Page 73 of Desperate Actions

I want her saying my name again.

No—I want her screaming it.

Breathless. Wrecked.

That’s how I want her. Just as crazy, deep in love as I am.

“Here you are,” the flight attendant returns with our coffees and the pilot announces our imminent take off.

“Thank you,” Aella says to the woman who is scurrying out of the cabin, readying for the flight.

“I ever tell you how perfect you are?”

She glances at me and frowns.

“I’m not perfect.”

“Agree to disagree.”

The rest of the flight, we spend talking about everything and nothing.

Aella is so damn smart and sweet, and the way she lights up when she speaks about the things she loves?

I could listen to her forever.

I know school was tough for her, that she had to fight for every achievement, every grade.

And fuck—I can’t even express how proud I am of her.

After I learned about her dyslexia, I went down a rabbit hole, learning everything I could find.

I was shocked, to put it lightly, at how little our education system does to help kids like her.

To think she struggled alone for years before being diagnosed?

Drives me fucking crazy.

Sometimes I want to go back in time, find those teachers, and beat the ever-loving shit out of them for not noticing.

For making her feel less than.

For failing her.

But I don’t bring any of that up.

I don’t want her to know just how unhinged I am about her.

Not yet, at least.

Instead, I just listen.

She talks about the app she’s been developing, and once again, pride surges inside me.

The way she’s so open with me about her work?

It’s an honor.

I know this is a sensitive subject for her.

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