Page 93 of Desperate People

“I like your sass. Your smarts. The way you think I don’t notice how you watch me when you think I’m not looking.”

“I don’t?—”

“You do,” he cuts in gently, but firmly. “And I love it. Every second of it. Because it means I’m not the only one obsessed.”

“I like the way you taste when you come on my tongue, Wife. And I really like the way your pretty little cunt squeezes my cock, like it knows its master, when I fuck you good and hard.”

Holy. Shit.

His words are filthy.

But I don’t hate them. In fact, I think I like them very much. My body sure as hell does.

“But most of all, Angel,” he continues—because, nope, my man is not finished yet—but he pauses and licks his lips, looking at me in my wedding dress, and damn, I feel that look down to my marrow, “I like knowing I’m the only man who gets to fuck you from now on.”

I swallow hard, heart thundering against my ribs.

“You sure about that?” I whisper, not because I want to tease, but because I need to know he’s not just claiming me in the dark. That he means it in the light.

That he’ll always mean it.

His hands reach for me lightning fast, one cupping the back of my neck the other on my waist. His chest rumbles and he doesn’t hesitate to answer.

“Oh, I’m fucking sure. You, my gorgeous wife, are mine. Every delectable inch. Mine. And you love knowing that, don’t you?”

His words hit me somewhere deep—where all my doubts and fears have been hiding.

And I can’t lie. Not to him. Not to myself.

I gasp. My breath catches in my throat. Because he’s not wrong.

I do love it.

I love him.

And that terrifies me more than anything else. Because now I have something to lose. And it’s everything.

I go still, heat blooming in every cell of my body.

He’s right about something else, too.

I am obsessed.

With him.

The way he touches me like I’m precious, even when he looks like he wants to ruin me.

With the way his voice gets all low and gravelly when he says my name.

With the way he wears control like a second skin—and the way I want to peel it off of him, piece by piece.

“I hope like hell you mean it, Balor,” I whisper, the words sticking to the heat between us. “This isn’t some fantasy to me. You feel real.”

His expression softens, and something flickers behind his eyes—something fierce and dangerous and beautiful.

“You want real?” he rasps, fingers sliding down to hook at my hips. “Then you’ve got it, Angel. All of me. Starting now.”

And suddenly, it’s not just banter anymore.

---