Page 65 of Desperate Actions

That’s what I’ve come to call it in my head.

Because Sammy is all kinds of hard. But his aren’t gym muscles.

He’s not pretty in the soft way of movie stars or personal trainers.

He earned every delicious bulge and curve of his muscled frame the hard way.

In the last twenty four hours I have seen, kissed, and traced every mark, scar, and tattoo on his body.

Sammy is beautiful, for sure.

But he is alsoreal.

Strong, capable—the kind of body that’s seen violence and destruction, the kind that should scare me.

But instead? I love his body.

And the hand I feel on my back anchors me.

His fingers press firmly into my flesh, and he leans in, his lips brushing my ear, his voice low and reassuring.

“It’ll be fine, Pixie.”

I glance up at him, and just like that, my nerves settle.

At least for a second.

Then, the panic creeps back in.

“What if they think this is a joke? What if someone laughs?” I whisper.

I know it sounds stupid.

But looking at Sammy, standing next to me in his custom gray suit and black shirt, all chic and powerful and impossibly fucking fit—and then looking at me.

Short. Chubby. Cute at best.

We are not the same species.

But I tilt my head, examining us together.

And okay. I have to admit we kind of match.

My top is silver and glittery, catching the light every time I move.

My silk pants? Wide-legged, sheer panels up the sides, provocative as hell.

I lookgood.

He looks gorgeous.

But I mean, I’m not ugly.

Still.

Sammy squeezes my fingers, pulling me from my self-doubt spiral.

“No one is gonna do that, Aella,” he says, absolute certainty in his tone.

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