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“That’s it.” He growls. His voice is so satisfied. So pleased. It kind of pisses me off. “Only good girls get my cock.”
Girls? Plural? “Go to hell.”
“Without your breathtaking body fucking mine, every day is hell.”
The knife slips beneath one strap of the bra. Snip. Then the other. I watch, breath held, as he slices it off. My heavy breasts fall free. My nipples, embarrassingly hard and tight.
By this point, I’m flooded with enough arousal, I’m a damn water slide on the man’s lap. Soft kisses land along my neck, shoulders, and chest as he teases my nipples with his tongue. “Beg me to let you come, Bella. Or, I stop.”
I want to resist. I do. But I can’t. It’s like every fantasy I’ve ever had about a professor walking in on me fucking my pillow. His wrath? Ten punishing smacks on the ass before making me beg to let my pussy come.
So close.
The sharp bite of pain on my nipple makes my eyes squeeze shut. My stride ratchets up, “Please...” escapes my lips before I can help myself.
His deep voice plucks the tightest chord. “Come,” he says, the knife at my throat as a million stars explode behind my eyes.
The supernova orgasm hits me in waves. “Enzo!” I scream, over and over, my voice cracking like a desperate plea. A prayer.
Because even as his soft kisses feather my lips and cheeks, and his thumbs wipe every tear from my face, all I can think is, how can he do this to me?
Use me.
Seduce me.
Shatter me.
Fuck me.
Only to let me go.
Chapter Nine
ENZO
God, I could do this all night.
The satisfying crack of bone meeting fist is like magic for easing tension.
Mine. Not his.
I cock a brow and study the man strapped to a forklift. I’m pretty sure tension is the least of his worries. Considering I’ve moved from punching his face to a hard jab to his throat, he’s probably praying for death about now.
After a minute of wheezing, he speaks. “I swear, I d-don’t. Know. Anything...” he eventually sputters out. Actually, he’s talking pretty good for a guy with six teeth on the floor.
And yet he’s not telling me what I wanna know. “At the risk of sounding repetitive, I’m going to ask again. Where’s Jimmy Luciano?”
The stubborn bastard shakes his head. For one of Uncle Andre’s foot soldiers, he’s surprisingly loyal.
I handpicked him because he’s high enough up to have the intel I need, but low enough that his absence won’t raise any alarms. Like, ever.
He was also in the midst of beating a woman I presume was his wife, so I doubt she’ll miss him either.
I crack my neck and give it another shot. This time, my foot connects with his knee, a sharp pop echoing loudly enough that it has to hurt like a motherfucker.
He howls in agony, followed by an obstinate “Fuck you!”
It’s like watching the stages of grief unfold before my eyes: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Right now, he’s stuck in anger. I need him at bargaining.
