Page 47 of Desperate People

“You need something to sleep in,” I say, voice rough.

“Oh, um, my purse?” she murmurs.

“It’s here.”

“Shit, I forgot clothes.”

My jaw clenches.

“Want me to go back there?—”

I didn’t even want to think about having her try to wade through what that fucking prick did to her bedroom for clothes.

“No! Um, no,” she says quickly, waving me off. “That’s okay. I’m sure you have something. I mean, can I borrow a shirt?”

I dip my chin.

She wants to borrow my clothes. Fuck. Me.

I nod, because words are beyond me right now.

She shifts forward, scooting closer to the edge of the bed, and the motion hikes her dress higher up her thighs.

My eyes drop.

I can’t help it.

The dress is a second skin, clinging to her curves like it was custom made to torment me.

Her legs are covered in sheer stockings, glittering faintly under the soft overhead lights—sparkling like stardust dusted over skin.

She looks like she’s made of diamonds.

A fantasy.

A sin.

Something no man should be allowed to touch.

No man but me, that is.

She’s right here. In my room. In my house. Soon she’ll be wrapped in my shirt, and fuck, it’s killing me.

I grit my teeth.

Say nothing.

Because if I open my mouth now, I won’t say something sweet.

I’ll say something filthy.

Desperate.

Something true.

And I already told her no once.

If I break now, there’s no going back.

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