Our mouths hover in the space between dare and surrender. Then he kisses me, all heat and hunger and unspoken promise.
And just like that, my plan to walk away goes up in smoke.
He groans into my mouth, the sound rough, vibrating straight through me as his hands lock around my hips and drag me where he wants me. My calves hit the couch and I fall back, pulling him with me, greedy for the weight of him pressing me down. Our mouths crash again, not tender, not polite—just teeth and tongue and a hunger that borders on violent.
His thigh forces between mine, grinding up until my legs part without a fight. My dress rides high, his palms shoving beneath the fabric like he owns the right to every inch of me. I nip his lip, sharp, and the growl he answers with is pure menace. His hips slam forward, heavy, unrelenting, his cock straining against me in a promise I know he’ll deliver.
“You trying to provoke me, Zara?” he rasps, his breath hot against my cheek. “Think I won’t fuck you into this couch until you can’t walk?”
I let out a shaky laugh, taunting. “I figured you’d be too tired to keep up.”
His answering snarl is dangerous. He shifts, pinning my wrist to the cushion above my head with one brutal hand while the other skims down my body like he’s mapping out everywhere he’s about to destroy. His mouth drags down my throat, teeth scraping in threat before he bites, hard enough to sting. “Tired?” His voice is dark silk against my skin. “You walk in looking like sin and think I’ll sleep instead of tearing you apart?”
“I dress for me,” I gasp as his hand slides higher, fingers pressing against the damp lace clinging to me. “You just get the benefit.”
His gaze lifts, catching mine—feral, burning, all sharp edges and hunger. The smirk he gives me is lethal. “Then explain why your pussy’s already dripping for me, Angel.”
I arch into his hand, breath catching when his fingers slide beneath the lace and brush exactly where I’m already throbbing. A shiver rips through me. “Keep talking,” I whisper, voice daring, “and I’ll start thinking you’re all mouth.”
His laugh is wicked, vibrating against my chest. “You already know better.” With one hand he yanks his tie loose, letting it fall between us. I grab it and tug him closer until our foreheads touch, breath mingling, tension sparking hot and sharp in the space between us. His other hand cups my breast, thumb dragging over the stiff peak through silk like he’s punishing me for mouthing off.
“Say please,” he whispers against my lips.
I grind up against his hand, biting back a moan. “Not a fucking chance.”
His eyes flash, dark with amusement. “Didn’t think so.”
Then it unravels. Fabric pulls. Buckles give. My dress shoved high, his belt unfastened, both of us tearing at barriers like they’re insults we refuse to tolerate. Our mouths can’t decide between devouring or worshiping, finding every inch of exposed skin like we’re starving for it. It’s chaos and chemistry, violent and vital, the kind of hunger that makes sanity irrelevant. My nails rake down his shoulders, and he groans like pain only fuels him.
And I realize—this isn’t him taking. It’s him consuming and letting himself be consumed in turn. Because when Enzo Marchetti kisses me like this—touches me like the one thing he’s willing to burn for— there’s only surrender. And God help me, I’m already begging to lose.
He carries me through the house without breaking contact, our mouths fused, his body tight with tension beneath my hands. I can feel the hard press of his cock against the seam of my panties. Every step he takes stokes the ache between my legs.
“I missed you today,” Enzo whispers against my mouth, kicking open the bedroom door without breaking stride. His grip is firm, and when he lays me down, it’s with a reverence that only makes the heat between us burn hotter. He doesn’t toss me—heplaces me, like I’m something precious even as he plans to wreck me.
His shirt is halfway open, exposing inked skin and the tension carved into his chest with every ragged breath he takes. The loosened tie around his neck swings with each step, and when his eyes drop to the straps of my dress, his jaw clenches like restraint is no longer part of the game.
“Off,” he rasps. “All of it. Now.”
I rise, standing in front of him, pulse thudding in my throat as I reach for the silk. I want to tease him, make him wait, but there’s nothing patient about the way he’s watching me. The intensity in his gaze is a match to my every nerve. I let the dress slip down my body in one smooth motion, the cool air teasing my skin as it pools at my feet. Then I peel away the last strip of lace and step out, unashamed, bare beneath the weight of his stare.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.
He just watches.
The silence coils around us, thick with tension, until he finally speaks—voice hungry. “Back on the bed.”
The air stills in my lungs. I know that tone. That command. I move, climbing onto the bed, spine arching as I shift onto all fours, presenting myself without hesitation. I hear the rustle of his slacks being pushed down, the dull clink of his belt hitting the floor, and the sharp inhale that follows when he sees me. The mattress dips behind me, his weight a steady pressure that makes my skin tingle.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re perfect. Every inch of you.”
His hand glides up my spine, fingers spreading wide until his palm rests between my shoulders, pressing me down just enough to claim the position for himself. “Hands flat on the bed,” he commands. “I want to see my ring on your finger while I fuck you, Mrs. Marchetti.”
I shudder when his hand slips between my thighs, fingers sliding through the mess he’s already made of me.
“Christ,” he mutters, dragging the pads of his fingers up anddown, teasing. “You’re dripping for me. Can’t even pretend you weren’t waiting for it. Waiting for me to bend you over and fuck you like the filthy little wife you are.”
A broken sound escapes me, half moan, half plea, and he eats it up like fuel to a fire.
