My body seizes again without warning, making my spine bow off the bed in a violent arch. Another wave of slick floods out of me, drenching my boxers. I’m making sounds I’ve never heard myself make, broken pleading whimpers and desperate keening moans, and I can’t stop. Can’t control any of it.
Enzo is beside me in an instant, one hand bracing my shoulder, the other gripping my hip to hold me down.
His touch makes everything worse. Everything intensifies. My cock jerks hard and my hole clenches air.
I need something inside me. Something to fill the emptiness until this unbearable pain goes away.
“Please,” I gasp, and I don’t even recognize my own voice. “Please, I want—I need—”
“Need what?”
My gaze drops to his mouth, watching the way his lips move. My tongue darts out to wet my own, a silent, primal admission of everything I can’t find the pride to put into words.
I catch the exact moment Enzo’s eyes register understanding. They go pitch black, and a slow, knowing smile curls his thick lips.
“You tried to kill me.” His hand on my hip slides down my thigh, and a filthy moan rips out of me at the friction. “Earlier tonight, you had a gun pointed at my chest.” His grip tightens suddenly, fingers digging into the meat of my thigh with abruising strength. “And now you’re here. In my bed. Soaking my sheets.”
He leans closer, his breath hot against my ear. “Begging me to fuck you.”
Tears prick the corners of my eyes from the pain and the sheer, humiliating frustration of it.
“I know,” I choke out. “And I still want to kill you. But right now I need you to either fuck me or put an actual bullet in my head because I can’t—the pain—”
A sob wracks my body, and I writhe under his grip, hips grinding up against nothing, desperate for friction, relief, anything it can get. “Help me. Please. Please, I’m begging you, please—”
His grip on my thigh tightens almost painfully. I watch his throat work as he swallows. Watch the war play out across his face. Control versus instinct, restraint versus want. I see the exact moment the alpha in him wins.
“Fuck,” he snarls, and then he’s on me.
The relief is so intense I nearly blackout.
His weight, his scent, his hands on my skin. It’s everything my body has been screaming for.
“You’re going to regret this.” The words are a growl against my throat as his teeth scrape my pulse point. “When you come to your senses, you’re going to regret every bit of this.”
“Stop talking,” I grate out, but the command is thready and weak, broken by the sharp gasp that escapes me as his hands yank my boxers down.
The sudden bite of cool air hitting my slick, over-sensitized skin makes me cry out. I claw at his shirt, nails raking down the fabric, tearing at buttons.
I need skin.Need to feel him against me with nothing between us.
He captures both my wrists in one hand and slams them above my head. The casual display of strength coaxes a moan out of me, and my cock jerks between our bodies, a fresh stream of precum leaking onto my stomach.
“So fucking responsive,” he mutters, his voice thick with a dark, twisted kind of pride.
His free hand drags slowly over my chest, pausing to brush a thumb across one aching nipple. I gasp, squirming into the touch, my head tossing back as the air leaves my lungs. He doesn’t stop, catching the peak between his fingers and rolling it with a pressure that is borderline painful, pushing me right to the edge of a sob.
“Fuck.” I arch off the bed with a choked cry, my entire world narrowing down to the point of contact where he’s methodically undoing me.
He moves to the other nipple, his gaze never leaving mine as he rolls the hardened nub between his fingers, watching the way my teeth catch my lower lip to keep from screaming.
“So sensitive,” he observes, his tone almost clinical if not for the hunger in his eyes.
Searing heat follows the path of his fingers as they skate down my ribs, tracing each bone like he’s committing themto memory. When his palm flattens across my stomach, my muscles jump and clench in a reflexive jerk.
I’m arching into him, writhing, making sounds I can’t control.
“Three years without this. Denying yourself.”
