Patricia
I wet my lips, too aware of the squeezing in my chest, begging me to forget and forgive the older Dior before me. He is currently taking up all the space in the room, slowly invading my senses.
Seriously, the man must have witchcraft in his veins because his words have already rendered me weak. He has taken over my mind, infiltrated my heart, and I absorb the man: the more than six feet of Dior and his granite pecs and dark hair.
Fucking hell—Dior is s*x materialized with eyes that leave me a little more breathless whenever he throws me a glance. He is a natural disaster, a wave waiting to crash, and after he has broken down my walls, I'm afraid there will be nothing left of me. I will be lost and ruined, unable to function without his touch.
That thought frightens me more tha
