Page 50 of Desperate People

What if he doesn’t want me—not really—but feels obligated because of what I went through?

What if my size sixteen body, my thick thighs and soft belly and untamed heart, are too much for him?

Too much? Or not enough?

I feel it rising in my throat—shame, doubt, the old insecurity I’ve learned to wear like armor but never fully escaped.

I want to look away.

I want to cover myself.

But I don’t.

Because something in his expression shifts.

His gaze darkens—not with disgust or hesitation—but with hunger.

His body tenses like a predator on the edge of pouncing.

And in that moment, I swear I feel it. That invisible thread between us, pulled taut, humming with heat and something so much deeper than lust.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe.

And suddenly I don’t feel self-conscious anymore.

I feel powerful.

Because this man—the one who owns his power quietly, who scares the shit out of everyone else with a single look—is right now, completely undone by the sight of me.

So maybe I am enough. Maybe tonight I can finally have the one thing I’ve wanted for so long.

Him.

Please let me be enough for him just for tonight.

His breath hitches.

His chest rises once. Twice. Then again, faster, deeper.

And then I hear it.

A low sound.

A rumble from deep inside him—like something feral clawing its way to the surface.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

But I feel the tension radiating off him in waves.

I pull the shirt over my head slowly, letting the cotton fall against my bare skin. It smells like him—clean and masculine and electric.

I don’t break eye contact.

Well, only once, when the shirt covers my face.

But then I watch him as I reach beneath the hem and drag the stockings down my legs at the same time.

I step out of them and lift them with my foot.

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