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I swallow. “What?”

“You’re beautiful.”

“You already said that.”

“I’m going to keep saying it until you stop looking like you think I’m lying.”

His palm settles against my stomach. I tense automatically. His eyes come back to mine.

“No.”

“No what?”

“Don’t hide from me.”

My throat tightens unexpectedly.

“I’m not hiding.”

“You are.”

“Maybe I’d like the lights lower.”

“I wouldn’t.”

That answer comes so quickly I laugh.

“You’re awfully opinionated about my lighting.”

“I want to see you.”

Every joke I had ready disappears. Enzo bends and kisses the soft part of my stomach I usually try to disguise beneath high-waisted underwear. Then again. Lower. My breath catches.

“Enzo.”

“Hmm?”

“What are you doing?”

He looks up at me from somewhere around my navel, which is a sight I’d like permanently engraved on the inside of my eyelids.

“What I’ve been thinking about since dinner.”

“You were thinking about my stomach during dinner?”

His mouth twitches. “Lower.”

Oh. Oh, shit. His fingers hook beneath the sides of my panties. He pauses. I know what he’s asking.

“Yes.”

One word. That’s all it takes. He drags them down my legs slowly, and I suddenly understand why women in romance novels are constantly forgetting their own names. Apparently, it has less to do with stupidity and more to do with handsome Italian men kneeling between their thighs. My panties hit the floor. He eases me back onto the mattress. Enzo looks at me. Not my face. Me.

“Good Lord,” I mutter.

His eyes lift. “Something wrong?”

“You’re staring.”