Page 168 of Desperate People

My touch. My mouth brushing her shoulder in a scene lit with flickering candlelight.

It’s not raunchy. It’s art.

But fuck if it doesn’t send a possessive thrill racing through my bloodstream to see the whole damn world watching us like this.

And then the camera pans up.

Cuts to her face.

That beautiful, unforgettable face.

And she’s gazing up at me—not El Tigre.

Not the camera.

Me.

The look on her face?

It undoes me.

So much love. So much raw vulnerability. She’s not acting. This isn’t performance.

That’s my wife. Loving me. Trusting me. Claiming me right back.

And I can feel everyone behind us seeing it, too. Knowing what we are.

I press a kiss to the side of her neck, my lips whispering over her skin as the last note fades and the screen goes black.

“Mine,” I murmur, just for her.

Because if this song was his love letter to the untouchable goddess, this moment is my vow to the woman I hold in my arms.

And tonight, the whole world saw it. Not just our little viewing party.

They all heard it.

Watched it.

Felt it.

Applause erupts from everyone in our yard. Her family is cheering for her. Congratulating El Tigre and his wife on this obvious hit.

But me, I’m only looking at her.

To me, she’s not just the face of Volkov Industries, some brat celebrity, or even the muse behind the music.

Lucy is the very heart of me.

“Let’s get everyone out of here,” I whisper.

Her sapphire gaze heats as it locks onto mine. She nods.

And just like that, I know this woman is mine.

Only mine.

Forever mine.

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