She’s stunning. She possesses the kind of beauty that even her demeanor tense in pain and panic can’t hide. Her eyes widen when she looks into mine and I give her what I hope is a reassuring smile. Clearly, I need to work on my acting skills because I watch as her face heats and a light blush covers her neck and face.

Exquisite.

Just like she was the first time I saw her briefly, years before. She was there one second, lighting my skin on fire with one look into those brown eyes, and then she was gone. I had thought I imagined it, even after I asked about her, but seeing those eyes up close—yeah, I didn’t imagine shit. That connection I had been hunting was indeed right in front of my face. I let her slip away with excuses of too many drinks and a long dry spell. Not this time.

“I … please … I’m so sorry,” she mutters meekly. “Please, don’t worry about me … oh, God.”

“Willow, was it?” I ask, feigning the ignorance I should have at a ‘first meeting.’ Unable to resist any longer, I slide my hands under her arms and I help her stand. My body hums with arousal when her scent hits me. Peaches. Fuck, she smells like peaches? I bet she tastes like them too. Mentally slapping my undersexed mind, I look into her eyes, imploring. “Are you okay?” She doesn’t speak. Her eyes just continue to roam over my face, drinking me in as hard as I am to her. Shit, maybe she hit her head when she fell. “Do you need medical assistance?”

“I—I’m—crap, I’m okay. Only what was left of my pride was damaged.” She ducks her head, and I hate that I’ve lost her eyes. She moves to a crouch to start collecting her personal belongings, hurriedly cramming them into her broken bag.