Page 92 of Desperate People

The entire villa feels like peace and strength at once—raw beauty balanced with his precise kind of order.

The floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the moonlit beach.

The infinity pool glowing in the distance.

The gentle sway of palms in the breeze.

“I don’t need fancy,” I tell him.

The truth is I like it here. It’s perfect, but I wonder what else he thinks about me.

Because as far as I’m concerned, he’s pretty fucking perfect.

And I know it’s too late for me to salvage my heart.

I push to my feet and walk over to him, placing my fork in the dishwasher beside his.

My fingers brush his, and the contact feels like a lightning strike straight through my chest.

“I think it’s amazing,” I whisper, my voice low and honest. “And I’m not afraid of chores. I had plenty of them growing up.”

That earns me a glance. Sharp and curious.

Like he’s surprised by the reminder that I wasn’t always dripping in designer labels and chauffeured town cars.

“That right, Angel?” he murmurs, his mouth tilting into the faintest smirk. “You willing to work hard for what you want?”

His words drip with double meaning, and heat rushes to my cheeks—but I don’t shy away.

Instead, I nod and step closer, letting my fingers brush the center of his chest.

His shirt is soft, worn in the best way, and I flatten both palms against the hard wall of muscle beneath it.

“Yes, Balor,” I say, my voice husky now. “I’m very willing to work hard.”

His whole body goes still.

I feel it in the sudden hitch of his breath.

See it in the way his jaw flexes and his eyes shutter for just a second, like he’s trying not to unravel too fast.

Like I’m doing to him what he’s been doing to me since the moment I stepped into his orbit.

“I really like when you say my name, Angel,” he murmurs, his voice ragged and full of gravel.

“Yeah?” I tease, stepping in even closer, until there’s barely an inch between us. “What else do you like?”

His bi-colored eyes open then—sharp, hungry, and blazing with something that steals the breath from my lungs.

“You really want to know?” he asks, voice low and dangerous.

I swallow. “Yes.”

He leans in, mouth brushing the shell of my ear.

“I like the way you tremble when I look at you like this. The way your breath hitches when I get close. I like knowing you’re trying to play it cool while you’re soaking through your panties,” he growls, and fuck, he is right. My panties are soaked.

“What else?” I whimper.

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