Page 58 of Desperate People

Balor groans as he licks his way from my mouth to my breasts, paying attention to each one like he can’t get enough of me.

And it’s—it’s so good.

He’s arduous and tender.

His attention is rapt and focused.

“Balor!” I sob his name at the way his teeth press into my skin.

He’s leaving open-mouthed, biting kisses all the way down my soft body, and fuck, I can feel his body rumble as if it’s turning him on too.

And I hope I am. I really fucking hope so.

By the time he wedges his broad shoulders between my thighs, I’m seconds from unraveling.

Every brush of his skin against mine, every heated glance, every rasp of his voice has been pulling me tighter and tighter, like string wrapped around my spine, ready to snap.

He drags his palms up my thighs slowly, reverently.

Like he's not just about to touch me, more like he’s about to worship me.

“Fuck, Angel,” he mutters, voice thick with need as he settles between my legs. “You’re soaked.”

I feel it too. The slick heat, the ache, the restless throb that only he can soothe.

His hands are big, tattooed, calloused, and sure as they grip the insides of my thighs and press me open.

Wide. Bare. Exposed.

But he doesn’t move in right away.

He just looks.

Dark, mismatched eyes taking in every inch of me.

And I freeze.

Not in fear. Not exactly.

Just uncertain.

I’ve never been looked at like this before.

And it’s not like I’m just a body.

Not like I’m a fantasy to act out.

But like I’m his.

I’m trembling inside and out. Because, if I’m being honest, I want that. I want to be his.

His to protect.

His to taste.

His to ruin.

I don’t know what to do. If this is normal. If I’m supposed to feel this raw, this alive, this cracked wide open from the inside out.

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