Page 73 of Desperate Desires

Touching her, watching her, I felt like the world had been reduced to her alone.

Brilliant.

Radiant.

And impossibly close.

Her eyelids were at half mast, but I felt her weighted stare trained on me, like she couldn’t believe what I was doing.

I didn’t blame her.

I couldn’t believe it either.

When had I ever willingly gotten on my knees for anyone?

Never. That was when. And yet, for her, it was a near constant thing.

Michelle was, well, she was my queen. I was spellbound, completely and helplessly captivated.

Mine. She is my wife.

My everything.

As soon as I had the thought, I knew it was true. I was beyond obsessed.

The first time I saw her, it was like the world had flipped on its axis. And after I’d touched her, well, there was no hope for it then.

I was drowning in my feelings for her.

No, I didn’t tell her those things, but that didn’t make them any less true.

I mean, I thought them.

I felt them.

So, they were real, right?

Damn right.

Obsession pulsed through my veins, fierce and unrelenting, like the very essence of my whole life driving me forward.

She consumed every thought, every breath, until she was all I could see—all I could ever want.

She was mine.

Finally, irrevocably mine, I thought, feeding my obsession with every slide of the razor across her flesh.

The weight of that truth settled over me, undeniable and absolute.

I would cherish her, protect her, shield her from the world if I had to.

I’d make sure she never felt an ounce of fear or pain as long as I lived.

I would always take care of her—body, mind, and soul. I would give her everything, even the broken pieces of myself, if that’s what it took.

And I would never hurt her. Not for anything. Not for anyone.

If I had to burn the world down to keep that promise, I would. Because she wasn’t just my obsession—she was my salvation.

---