Fragile Desires Novels & Stories

She told him about the day Mira first moved and what it had done to her—how it had made grief and joy simultaneously unbearable, how she had sat on the floor of the borrowed room and felt both things with equal force and understood that she was going to have to learn to carry them both without resolution. She told him about learning to want things again. About the specific long work of dismantling the belief that wanting things was dangerous—that desire was something to be managed rather than inhabited, that need was a vulnerability to be minimized. About the year it took to want a good meal without the specific guilt of having left a place where good meals had existed. About wanting to come

Naya Hart If you just finished reading this, let's say a prayer together. Oh Lord, forgive me for I have sinned. 🙏🏽 And honestly? I am not even sorry. If you made it all the way to the end of Forbidden Desires — from Ruin Me Stepfather down to My boyfriend ,y stepbrother, you are built differently and I respect you deeply. 😭🖤 This book was never for the faint of heart. It was for the ones who read with the door locked and the brightness turned all the way down.

Each oscillation would pry at the edges of certainty until even hatred sat beside doubt. Hope was the most dangerous currency I could hand her — it made her human in a way my men could not monetize. She flinched at it, hated it, cursed me for it. That reaction told me I was close. Not to conquest in any brutish sense, but to a change so intimate it would feel like choice. I raised the glass to the screen, a private toast to the contradiction she lived: furious and fragile, defiant and incomplete. “Burn,” I said softly, not as a command but as an acknowledgment. “Burn and see what you become.”

Something that resembles a form of sacred fear. My initial plan, that neat little transaction, seems to belong to another life, to another man. That man was an idiot. He hadn't seen the crack in himself, that crack that only wanted to be filled with her. Now, she's in it. And nothing will ever be able to fill it but her. Desire, strangely, hasn't been extinguished with the easing of physical hunger. It smolders, different. Less urgent, deeper. It's no longer just about taking. It's about care. About marking, still, but through cleanliness, through the intimacy of the act that washes.

I need to make her see reason. “Yes, he is indeed a rival, but that rivalry is precisely what will make him desire you even more. You see, Miss De Niro, I possess considerable wealth, and I’m surrounded by selfish gold diggers clamoring for my attention, all poised to seize whatever they can. However, I find myself in a peculiar situation; my grandfather is very ill and clings to life, yearning just to see me settled down with someone. I need you as much as you need me. I can help you win Steven while you assist me in masking my complicated romantic life.” Her expression softens slightly, yet the skepticism remains, a cautious cloud lingers in her gaze.

“I want to pleasure you too.” “I’m afraid I’m hanging on a very thin thread here, Flora.” His words were more of a growl, bordering on the edge of illegible. “I won’t be able to hold back if you put your hands on me.” “Then don’t hold back.” I told him, a growl vibrating in my chest as my wolf rose to the surface. “I want to see you lose control as well. I want to know I’m not the only one who’s crazy with desire for you. And I’m certainly not as fragile as you think I am.”

He would rather see me as a fragile little girl than a woman. So, I hoped he would touch me again. I tried seducing him, pouring all my fear and longing into my touch, but my desperation only seemed to disgust him. It made my heart shrink, he clearly doesn’t care about me, talk more of my baby, because if he did, he would give me want I wanted.

It hovers like the fear, like the fear of being alone, of being uncontained, of being me. The ground is as fragile as my thoughts, as fragile as the night. I want it to be everything, everything and more. I want it to be more than I am. More than the fear, more than the uncertainty, more than the change. I want it to be. I want it to.

No second times, and definitely no strings attached. They always want more. Always think they're different. As if I haven't seen their type a thousand times before—wide eyes, trembling lips, hope curled around their fingertips like a goddamn prayer. As if spreading your legs a night before Church gathering would give them a place in heaven or whatever place these goddamn people have made up. Begging on knees. Praying. But prayers don't work on men like me. I take. I ruin. I walk away. Because desire is a dangerous thing.

I set my phone down and lean back in my chair, closing my eyes. This is getting out of control. Ares and Marco competing for Isabel. The tension in every meeting, the way our partnership is fracturing under the weight of competing desires and me, caught in the middle, wanting the same woman but too proud—too damaged—to admit it because admitting I want her means admitting I need something. Wanting someone means making myself vulnerable in ways I swore I'd never do again. After my mother, after the foster homes and after learning that caring about anything only leads to pain but the wanting doesn't stop just because I refuse to acknowledge it.