Page 49 of Desperate People

And that stare? God, it feels like hands. Big, warm, possessive hands, dragging over every inch of me without ever touching.

I’m not wearing a bra.

No panties, either.

Just these glittering stockings that cling to my legs and cut off high at my hips, leaving nothing to the imagination.

My breasts are full—too big to defy gravity—but lifted just enough by the curve of my spine, the tension in my shoulders, the sheer audacity of standing here like this. Nipples drawn tight and dusky pink.

His eyes catch on them, then drop lower.

Right to that thin strip of dark hair I leave just above my pussy, visible through the sheer silk. A deliberate choice.

One I made years ago. Long before I knew tonight would end like this.

Maybe I was hoping. Maybe I was aching for him even then.

But now?

Now I’m frozen.

My heart hammers in my chest, breath catching in my throat as the silence stretches.

Because the last time I stood close to this man and offered him my body, he rejected me.

He said no.

And sure, I can rationalize it a thousand ways—he was trying to be noble, trying not to fuck the boss’s daughter, trying to keep boundaries.

But here I am again.

Bare.

Vulnerable.

Desperate.

And suddenly, the weight of every judgment I’ve ever heard, every photo dissected by gossip blogs and tabloid rags, presses in on me.

They call me a modern pin-up girl.

Code for curvy but still fuckable.

They say I’m big-boned.

Code for fat in a way that’s trendy but still up for debate.

And Balor? He’s perfect.

Ruthless and lethal and stupidly, sinfully hot.

Covered in tattoos and muscles and darkness that hum beneath the surface.

What if I’m not enough?

What if he’s just looking at me out of curiosity?

What if this is pity?

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