Page 12

T he build-up is unbearable.

The want.

The ache.

The way he looks at me like I’m something precious and dangerous all at once.

I’ve wanted Balor Cruz from the first moment I laid eyes on him—quiet and coiled, his mismatched eyes shadowed and unreadable, like he saw things other people didn’t.

Like he saw me.

Even then, I knew he wasn’t safe.

Not in the traditional sense.

He was powerful in that subtle, bone-deep way. The kind of man who doesn’t need to shout to make a room go still. Who didn’t chase attention because the darkness inside him commanded it.

And now here I am, wrapped in his shirt, in his house, in his bed.

After tonight— after finding that note, that rose, knowing someone was in my apartment —it feels like the world cracked a little.

Like something unspoken is shifting inside me.

I need to feel connected to something, to someone.

I need to feel alive. Clean. Safe.

And there’s only one person I want right now. Only one person I want ever .

Balor.

The man with ink curling down his arms and tension carved into every line of his body.

He took off his shirt earlier and I swear— my entire body went hot.

He’s covered in tattoos, each one like a story he hasn’t told yet.

A map of pain and survival etched across muscle and scarred skin.

And he’s strong.

So strong.

Not just in the way he looks, which is sexy as hell, but in the way he moves.

In the way he holds himself.

In the way he’s held me together all night like I was the most important thing in the room.

No man has ever looked at me like that.

Usually they see the image. The curated version.

They want to fuck the fantasy— not me.

But Balor?

Balor looks at me like I’m real.

Like I’m not just something to possess, or put on a pedestal, but someone he wants. Someone he chooses.

And maybe that’s what breaks me.

Because I’ve built walls so carefully.

Smiled through so many performances.

Swallowed so many pieces of myself to fit the role.

And yet, one look from him and I’m unraveling.

Wild for him.

I am desperate for him, vulnerable in a way I haven’t ever allowed myself to be.

“I don’t want to wait anymore,” I whisper, reaching for him.

He’s above me, those eyes locked on mine, and God, he’s beautiful in the dim light.

Dark hair. That jawline. Those two different colored eyes that should feel mismatched but don’t. Not on him.

On him, it’s art.

On him, it’s truth.

I trace the ink on his arm, the sharp edge of a design I don’t understand, and feel his whole body react.

He’s watching me like I’m the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

And all I can think is please don’t break my heart.

Because I’ve never wanted anyone this badly.

And if he touches me the way I think he will, there won’t be any going back. Not for me.

“There’s no going back,” he agrees with me, and I know I said all that, things I should’ve kept to myself, out loud. “No secrets. No Lies. No going back for either of us, Angel. Tonight, we begin,” he growls roughly into my mouth.

Then his hands come up to my neck, and he’s holding me there, stilling me with his dominance. And I love it.

He reaches for his t-shirt, but I can’t move to give him room, crushed between the mattress and his delicious body.

The sound of fabric tearing has me gasping, and I guess I didn’t have to worry about that.

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.

I’m not a virgin.

But the sex I’ve had before?

It was rushed. Clumsy. Forgettable.

A teenage boy fumbling in the dark, mistaking want for love.

He didn’t know me. Didn’t see me.

Just the image. The illusion.

But Balor?

He’s cut from another cloth entirely.

Everything he does is deliberate.

Commanding. Grounded in restraint and laced with an edge I find intoxicating.

And when he finally lowers his mouth to me and licks into my center— holy fucking shit.

Stars.

They explode behind my eyes.

My hips buck. A helpless moan escapes my throat.

I can’t think. Can’t breathe. I’m not even sure I’m still on the bed.

His tongue is hot, his mouth relentless, and his growl vibrates against the most sensitive part of me.

“So fucking good,” he rasps, voice ragged as he devours me. “You’re gonna come for me, aren’t you, Angel?”

“Oh God,” I mewl, my hands clutching the sheets like I’m holding onto reality itself.

“That’s it,” he urges. “Want my mouth full of your pleasure. I want it dripping down to my chest. Now, give it to me.”

He slides two fingers through my slick folds, circling my clit with maddening precision as his tongue plunges inside me again and again, deep and hungry.

It’s too much.

It’s not enough.

I want more.

I want everything.

The pressure builds fast. It’s sharp and blinding.

I feel it cresting, hot and high and all-consuming, and before I can even warn him, it happens.

My body breaks.

I shatter.

Hard.

I cry out, thighs trembling as the orgasm crashes over me, stealing my breath and replacing it with him.

Everything is him.

And then, Balor’s right above me.

The warmth of his skin, the weight of him, the scent of musk and sweat and want.

“Shit, Angel,” he groans, positioning his broad head with a rough swipe of his hand. “You’re so fucking tight.”

And then he’s inside.

One deep, hard thrust.

I gasp, body stretching, clenching, welcoming him home like he was always meant to be there.

He’s thick. Long. So fucking hard.

And the way he fills me?

It’s not just physical.

It’s something deeper.

Something that says I see you.

I choose you.

You’re mine.

And I just hope, that is, I pray that when this ends, he doesn’t take all that light with him and leave me in the dark.

Because this?

This feels dangerously close to everything I’ve ever wanted.

This feels like fate.