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The look in his eyes, a fierce possession that steals my breath, is everything. I want to be owned by him—be his. Maybe more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.
I don’t know if it’s him kissing me or me kissing him, but holy hell, is it hot.
My fingers dive into his thick waves of hair, gripping tight, pulling him closer so I can lick, taste, and devour him at once. The groan he makes when I do is pure heaven, sending shivers down my spine and setting my entire body on absolute fire.
For a fleeting moment, his body trembles, hands braced against the wall, as if he’s summoning every ounce of his strength to hold back the storm within.
I say one word. The only word I know he needs to hear me say. “Please,” I gasp.
His arms wrap around me tight, pulling me forward until every hard inch of him is pressed against me, and it’s a lot.
Then, with a swift motion, I’m lifted off the ground, hoisted into his arms. My legs wrap around him instinctively, clinging to him and climbing him like the solid Redwood he is.
There’s this erotic flick of his tongue that makes me feel like I’m free-falling, dizzy and drunk with desire. He’s done the same thing between my legs, and now, I can’t breathe.
“Clothes. Off,” he commands in a low, husky voice. God, the dominance of this man. He’s not waiting for me to comply—I can already hear the fabric tearing as he rips the neckline of my leotard.
It’s a good thing, too, since my fingers are fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, desperate to expose the hard planes of his chest.
Would it kill him to wear a T-shirt just once?
The faint click of a door handle jerks us both from our frenzy. We freeze, hearts racing.
“Who’s that?” I gasp, breathless.
“Shh.” He holds his breath, straining to hear. After a minute of silence, he adds, “I think they’ve gone.”
“Enzo?” A small voice drifts through the door.
My eyes snap wide. Is that a kid?
Chapter Seventeen
KENNEDY
The doorknob jiggles again, more insistently this time. Whoever’s on the other side clearly isn’t giving up.
“Enzo,” the little voice sings, a melody I know well. A signature blend of ceaseless energy and relentless tenacity bestowed in spades to kids under ten.
Especially when all you want are a few minutes of peace to think, eat, or pee.
“Is that a child?” I whisper.
“Yes,” he murmurs, dropping his forehead to mine. “Who knew tiny humans could be the biggest dick deflators of the year.”
“Tsk, tsk, tsk. The King of Chicago running from a child?” I tease, unable to contain a giggle as I shake my head.
The handle jiggles harder. “Shh.” He deadpans and presses a finger to his lips. “If you stop moving those delicious lips of yours, maybe they’ll go away,” he whispers.
“They?” I ask so loud, a succession of little knocks pound on the door like a drum circle.
“We know you’re in there,” another voice says, unimpressed. This one sounds older and more confident.
“Your new boss?” I ask giggling.
His nostrils flare as he lowers me back to the floor, his voice steady despite the frantic jiggling of the door handle.
“It’s a long story,” he rushes through. “They’ve been through hell. Their parents are gone, and they’ve got nowhere to go...” His voice trails off, heavy with sadness.
