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“That supposed to scare me?”

“No.”

His gaze travels slowly down my body. “It should probably excite you.”

Unfortunately, he’s right. I lower myself between his knees. Every trace of amusement vanishes from his face. “Bridget.”

“What?”

“What are you doing?”

I reach for his belt. “Research.”

His jaw tightens. “You already used that excuse.”

“I’m a librarian. Research is ongoing.”

The buckle opens. Enzo’s hands remain exactly where I told him to keep them, but the muscles in his tattooed arms tighten. Interesting. I undo his trousers. His breathing changes. Even more interesting.

“You can stop looking so pleased with yourself,” he says.

“I haven’t even started yet.”

“Jesus Christ.”

I push his trousers lower. Then his underwear. His cock springs free. I stare. Enzo exhales through his nose. “Again?”

“What?”

“The staring.”

“I’m appreciating the collection.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You like me.”

“More than is probably healthy.”

The words land harder than he intended. I know because his expression changes immediately afterward. So does mine. For one second, neither of us jokes.

Then I wrap my hand around him. Enzo’s head falls back against the couch. There. That fixes the emotional crisis nicely.

“Fuck.”

I smile. “Now who’s losing words?”

“Bridget.”

I stroke his delicious cock slowly. His hips shift.

“You were saying?”

“Come here.”

“No.”

His eyes open. I don’t think many people tell Lorenzo Moretti no. Judging by his expression, fewer survive it.