The next time she returns, she’s wearing a soft lilac dress, the delicate lace along the bust making it look both sweet and fragile. But on her, it’s anything but. It’s innocent and alluring in equal measure—a dangerous combination that wraps around me and tightens like a noose.
I can’t help the whimper that escapes me. “Jesus... You’re trying to kill me.”
Zara gives me a devil-may-care grin before she pivots and disappears down the short hallway, leaving me breathless.
And then she’s back.
This time, she’s wearing something that can hardly be called a dress at all—just a thin swath of fabric clinging to her body like it was painted on. When she steps back into the open space of the living room, I’m already leaning forward, elbows braced on my knees, the pulse in my neck beating hard and fast. I give her a look that makes it clear I’m seconds away from hauling her against me and taking her right here.
“You like this one?” she teases, pausing just far enough away to make me ache, letting me drink in the full effect.
My voice comes out hoarse, thick with need. “I like all of them.”
She lingers by the hallway, a playful glint in her eye. “There’s one more. I wasn’t sure if it was too much.”
I straighten, every muscle in me coiled. “Zara,” I say, already pushing to my feet, “there is no such thing.”
She vanishes again, and when she returns, the air leaves my lungs in a sharp, involuntary rush.
The dress is a weapon—deep green, her favorite color, and sinful, molded to her curves like it was sewn onto her skin. The fabric hugs her hips, dips low across her chest, matches her eyes and parts at the thigh in a slit so high it borders on indecent. Her dark hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, tousled and wild in a way that looks effortless, but I know better. She planned this. Every inch of her is measured and lethal. And fuck if she doesn’t wear it well.
She stands in the middle of the room, letting me take it in. Letting me feel the full force of her.
I rise, gaze dragging down the length of her body until my fists ache with the effort it takes not to reach for her. “Turn around,” I rasp, my voice rough with everything I’m holding back.
Her eyes flicker, but she obeys—spinning slowly. The dress shifts with every step, catching light, whispering against her skin like a secret. When she faces me again, I’m already moving—crossing the room in three purposeful strides until I’m standing in front of her.
My hand slips around her waist, fingers spreading over silk and skin. “Did you pick this for me?” I ask, voice rough against the line of her throat.
She doesn’t answer right away—just meets my gaze, steady and breathless. “Maybe,” she says, her voice soft, but laced with heat.
I lean in, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Then take it off for me.”
I should turn around.Walk back to the guest room. Pretend I’m not standing here fully aware of the way he’s looking at me.
But I don’t move.
Because Enzo’s eyes are on me like he’s already got me unwrapped in his mind, and I like the way that feels.
“Take it off?” I echo, tilting my head. “You get off on giving orders now?”
His mouth tips up, lazy and unhurried. “Only when I know they’ll be followed.”
I take a step closer, the hem of the red silk brushing my thighs. “And what makes you so sure I’m feeling cooperative tonight?”
“Because you’re standing here,” he says, “looking at me like you want to be the reason I lose control.”
He’s not wrong.
And the worst part? He knows he’s not wrong.
I drag a glance down his body, taking my time. The open collar. The rolled sleeves. That damn confident smirk knowing he’s already tasted me and plans to do it again.
“Maybe I’m just deciding how much trouble I want to cause,” I tease, reaching for the knot of his tie. My fingers toy with the fabric, not pulling—yet.
He leans in, close enough that his breath skims my cheek. “You’ve never been good at staying out oftrouble.”
“No,” I admit, tugging him a fraction closer, “but I’ve always been good at making it worth your while.”
