His Unlovable Mate
He clearly works hard, and I can’t tell straight away whether his dark scent is meant to be infused with fresh cut wood, but I do like it.
His wrist, forearm, everything about him is chunky, defined, and powerful. I think back to Strike, Rhett, Kane. They used similar sized hands to punch the walls, my pillow, or just me, making me hyperventilate with fear until I gave in to what they said I wanted to do anyway. Always the same.
But Strike is dead. The others are long gone too. Fuck them all.
I shut my eyes and walk blind, hoping my new-found mate doesn’t think I’m insane. Not that he is looking at me anyway.
Bab Populer