Page 63 of Desperate People

She moans into my mouth, and I swallow the sound.

Greedy for it. Needing every little gasp like it’s oxygen.

Like if she stops making noise, I’ll stop breathing altogether.

She’s still sensitive—her body trembling, oversensitive—but she wants it. Wants me. She can’t deny it. Can’t lie to me.

Her hands clutch at my back, her hips tilting to meet every movement I make, and the sounds coming out of her throat are choked, high, desperate.

Like she’s never been touched like this.

Like no one’s ever taken her all the way.

Fucking hell.

It makes me proud. Makes me want to pound my chest like some primal bastard.

It also makes me want to hunt down every man who’s ever touched her and end them.

What kind of fucking moron gets a taste of this woman and leaves her unfinished?

Assholes. All of them.

They don’t deserve her.

Don’t deserve to breathe the same air.

But I’m not thinking about them now.

I push every thought out of my head except her.

The way she feels.

Silky. Soft. Soaked.

Dripping around me and gripping my cock like she was made for it.

She’s clutching at me like she needs me more than her next breath.

I get it.

Because I feel the same fucking way.

“Balor!” she gasps, voice shaking. “It’s too much.”

But she’s pulling me closer. Legs tightening. Arms wrapping around my neck like she’s anchoring herself to the only solid thing in the world.

“I got you, Angel,” I grunt, dropping my forehead to hers, breath ragged. “Let go. Let me in.”

Then I lose it—thrusting into her hard and fast, pistoning my hips with a growl that vibrates from my chest into hers.

Her back arches, nails digging into my shoulders, and she’s so close. I can feel it.

“Balor, please, please,” she cries, breathless and wild.

And I swear, I’m fucking high on the sound of her voice, on the way she says my name like a prayer and a curse all in one.

“Gimme that orgasm,” I growl, teeth gritted, eyes locked on hers. “It’s mine. I want it. Now.”

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