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Pressure coils low and tight. I grip his shoulders.
“Enzo.”
“Look at me.”
I do. His eyes lock onto mine. Not my breasts. Not where our bodies meet. Me.
“Come for me, sweetheart.”
That voice. Those eyes.
My body gives in. The orgasm tears through me hard enough that I lose whatever was left of my dignity, my legs tightening around him while his name comes out of my mouth louder than anything else. Enzo keeps moving. Keeps his hand exactly where I need it until I’m shaking. Then his control breaks too.
“Bridget.”
He buries himself deep. His whole body locks. I hold on while he comes, his face pressed into my neck and my name rough against my skin.
For a few seconds, neither of us moves. Then I become aware of where we are again. Naked. On his dining table. In front of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Los Angeles. I start laughing. Enzo lifts his head. “What?”
“I just had sex on a table that probably requires specialized insurance.”
His mouth twitches. “That your concern?”
“What if somebody sees?”
“We’re high enough nobody can.”
“That sounds suspiciously like something a man says when he owns binoculars.”
He laughs and kisses me. Slowly. The kind of kiss that makes the humor fade. I touch his face. His expression changes again. Softer now. Dangerously soft.
“You mean more to me than you know,” he says quietly.
My chest tightens. The words I love you rise so quickly I almost say them. Almost. Three weeks. That’s all it has been. Three weeks of coffee and ridiculous dresses and Malibu and cat pictures and orgasms and imagining ordinary Tuesdays with a man I barely know. I’m falling too fast. Probably already fallen.
So instead of saying something I’m terrified he won’t say back, I kiss him. Then I smile against his mouth.
“I’m really glad that groomsman got sick.”
Enzo laughs and pulls me closer. "I should send the poor bastard a thank-you gift."
"Antacids. Maybe a new tuxedo."
"Whatever he wants."
I settle against him, thinking there's a good chance I could spend the rest of my life like this and never get tired of it.
Saturday evening, I insist on going home. Mrs. Patterson has checked on the cats, but I miss my bed.
"I'll take you to your door," Enzo says.
"Rocco can drop me by the bookstore. It's a short walk."
"Why not home?"
"Because then you'll want to come upstairs, and my couch looks like it survived a hostage situation. I haven't cleaned."
"I don't care what your apartment looks like, Bridget."
