Page 19 of Desperate Desires

She didn’t need smoke and mirrors to make herself more appealing. She simply was all those things wrapped up in one perfectly desirable package.

“You gonna eat with me, Doc?” I asked, wanting to spend as much time with her as possible.

“Um, yeah, sure. Hang on,” she said, and did a little jog out of the room as she went to gather her food from inside.

Holy fuck.

The sight she made, wiggling and jiggling in the loose pajamas she wore. Her curves were undeniable, and so damn sexy, I was drooling over them.

I hummed appreciatively when she brought in a similar looking bowl for herself.

I cleared a space on the tray, tapping the bed beside me in quiet invitation. I hid my smile behind a calm expression when she hesitated, uncertainty flickering in her eyes.

She was skittish—I could see that as plainly as the sunrise. The way her gaze darted, the subtle tension in her shoulders.

Was it all men she was nervous around? Or just me? I couldn’t tell.

Part of me liked the thought that she didn’t have much experience with men. That she wasn’t used to anyone sitting close, reaching out, making her feel seen.

But the darker part of me—the one that stirred restlessly—seethed at the idea that the men she had known hadn’t treated her right.

That they hadn’t cherished her.

Hadn’t made damn sure she knew exactly how fucking perfect she was in every way that mattered.

So, I stayed perfectly still, every muscle locked in place, giving her the space to choose to come to me on her own terms.

No pressure.

No rush.

Just quiet patience.

For a few long seconds, she hovered between uncertainty and decision, her internal debate playing out in the smallest shifts of her body.

Then, finally, she moved.

The mattress dipped slightly as she sat down beside me, and the warmth of her presence felt like a quiet triumph.

It was a victory I felt deep in my soul.

Like fate had just leaned in and whispered, Well done, Ono. Well done.

“You wanna pick a show?” I asked, handing her the remote.

You could learn a lot about a person just by observing their bedroom. How they arranged their space. The little things they surrounded themselves with.

It was like a roadmap to who they were behind closed doors.

And Doc’s room? It spoke volumes.

Right in front of her bed, a sleek fifty-inch flat screen hung on the wall, perfectly positioned.

It was like a quiet invitation to relax. That wasn’t an afterthought—it was deliberate.

She liked to unwind here, to let herself sink into soft sheets and lose herself in stories that weren’t her own for a while.

Maybe after a long day, it was her way of turning off the noise of reality.

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