Page 103 of Desperate People

I’m used to getting attention from people, men in particular.

Too much of it, honestly.

Flattering, creepy, overwhelming attention.

Most of it is from strangers who see me as something shiny, not someone real.

But this?

This is different.

I’ve never been anyone’s singular focus.

Not like this.

Not like him.

Balor watches me like I’m gravity itself. Like I’m the only thing tethering him to the earth.

It’s not just desire in his eyes.

It’s obsession. Possession. Worship.

And it terrifies me.

Because I think I like it.

No, it’s worse than like.

God help me.

I crave it.

I crave him.

Fuck, I miss him already.

He had to go into the office for a few hours—some security breach he wouldn’t elaborate on—but I opted to stay home.

Not because I didn’t want to go with him, but because I needed a moment to breathe.

To unpack, literally and emotionally.

Also, some of my cousins are coming over for lunch.

I grin as I recall his reaction when I told him before he left.

Balor nodded, dragged me to him for a toe curling kiss, then he arranged everything.

Of course he did.

The man is infuriatingly perfect sometimes.

Without me even asking, he called a caterer and ordered every dish I fell in love with in Puerto Rico.

There’s a whole spread being delivered shortly—mofongo, arroz con gandules, empanadillas, and so much more.

All of it straight out of a secret gem of a restaurant nearby that Balor says makes every dish that stole my heart during our time in Puerto Rico with the utmost authenticity.

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